Women in Love

by

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 theirfather's house in Beldover, working and talking. Ursula was stitching apiece of brightly-coloured embroidery, and Gudrun was drawing upon aboard which she held on her knee. They were mostly silent, talking astheir thoughts strayed through their minds. 

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

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

Gudrun was slightly taken aback. She watched her sister for somemoments. 

'Well, ' she said, ironically, 'it usually means one thing! But don'tyou think anyhow, you'd be--' she darkened slightly--'in a betterposition 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 quitedefinite. 

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

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

'Bound to be, in some way or other, ' said Gudrun, coolly. 'Possiblyundesirable, 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 theconversation to a close. Gudrun, almost angrily, took up her rubber andbegan 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? Haveyou REALLY?'

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

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

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

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

There was a long pause, whilst Ursula stitched and Gudrun went on withher sketch. The sisters were women, Ursula twenty-six, and Gudruntwenty-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 silkystuff, with ruches of blue and green linen lace in the neck andsleeves; and she had emerald-green stockings. Her look of confidenceand diffidence contrasted with Ursula's sensitive expectancy. Theprovincial people, intimidated by Gudrun's perfect sang-froid andexclusive bareness of manner, said of her: 'She is a smart woman. ' Shehad 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, suddenlycatching 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 tolook for him. But if there did happen to come along a highly attractiveindividual of sufficient means--well--' she tailed off ironically. Thenshe looked searchingly at Ursula, as if to probe her. 'Don't you findyourself getting bored?' she asked of her sister. 'Don't you find, thatthings fail to materialise? NOTHING MATERIALISES! Everything withers inthe bud. '

'What withers in the bud?' asked Ursula. 

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

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

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

'I know, ' she said, 'it seems like that when one thinks in theabstract. But really imagine it: imagine any man one knows, imagine himcoming home to one every evening, and saying "Hello, " and giving one akiss--'

There was a blank pause. 

'Yes, ' said Gudrun, in a narrowed voice. 'It's just impossible. The manmakes 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 fromthe thought of bearing children. '

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

'Perhaps it isn't genuine, ' she faltered. 'Perhaps one doesn't reallywant them, in one's soul--only superficially. ' A hardness came overGudrun'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 strangebrightness of an essential flame that is caught, meshed, contravened. She lived a good deal by herself, to herself, working, passing on fromday to day, and always thinking, trying to lay hold on life, to graspit in her own understanding. Her active living was suspended, butunderneath, in the darkness, something was coming to pass. If only shecould break through the last integuments! She seemed to try and put herhands out, like an infant in the womb, and she could not, not yet. Still she had a strange prescience, an intimation of something yet tocome. 

She laid down her work and looked at her sister. She thought Gudrun soCHARMING, so infinitely charming, in her softness and her fine, exquisite richness of texture and delicacy of line. There was a certainplayfulness about her too, such a piquancy or ironic suggestion, suchan 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 andlooked at Ursula, from under her finely-curved lashes. 

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

'And don't you know?'

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

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

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

'Oh, it doesn't matter, ' said Gudrun, somewhat superbly. 'If one jumpsover 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 sheclosed 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 acold 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. Thesisters found themselves confronted by a void, a terrifying chasm, asif they had looked over the edge. 

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

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

'Yes!' cried Ursula, too eagerly, throwing aside her sewing and leapingup, as if to escape something, thus betraying the tension of thesituation 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 roundabout her. And she loathed it, the sordid, too-familiar place! She wasafraid at the depth of her feeling against the home, the milieu, thewhole atmosphere and condition of this obsolete life. Her feelingfrightened her. 

The two girls were soon walking swiftly down the main road of Beldover, a wide street, part shops, part dwelling-houses, utterly formless andsordid, without poverty. Gudrun, new from her life in Chelsea andSussex, shrank cruelly from this amorphous ugliness of a small collierytown in the Midlands. Yet forward she went, through the whole sordidgamut of pettiness, the long amorphous, gritty street. She was exposedto every stare, she passed on through a stretch of torment. It wasstrange that she should have chosen to come back and test the fulleffect of this shapeless, barren ugliness upon herself. Why had shewanted to submit herself to it, did she still want to submit herself toit, the insufferable torture of these ugly, meaningless people, thisdefaced countryside? She felt like a beetle toiling in the dust. Shewas 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 beashamed. No one was ashamed of it all. 

'It is like a country in an underworld, ' said Gudrun. 'The colliersbring it above-ground with them, shovel it up. Ursula, it's marvellous, it's really marvellous--it's really wonderful, another world. Thepeople are all ghouls, and everything is ghostly. Everything is aghoulish 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. Onthe left was a large landscape, a valley with collieries, and oppositehills with cornfields and woods, all blackened with distance, as ifseen through a veil of crape. White and black smoke rose up in steadycolumns, magic within the dark air. Near at hand came the long rows ofdwellings, approaching curved up the hill-slope, in straight linesalong 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 thefield by iron fences; the stile that led again into the road was rubbedshiny by the moleskins of the passing miners. Now the two girls weregoing between some rows of dwellings, of the poorer sort. Women, theirarms folded over their coarse aprons, standing gossiping at the end oftheir 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 thesewere human beings, living in a complete world, then what was her ownworld, outside? She was aware of her grass-green stockings, her largegrass-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, herheart was contracted, as if at any minute she might be precipitated tothe ground. She was afraid. 

She clung to Ursula, who, through long usage was inured to thisviolation of a dark, uncreated, hostile world. But all the time herheart was crying, as if in the midst of some ordeal: 'I want to goback, I want to go away, I want not to know it, not to know that thisexists. ' 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. Stillthe faint glamour of blackness persisted over the fields and the woodedhills, and seemed darkly to gleam in the air. It was a spring day, chill, with snatches of sunshine. Yellow celandines showed out from thehedge-bottoms, and in the cottage gardens of Willey Green, currant-bushes were breaking into leaf, and little flowers were comingwhite on the grey alyssum that hung over the stone walls. 

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

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

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. Andtogether the two sisters approached the group of uneasy, watchfulcommon people. They were chiefly women, colliers' wives of the moreshiftless sort. They had watchful, underworld faces. 

The two sisters held themselves tense, and went straight towards thegate. The women made way for them, but barely sufficient, as ifgrudging to yield ground. The sisters passed in silence through thestone gateway and up the steps, on the red carpet, a policemanestimating their progress. 

'What price the stockings!' said a voice at the back of Gudrun. Asudden fierce anger swept over the girl, violent and murderous. Shewould have liked them all annihilated, cleared away, so that the worldwas 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 finaldecision that Ursula immediately halted, turned round, and branched offup a small side path which led to the little private gate of theGrammar 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 laurelbushes, to rest. Behind her, the large red building of the school roseup peacefully, the windows all open for the holiday. Over the shrubs, before her, were the pale roofs and tower of the old church. Thesisters 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 lookedat her, and thought how amazingly beautiful she was, flushed withdiscomfiture. But she caused a constraint over Ursula's nature, acertain 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 seeeverything from there. '

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

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

Gudrun watched them closely, with objective curiosity. She saw each oneas a complete figure, like a character in a book, or a subject in apicture, or a marionette in a theatre, a finished creation. She lovedto recognise their various characteristics, to place them in their truelight, give them their own surroundings, settle them for ever as theypassed before her along the path to the church. She knew them, theywere finished, sealed and stamped and finished with, for her. There wasnone that had anything unknown, unresolved, until the Crichesthemselves began to appear. Then her interest was piqued. Here wassomething not quite so preconcluded. 

There came the mother, Mrs Crich, with her eldest son Gerald. She was aqueer unkempt figure, in spite of the attempts that had obviously beenmade to bring her into line for the day. Her face was pale, yellowish, with a clear, transparent skin, she leaned forward rather, her featureswere strongly marked, handsome, with a tense, unseeing, predative look. Her colourless hair was untidy, wisps floating down on to her sac coatof dark blue silk, from under her blue silk hat. She looked like awoman 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 alsowas the strange, guarded look, the unconscious glisten, as if he didnot belong to the same creation as the people about him. Gudrun lightedon him at once. There was something northern about him that magnetisedher. In his clear northern flesh and his fair hair was a glisten likesunshine 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 unsubduedtemper. 'His totem is the wolf, ' she repeated to herself. 'His motheris an old, unbroken wolf. ' And then she experienced a keen paroxyism, atransport, as if she had made some incredible discovery, known tonobody else on earth. A strange transport took possession of her, allher veins were in a paroxysm of violent sensation. 'Good God!' sheexclaimed to herself, 'what is this?' And then, a moment after, she wassaying assuredly, 'I shall know more of that man. ' She was torturedwith desire to see him again, a nostalgia, a necessity to see himagain, to make sure it was not all a mistake, that she was not deludingherself, that she really felt this strange and overwhelming sensationon his account, this knowledge of him in her essence, this powerfulapprehension of him. 'Am I REALLY singled out for him in some way, isthere really some pale gold, arctic light that envelopes only us two?'she asked herself. And she could not believe it, she remained in amuse, scarcely conscious of what was going on around. 

The bridesmaids were here, and yet the bridegroom had not come. Ursulawondered if something was amiss, and if the wedding would yet all gowrong. She felt troubled, as if it rested upon her. The chiefbridesmaids had arrived. Ursula watched them come up the steps. One ofthem she knew, a tall, slow, reluctant woman with a weight of fair hairand a pale, long face. This was Hermione Roddice, a friend of theCriches. Now she came along, with her head held up, balancing anenormous flat hat of pale yellow velvet, on which were streaks ofostrich feathers, natural and grey. She drifted forward as if scarcelyconscious, her long blanched face lifted up, not to see the world. Shewas rich. She wore a dress of silky, frail velvet, of pale yellowcolour, and she carried a lot of small rose-coloured cyclamens. Hershoes and stockings were of brownish grey, like the feathers on herhat, her hair was heavy, she drifted along with a peculiar fixity ofthe hips, a strange unwilling motion. She was impressive, in her lovelypale-yellow and brownish-rose, yet macabre, something repulsive. Peoplewere silent when she passed, impressed, roused, wanting to jeer, yetfor some reason silenced. Her long, pale face, that she carried liftedup, somewhat in the Rossetti fashion, seemed almost drugged, as if astrange mass of thoughts coiled in the darkness within her, and she wasnever allowed to escape. 

Ursula watched her with fascination. She knew her a little. She was themost remarkable woman in the Midlands. Her father was a DerbyshireBaronet of the old school, she was a woman of the new school, full ofintellectuality, and heavy, nerve-worn with consciousness. She waspassionately interested in reform, her soul was given up to the publiccause. 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 ofcapacity. Ursula knew, among these men, only Rupert Birkin, who was oneof the school-inspectors of the county. But Gudrun had met others, inLondon. Moving with her artist friends in different kinds of society, Gudrun had already come to know a good many people of repute andstanding. She had met Hermione twice, but they did not take to eachother. It would be queer to meet again down here in the Midlands, wheretheir social standing was so diverse, after they had known each otheron terms of equality in the houses of sundry acquaintances in town. ForGudrun had been a social success, and had her friends among the slackaristocracy that keeps touch with the arts. 

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

And yet her soul was tortured, exposed. Even walking up the path to thechurch, confident as she was that in every respect she stood beyond allvulgar judgment, knowing perfectly that her appearance was complete andperfect, according to the first standards, yet she suffered a torture, under her confidence and her pride, feeling herself exposed to woundsand to mockery and to despite. She always felt vulnerable, vulnerable, there was always a secret chink in her armour. She did not know herselfwhat it was. It was a lack of robust self, she had no naturalsufficiency, there was a terrible void, a lack, a deficiency of beingwithin her. 

And she wanted someone to close up this deficiency, to close it up forever. She craved for Rupert Birkin. When he was there, she feltcomplete, she was sufficient, whole. For the rest of time she wasestablished on the sand, built over a chasm, and, in spite of all hervanity and securities, any common maid-servant of positive, robusttemper could fling her down this bottomless pit of insufficiency, bythe slightest movement of jeering or contempt. And all the while thepensive, tortured woman piled up her own defences of aestheticknowledge, and culture, and world-visions, and disinterestedness. Yetshe could never stop up the terrible gap of insufficiency. 

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

He was perverse too. He fought her off, he always fought her off. Themore she strove to bring him to her, the more he battled her back. Andthey 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 wastrying to leave her. She knew he was trying to break away from herfinally, to be free. But still she believed in her strength to keephim, she believed in her own higher knowledge. His own knowledge washigh, she was the central touchstone of truth. She only needed hisconjunction with her. 

And this, this conjunction with her, which was his highest fulfilmentalso, with the perverseness of a wilful child he wanted to deny. Withthe wilfulness of an obstinate child, he wanted to break the holyconnection that was between them. 

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

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

And then, he was not there. A terrible storm came over her, as if shewere drowning. She was possessed by a devastating hopelessness. And sheapproached mechanically to the altar. Never had she known such a pangof 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 agrowing consternation outside. Ursula felt almost responsible. Shecould not bear it that the bride should arrive, and no groom. Thewedding 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 thechurch-gate, a laughter in the whole movement. Here was the quick ofall laughter and pleasure. The door of the carriage was thrown open, tolet out the very blossom of the day. The people on the roadway murmuredfaintly with the discontented murmuring of a crowd. 

The father stepped out first into the air of the morning, like ashadow. He was a tall, thin, careworn man, with a thin black beard thatwas 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 pressednear to receive her, looking with zest at the stooping blond head withits flower buds, and at the delicate, white, tentative foot that wasreaching down to the step of the carriage. There was a sudden foamingrush, and the bride like a sudden surf-rush, floating all white besideher father in the morning shadow of trees, her veil flowing withlaughter. 

'That's done it!' she said. 

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

And no bridegroom had arrived! It was intolerable for her. Ursula, herheart 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. Ursulaturned towards the bride and the people, and, from her place ofvantage, gave an inarticulate cry. She wanted to warn them that he wascoming. But her cry was inarticulate and inaudible, and she flusheddeeply, between her desire and her wincing confusion. 

The carriage rattled down the hill, and drew near. There was a shoutfrom 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 confusionamong the people, a cab pulling up, and her lover dropping out of thecarriage, and dodging among the horses and into the crowd. 

'Tibs! Tibs!' she cried in her sudden, mocking excitement, standinghigh on the path in the sunlight and waving her bouquet. He, dodgingwith 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 onthe path above him. A queer, startled look went over his face. Hehesitated 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, shestarted, turned and fled, scudding with an unthinkable swift beating ofher white feet and fraying of her white garments, towards the church. Like a hound the young man was after her, leaping the steps andswinging past her father, his supple haunches working like those of ahound that bears down on the quarry. 

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

She, her flowers shaken from her like froth, was steadying herself toturn the angle of the church. She glanced behind, and with a wild cryof laughter and challenge, veered, poised, and was gone beyond the greystone buttress. In another instant the bridegroom, bent forward as heran, had caught the angle of the silent stone with his hand, and hadswung himself out of sight, his supple, strong loins vanishing inpursuit. 

Instantly cries and exclamations of excitement burst from the crowd atthe gate. And then Ursula noticed again the dark, rather stoopingfigure of Mr Crich, waiting suspended on the path, watching withexpressionless face the flight to the church. It was over, and heturned round to look behind him, at the figure of Rupert Birkin, who atonce 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 togetherup the path. 

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

He affected to be quite ordinary, perfectly and marvellouslycommonplace. And he did it so well, taking the tone of hissurroundings, adjusting himself quickly to his interlocutor and hiscircumstance, that he achieved a verisimilitude of ordinarycommonplaceness 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 walkedalong 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 abutton-hook, so it took us a long time to button our boots. But youwere 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, butonly in his official capacity as inspector. She thought he seemed toacknowledge some kinship between her and him, a natural, tacitunderstanding, a using of the same language. But there had been no timefor the understanding to develop. And something kept her from him, aswell as attracted her to him. There was a certain hostility, a hiddenultimate 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'sattractive--decidedly attractive. What I can't stand about him is hisway with other people--his way of treating any little fool as if shewere 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 oryou--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'spronouncements, 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 wasthinking only of Birkin. He stood near her. She seemed to gravitatephysically towards him. She wanted to stand touching him. She couldhardly be sure he was near her, if she did not touch him. Yet she stoodsubjected through the wedding service. 

She had suffered so bitterly when he did not come, that still she wasdazed. Still she was gnawed as by a neuralgia, tormented by hispotential absence from her. She had awaited him in a faint delirium ofnervous torture. As she stood bearing herself pensively, the rapt lookon her face, that seemed spiritual, like the angels, but which camefrom torture, gave her a certain poignancy that tore his heart withpity. He saw her bowed head, her rapt face, the face of an almostdemoniacal ecstatic. Feeling him looking, she lifted her face andsought his eyes, her own beautiful grey eyes flaring him a greatsignal. But he avoided her look, she sank her head in torment andshame, the gnawing at her heart going on. And he too was tortured withshame, and ultimate dislike, and with acute pity for her, because hedid not want to meet her eyes, he did not want to receive her flare ofrecognition. 

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

Outside, Gudrun and Ursula listened for their father's playing on theorgan. He would enjoy playing a wedding march. Now the married pairwere coming! The bells were ringing, making the air shake. Ursulawondered if the trees and the flowers could feel the vibration, andwhat they thought of it, this strange motion in the air. The bride wasquite demure on the arm of the bridegroom, who stared up into the skybefore him, shutting and opening his eyes unconsciously, as if he wereneither here nor there. He looked rather comical, blinking and tryingto be in the scene, when emotionally he was violated by his exposure toa crowd. He looked a typical naval officer, manly, and up to his duty. 

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

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

CHAPTER II. 

SHORTLANDS

The Brangwens went home to Beldover, the wedding-party gathered atShortlands, the Criches' home. It was a long, low old house, a sort ofmanor farm, that spread along the top of a slope just beyond the narrowlittle lake of Willey Water. Shortlands looked across a sloping meadowthat might be a park, because of the large, solitary trees that stoodhere and there, across the water of the narrow lake, at the wooded hillthat successfully hid the colliery valley beyond, but did not quitehide the rising smoke. Nevertheless, the scene was rural andpicturesque, 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 thehomely entrance hall, friendly and easy, attending to the men. Heseemed to take pleasure in his social functions, he smiled, and wasabundant in hospitality. 

The women wandered about in a little confusion, chased hither andthither by the three married daughters of the house. All the whilethere could be heard the characteristic, imperious voice of one Crichwoman or another calling 'Helen, come here a minute, ' 'Marjory, I wantyou--here. ' 'Oh, I say, Mrs Witham--. ' There was a great rustling ofskirts, swift glimpses of smartly-dressed women, a child danced throughthe 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'sworld. But they could not really talk, because of the glassy ravel ofwomen'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 verypivot of the occasion. 

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

'What is it, mother?' said Gerald. 

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

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

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

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

'And you don't like strangers?' laughed Birkin. 'I myself can never seewhy one should take account of people, just because they happen to bein 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 thehouse. The children introduce them to me--"Mother, this is MrSo-and-so. " I am no further. What has Mr So-and-so to do with his ownname?--and what have I to do with either him or his name?'

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

He smiled faintly, thinking these things. Yet he was tense, feelingthat he and the elderly, estranged woman were conferring together liketraitors, like enemies within the camp of the other people. Heresembled a deer, that throws one ear back upon the trail behind, andone 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 ifdoubting his sincerity. 

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

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

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 theirexistence. I only know that I can't be expected to take count of themall. You can't expect me to know them, just because they happen to bethere. 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. 'Thereare my sons-in-law, ' she went on, in a sort of monologue. 'Now Laura'sgot married, there's another. And I really don't know John from Jamesyet. They come up to me and call me mother. I know what they willsay--"how are you, mother?" I ought to say, "I am not your mother, inany sense. " But what is the use? There they are. I have had children ofmy 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 wastalking to him. And she lost her thread. 

She looked round the room, vaguely. Birkin could not guess what she waslooking 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'dnever think it, to look at him now, would you?'

'No, ' said Birkin. 

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

'Ay, ' she said, in an incomprehensible monosyllable, that soundedprofoundly cynical. Birkin felt afraid, as if he dared not realise. AndMrs 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 afriend. '

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

Then he remembered, with a slight shock, that that was Cain's cry. AndGerald was Cain, if anybody. Not that he was Cain, either, although hehad slain his brother. There was such a thing as pure accident, and theconsequences did not attach to one, even though one had killed one'sbrother in such wise. Gerald as a boy had accidentally killed hisbrother. What then? Why seek to draw a brand and a curse across thelife that had caused the accident? A man can live by accident, and dieby accident. Or can he not? Is every man's life subject to pureaccident, is it only the race, the genus, the species, that has auniversal reference? Or is this not true, is there no such thing aspure 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 allhung 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 sittingdown to eat in a minute, and it's a formal occasion, darling, isn'tit?' She drew her arm through her mother's, and they went away. Birkinimmediately went to talk to the nearest man. 

The gong sounded for the luncheon. The men looked up, but no move wasmade to the dining-room. The women of the house seemed not to feel thatthe sound had meaning for them. Five minutes passed by. The elderlymanservant, Crowther, appeared in the doorway exasperatedly. He lookedwith appeal at Gerald. The latter took up a large, curved conch shell, that lay on a shelf, and without reference to anybody, blew ashattering blast. It was a strange rousing noise, that made the heartbeat. The summons was almost magical. Everybody came running, as if ata 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 hismother would pay no attention to her duties. But his sister merelycrowded 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'OEUVRESthat were being handed round. And out of this lull, a girl of thirteenor 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 roundthe immense wedding cake that towered up in the middle of the tableshedding its artificial flowers. 

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

The wine was filled, and everybody was talking boisterously. At the farend of the table sat the mother, with her loosely-looped hair. She hadBirkin for a neighbour. Sometimes she glanced fiercely down the rows offaces, bending forwards and staring unceremoniously. And she would sayin 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. Hereyes closed wearily, a peace came over her face, she looked like aqueen in repose. Then she started, a little social smile came on herface, for a moment she looked the pleasant hostess. For a moment shebent graciously, as if everyone were welcome and delightful. And thenimmediately 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 wasperfectly 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 athim as she drank from her glass. 

There was a strange freedom, that almost amounted to anarchy, in thehouse. It was rather a resistance to authority, than liberty. Geraldhad some command, by mere force of personality, not because of anygranted position. There was a quality in his voice, amiable butdominant, 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. Itis like one house of business rivalling another house of business. '

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

There was a moment's pause. Gerald and Hermione were always strangelybut 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 hespoke 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 shesaid with strange assumption of authority:

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

'Probably, ' said Birkin, who felt that such a discussion was out ofplace 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. Itis like a family. You MUST make provision. And to make provision youhave got to strive against other families, other nations. I don't seewhy 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. Itmakes bad blood. And bad blood accumulates. '

'But you can't do away with the spirit of emulation altogether?' saidGerald. 'It is one of the necessary incentives to production andimprovement. '

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

'I must say, ' said Birkin, 'I detest the spirit of emulation. ' Hermionewas biting a piece of bread, pulling it from between her teeth with herfingers, 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 hisneighbour's living, so why should you allow one nation to take away theliving from another nation?'

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

'It is not always a question of possessions, is it? It is not all aquestion 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 fromoff his head, that hat becomes a symbol of that man's liberty. When hefights me for his hat, he is fighting me for his liberty. '

Hermione was nonplussed. 

'Yes, ' she said, irritated. 'But that way of arguing by imaginaryinstances is not supposed to be genuine, is it? A man does NOT come andtake 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 wantmy 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, surelyit is open to me to decide, which is a greater loss to me, my hat, ormy liberty as a free and indifferent man. If I am compelled to offerfight, 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 tothis new speaker. 

'No, ' she replied, in a low inhuman tone, that seemed to contain achuckle. '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 convincinghumour in her bearing. 

'Of course, ' said Gerald, 'I can see Rupert's point. It is a questionto 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 todecide 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, thenthe 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 justin her teens. 

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

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

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

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

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

'Pretty cattle, very pretty, ' said Marshall, one of thebrothers-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 highfalsetto voice, that caused the other man to have convulsions oflaughter in his stomach. 

'Who won the race, Lupton?' he called to the bridegroom, to hide thefact 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 handon 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 weddingday! 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. THEIMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL!' repeated the brother-in-law, with mostkilling emphasis. 

But he fell quite flat. 

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

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

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

'By God, I'm willing, ' said Marshall, in a temper. 'Too much bloodysoul 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 theother man passed into the distance. 

'There's one thing, Lupton, ' said Gerald, turning suddenly to thebridegroom. 'Laura won't have brought such a fool into the family asLottie 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 ourcab came up. She saw Lupton bolting towards her. And she fled. But whydo 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 itproperly, 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 becomeaphoristic. '

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

'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 ofdismissal, 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 commonruck. 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 anaphorism or a cliche?'

'I mean just doing what you want to do. I think it was perfect goodform in Laura to bolt from Lupton to the church door. It was almost amasterpiece in good form. It's the hardest thing in the world to actspontaneously on one's impulses--and it's the only really gentlemanlything 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 anyrate. You think people should just do as they like. '

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

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

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

'How does that follow?' asked Gerald crossly. 

'No man, ' said Birkin, 'cuts another man's throat unless he wants tocut it, and unless the other man wants it cutting. This is a completetruth. 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 murderableis a man who in a profound if hidden lust desires to be murdered. '

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

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

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

'You seem to have a lurking desire to have your gizzard slit, andimagine 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 verynear to love. It was always the same between them; always their talkbrought them into a deadly nearness of contact, a strange, perilousintimacy which was either hate or love, or both. They parted withapparent unconcern, as if their going apart were a trivial occurrence. And they really kept it to the level of trivial occurrence. Yet theheart of each burned from the other. They burned with each other, inwardly. This they would never admit. They intended to keep theirrelationship a casual free-and-easy friendship, they were not going tobe so unmanly and unnatural as to allow any heart-burning between them. They had not the faintest belief in deep relationship between men andmen, and their disbelief prevented any development of their powerfulbut suppressed friendliness. 

CHAPTER III. 

CLASS-ROOM

A school-day was drawing to a close. In the class-room the last lessonwas in progress, peaceful and still. It was elementary botany. Thedesks were littered with catkins, hazel and willow, which the childrenhad been sketching. But the sky had come overdark, as the end of theafternoon approached: there was scarcely light to draw any more. Ursulastood in front of the class, leading the children by questions tounderstand 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 fallingon the wall opposite in a rich, ruddy illumination. Ursula, however, was scarcely conscious of it. She was busy, the end of the day washere, the work went on as a peaceful tide that is at flood, hushed toretire. 

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

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

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

'No, ' she faltered, scarcely able to speak. He laughed, saying he wassorry. 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. Theclass-room was distinct and hard, a strange place after the soft dimmagic that filled it before he came. Birkin turned curiously to look atUrsula. Her eyes were round and wondering, bewildered, her mouthquivered slightly. She looked like one who is suddenly wakened. Therewas a living, tender beauty, like a tender light of dawn shining fromher face. He looked at her with a new pleasure, feeling gay in hisheart, irresponsible. 

'You are doing catkins?' he asked, picking up a piece of hazel from ascholar's desk in front of him. 'Are they as far out as this? I hadn'tnoticed 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 thatcame from the female bud. 

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

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

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

'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 thefact 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 theother. Make a pictorial record of the fact, as a child does whendrawing a face--two eyes, one nose, mouth with teeth--so--' And he drewa figure on the blackboard. 

At that moment another vision was seen through the glass panels of thedoor. 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 gavea short little laugh. And then only she turned to Ursula, who, with allthe class, had been watching the little scene between the lovers. 

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

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

'Oh no, ' said Ursula. 

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

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

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 allthe while in a mocking, half teasing fashion, as if making game of thewhole business. She picked up a twig of the catkin, piqued by Birkin'sattention to it. 

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

'Do you know the little red ovary flowers, that produce the nuts? Haveyou ever noticed them?' he asked her. And he came close and pointedthem 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 fromthe 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 ofwhich the red flickers of the stigma issued. 

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

'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 forshowing me. I think they're so beautiful--little red flames--'

Her absorption was strange, almost rhapsodic. Both Birkin and Ursulawere 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 wasdismissed. And still Hermione sat at the table, with her chin in herhand, her elbow on the table, her long white face pushed up, notattending to anything. Birkin had gone to the window, and was lookingfrom the brilliantly-lighted room on to the grey, colourless outside, where rain was noiselessly falling. Ursula put away her things in thecupboard. 

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 theugliness 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 fewdays?--do--'

'Thank you very much, ' said Ursula. 

'Then I will write to you, ' said Hermione. 'You think your sister willcome? I should be so glad. I think she is wonderful. I think some ofher work is really wonderful. I have two water-wagtails, carved inwood, 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 alwayswork small things, that one can put between one's hands, birds and tinyanimals. 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 scrutinisinggaze that excited the younger woman. 

'Yes, ' said Hermione at length. 'It is curious. The little things seemto 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 shewere following some train of thought of her own, and barely attendingto the other's speech. 

'I don't know, ' she replied. 

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

'Are little things more subtle than big things?' she asked, with theodd grunt of laughter in her voice, as if she were making game of himin 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 knitwith thought, she seemed twisted in troublesome effort for utterance. 

'Do you really think, Rupert, ' she asked, as if Ursula were notpresent, 'do you really think it is worth while? Do you really thinkthe children are better for being roused to consciousness?'

A dark flash went over his face, a silent fury. He was hollow-cheekedand 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 comesto 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'tit better that they should see as a whole, without all this pulling topieces, all this knowledge?'

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

Hermione remained with her face lifted up, abstracted. He hung silentin 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, thisknowledge, ' 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 ina tone of whimsical inquisitiveness: 'What fruit, Rupert?'

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

'Yes, ' she said. There was a look of exhaustion about her. For somemoments there was silence. Then, pulling herself together with aconvulsed 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 theybetter be animals, simple animals, crude, violent, ANYTHING, ratherthan this self-consciousness, this incapacity to be spontaneous. '

They thought she had finished. But with a queer rumbling in her throatshe resumed, 'Hadn't they better be anything than grow up crippled, crippled in their souls, crippled in their feelings--so thrown back--soturned back on themselves--incapable--' Hermione clenched her fist likeone in a trance--'of any spontaneous action, always deliberate, alwaysburdened 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 withno mind at all, than this, this NOTHINGNESS--'

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

She opened her eyes and looked at him slowly. 

'Yes, ' she said. She paused, watching him all the while, her eyesvague. Then she wiped her fingers across her brow, with a vagueweariness. It irritated him bitterly. 'It is the mind, ' she said, 'andthat 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 theyoung people growing up today, really dead before they have a chance tolive?'

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

'Are you SURE?' she cried. 'It seems to me the reverse. They areoverconscious, 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 rhapsodicinterrogation. 

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

'You are merely making words, ' he said; 'knowledge means everything toyou. Even your animalism, you want it in your head. You don't want toBE an animal, you want to observe your own animal functions, to get amental thrill out of them. It is all purely secondary--and moredecadent than the most hide-bound intellectualism. What is it but theworst and last form of intellectualism, this love of yours for passionand the animal instincts? Passion and the instincts--you want them hardenough, but through your head, in your consciousness. It all takesplace in your head, under that skull of yours. Only you won't beconscious of what ACTUALLY is: you want the lie that will match therest of your furniture. '

Hermione set hard and poisonous against this attack. Ursula stoodcovered with wonder and shame. It frightened her, to see how they hatedeach other. 

'It's all that Lady of Shalott business, ' he said, in his strongabstract voice. He seemed to be charging her before the unseeing air. 'You've got that mirror, your own fixed will, your immortalunderstanding, your own tight conscious world, and there is nothingbeyond it. There, in the mirror, you must have everything. But now youhave come to all your conclusions, you want to go back and be like asavage, without knowledge. You want a life of pure sensation and"passion. "'

He quoted the last word satirically against her. She sat convulsed withfury and violation, speechless, like a stricken pythoness of the Greekoracle. 

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

He looked at her in mingled hate and contempt, also in pain because shesuffered, and in shame because he knew he tortured her. He had animpulse to kneel and plead for forgiveness. But a bitterer red angerburned up to fury in him. He became unconscious of her, he was only apassionate voice speaking. 

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

There was a sense of violation in the air, as if too much was said, theunforgivable. Yet Ursula was concerned now only with solving her ownproblems, 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 afulfilment--the great dark knowledge you can't have in your head--thedark involuntary being. It is death to one's self--but it is the cominginto 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 isdrowned in darkness everything must go--there must be the deluge. Thenyou 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 aqueer resonant voice, that ended on a shrill little laugh of pureridicule. The two women were jeering at him, jeering him intonothingness. The laugh of the shrill, triumphant female sounded fromHermione, 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, cunningmockery. 

'Enough, ' he replied, his face fixing fine and clear like steel. Ahorrible 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 strangelyabsent, as if possessed, as if not quite there. 

'I'm so glad, ' she said, pulling herself together. 'Some time in abouta 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 strangelyexhilarated her. Also she was taking leave. It always gave her a senseof 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 tobid good-bye, he began to speak again. 

'There's the whole difference in the world, ' he said, 'between theactual sensual being, and the vicious mental-deliberate profligacy ourlot goes in for. In our night-time, there's always the electricityswitched 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 doit. 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. Weare so conceited, and so unproud. We've got no pride, we're allconceit, so conceited in our own papier-mache realised selves. We'drather die than give up our little self-righteous self-opinionatedself-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 noattention, stood with her shoulders tight in a shrug of dislike. 

Ursula was watching him as if furtively, not really aware of what shewas seeing. There was a great physical attractiveness in him--a curioushidden richness, that came through his thinness and his pallor likeanother voice, conveying another knowledge of him. It was in the curvesof his brows and his chin, rich, fine, exquisite curves, the powerfulbeauty of life itself. She could not say what it was. But there was asense 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 flickeringunder 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 theirsensual powers?' she asked. 

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

'You want your tea, don't you, ' said Hermione, turning to Ursula with agracious 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. Thenshe put out the lights. And having done so, she sat down again in herchair, absorbed and lost. And then she began to cry, bitterly, bitterlyweeping: but whether for misery or joy, she never knew. 

CHAPTER IV. 

DIVER

The week passed away. On the Saturday it rained, a soft drizzling rainthat held off at times. In one of the intervals Gudrun and Ursula setout for a walk, going towards Willey Water. The atmosphere was grey andtranslucent, the birds sang sharply on the young twigs, the earth wouldbe quickening and hastening in growth. The two girls walked swiftly, gladly, because of the soft, subtle rush of morning that filled the wethaze. By the road the black-thorn was in blossom, white and wet, itstiny amber grains burning faintly in the white smoke of blossom. Purpletwigs were darkly luminous in the grey air, high hedges glowed likeliving shadows, hovering nearer, coming into creation. The morning wasfull of a new creation. 

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

The two girls drifted swiftly along. In front of them, at the corner ofthe 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 ashadow on the still grey water, below the green, decayed poles. All wasshadowy with coming summer. 

Suddenly, from the boat-house, a white figure ran out, frightening inits swift sharp transit, across the old landing-stage. It launched in awhite arc through the air, there was a bursting of the water, and amongthe smooth ripples a swimmer was making out to space, in a centre offaintly heaving motion. The whole otherworld, wet and remote, he had tohimself. 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 sistersstood watching the swimmer move further into the grey, moist, fullspace of the water, pulsing with his own small, invading motion, andarched 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 thebosom of the water, as if fascinated. He, having swum a certaindistance, turned round and was swimming on his back, looking along thewater at the two girls by the wall. In the faint wash of motion, theycould 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 washedup and down on the flood, as he swam steadily. From his separateelement he saw them and he exulted to himself because of his ownadvantage, his possession of a world to himself. He was immune andperfect. He loved his own vigorous, thrusting motion, and the violentimpulse of the very cold water against his limbs, buoying him up. Hecould see the girls watching him a way off, outside, and that pleasedhim. 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 strangemovement of recognition across the difference. 

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

Gerald suddenly turned, and was swimming away swiftly, with a sidestroke. 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 newelement, unquestioned and unconditioned. He was happy, thrusting withhis legs and all his body, without bond or connection anywhere, justhimself in the watery world. 

Gudrun envied him almost painfully. Even this momentary possession ofpure isolation and fluidity seemed to her so terribly desirable thatshe 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, strangelyflushed and brilliant. 'You're a man, you want to do a thing, you doit. 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 ofthe impossibilities of life, for me to take my clothes off now and jumpin. 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 thetrees just below Shortlands. They looked up at the long, low house, dimand glamorous in the wet morning, its cedar trees slanting before thewindows. 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 JaneAusten, 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 Geraldis putting in a private electric plant, for lighting the house, and ismaking 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 onego. 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 madeevery 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 manthat showed signs of so much. The unfortunate thing is, where does hisGO 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 wereplaying 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 ahorrible story?'

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

'Oh yes, they were quite boys, ' said Ursula. 'I think it is one of themost 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 foryears. Nobody dreamed it would ever go off, and of course, no oneimagined it was loaded. But isn't it dreadful, that it should happen?'

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

'Perhaps there WAS an unconscious will behind it, ' said Ursula. 'Thisplaying at killing has some primitive DESIRE for killing in it, don'tyou think?'

'Desire!' said Gudrun, coldly, stiffening a little. 'I can't see thatthey 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 whathappens. " It seems to me the purest form of accident. '

'No, ' said Ursula. 'I couldn't pull the trigger of the emptiest gun inthe world, not if some-one were looking down the barrel. Oneinstinctively 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'sinstinct prevents one. But I cannot see how that applies to a couple ofboys playing together. '

Her voice was cold and angry. 

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

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

'Thanks so much, ' said Laura, looking up flushed and amazon-like, yetrather 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 shecould 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. Goodmorning--good morning--you'll come and see me?--thank you so much--nextweek--yes--good-bye, g-o-o-d b-y-e. '

Gudrun and Ursula stood and watched her slowly waving her head up anddown, and waving her hand slowly in dismissal, smiling a strangeaffected smile, making a tall queer, frightening figure, with her heavyfair hair slipping to her eyes. Then they moved off, as if they hadbeen 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 Gudrunrather 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 ifwe should be falling over ourselves for the privilege. '

'I can't understand, Ursula, what you are so much put out about, ' saidGudrun, in some exasperation. 'One knows those women areimpudent--these free women who have emancipated themselves from thearistocracy. '

'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'tgrant 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 ordinaryrun, ' said Gudrun. 'Whatever she is, she's not a fool. And I'd ratherhave somebody I detested, than the ordinary woman who keeps to her ownset. 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 weought to admire her for knowing she CAN invite us--school teachers--andrisk nothing. '

'Precisely!' said Gudrun. 'Think of the myriads of women that daren'tdo it. She makes the most of her privileges--that's something. Isuppose, really, we should do the same, in her place. '

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

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

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

'Undoubtedly!' said Gudrun. 

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

'Certainly it ought, ' said Gudrun. 'But you'll find that the reallychic thing is to be so absolutely ordinary, so perfectly commonplaceand like the person in the street, that you really are a masterpiece ofhumanity, not the person in the street actually, but the artisticcreation of her--'

'How awful!' cried Ursula. 

'Yes, Ursula, it IS awful, in most respects. You daren't be anythingthat isn't amazingly A TERRE, SO much A TERRE that it is the artisticcreation 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 justthe 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, withmocking laughter. 'And I don't feel a bit like a humble and patheticugly duckling. I do feel like a swan among geese--I can't help it. Theymake one feel so. And I don't care what THEY think of me. FE M'ENFICHE. '

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, ' shesaid. 

The sisters went home again, to read and talk and work, and wait forMonday, for school. Ursula often wondered what else she waited for, besides the beginning and end of the school week, and the beginning andend of the holidays. This was a whole life! Sometimes she had periodsof 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 reallyaccepted it. Her spirit was active, her life like a shoot that isgrowing 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 fixedin his abode. He had rooms in Nottingham, because his work lay chieflyin that town. But often he was in London, or in Oxford. He moved abouta 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 anewspaper, and evidently waiting for the train. Birkin stood somedistance off, among the people. It was against his instinct to approachanybody. 

From time to time, in a manner characteristic of him, Gerald lifted hishead and looked round. Even though he was reading the newspaperclosely, he must keep a watchful eye on his external surroundings. There seemed to be a dual consciousness running in him. He was thinkingvigorously of something he read in the newspaper, and at the same timehis eye ran over the surfaces of the life round him, and he missednothing. Birkin, who was watching him, was irritated by his duality. Henoticed 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 toGerald'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. 'Hereare two leaders--' he held out his DAILY TELEGRAPH, 'full of theordinary newspaper cant--' he scanned the columns down--'and thenthere's this little--I dunno what you'd call it, essay, almost--appearing with the leaders, and saying there must arise a manwho will give new values to things, give us new truths, a new attitudeto life, or else we shall be a crumbling nothingness in a few years, acountry 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 littletable, by the window, in the restaurant car. Birkin glanced over hispaper, 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 toaccept anything new. They want novelty right enough. But to starestraight 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 anythingnew will appear--even in the self. '

Gerald watched him closely. 

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

'This life. Yes I do. We've got to bust it completely, or shrivelinside 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 wholeorder of society?' he asked. 

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

'I don't propose at all, ' he replied. 'When we really want to go forsomething better, we shall smash the old. Until then, any sort ofproposal, or making proposals, is no more than a tiresome game forself-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 tolie to ourselves. We have an ideal of a perfect world, clean andstraight and sufficient. So we cover the earth with foulness; life is ablotch of labour, like insects scurrying in filth, so that your colliercan have a pianoforte in his parlour, and you can have a butler and amotor-car in your up-to-date house, and as a nation we can sport theRitz, or the Empire, Gaby Deslys and the Sunday newspapers. It is verydreary. '

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--andwhat 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 symbolfor something very real, a real desire for something higher, in thecollier's life?'

'Higher!' cried Birkin. 'Yes. Amazing heights of upright grandeur. Itmakes him so much higher in his neighbouring collier's eyes. He seeshimself reflected in the neighbouring opinion, like in a Brocken mist, several feet taller on the strength of the pianoforte, and he issatisfied. He lives for the sake of that Brocken spectre, thereflection of himself in the human opinion. You do the same. If you areof 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 tocook five thousand dinners a day, you are five thousand times moreimportant 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 nomore 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. Whichstatement Birkin ignored. 

'And we've got to live for SOMETHING, we're not just cattle that cangraze 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, toproduce something, in so far as I am a purposive being. Apart fromthat, I live because I am living. '

'And what's your work? Getting so many more thousands of tons of coalout 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 allstewed and eaten, and we're all warm and our bellies are filled andwe're listening to the young lady performing on the pianoforte--whatthen? What then, when you've made a real fair start with your materialthings?'

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

'We haven't got there yet, ' he replied. 'A good many people are stillwaiting 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-humouredcallousness, even strange, glistening malice, in Gerald, glisteningthrough 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 atlast. '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 notquite know what to say. 

'I may, of course, hate you sometimes, ' he said. 'But I'm not aware ofit--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 ranon. In Birkin's face was a little irritable tension, a sharp knittingof 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 ofthe other man. 

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

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

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

'Do you think love is the be-all and the end-all of life?' Birkinasked, 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 makingthings GO. '

Birkin knitted his brows like sharply moulded steel. 

'I find, ' he said, 'that one needs some one REALLY pure singleactivity--I should call love a single pure activity. But I DON'T reallylove 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 theeyes 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 alongthe 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 mylife, ' 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 theother 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 canmake out, it doesn't centre at all. It is artificially held TOGETHER bythe social mechanism. '

Birkin pondered as if he would crack something. 

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

'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 ofthe 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, womanonly, yes, I do, ' said Gerald. 'I don't believe I shall ever make up MYlife, 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 Birkinalmost sardonically, with his blue, manly, sharp-lighted eyes. Birkin'seyes were at the moment full of anger. But swiftly they becametroubled, doubtful, then full of a warm, rich affectionateness andlaughter. 

'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 nearhim, he wanted to be within his sphere of influence. There wassomething very congenial to him in Birkin. But yet, beyond this, he didnot take much notice. He felt that he, himself, Gerald, had harder andmore durable truths than any the other man knew. He felt himself older, more knowing. It was the quick-changing warmth and venality andbrilliant warm utterance he loved in his friend. It was the rich playof words and quick interchange of feelings he enjoyed. The real contentof the words he never really considered: he himself knew better. 

Birkin knew this. He knew that Gerald wanted to be FOND of him withouttaking him seriously. And this made him go hard and cold. As the trainran on, he sat looking at the land, and Gerald fell away, became asnothing to him. 

Birkin looked at the land, at the evening, and was thinking: 'Well, ifmankind is destroyed, if our race is destroyed like Sodom, and there isthis beautiful evening with the luminous land and trees, I amsatisfied. That which informs it all is there, and can never be lost. After all, what is mankind but just one expression of theincomprehensible. And if mankind passes away, it will only mean thatthis particular expression is completed and done. That which isexpressed, and that which is to be expressed, cannot be diminished. There it is, in the shining evening. Let mankind pass away--time itdid. 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 newway. 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 therewhen 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 boundto find there. '

'What kind of people?'

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

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

'Painters, musicians, writers--hangers-on, models, advanced youngpeople, anybody who is openly at outs with the conventions, and belongsto nowhere particularly. They are often young fellows down from theUniversity, 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 onone note. '

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

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

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

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

'I promised to meet Halliday at the Pompadour. It's a bad place, butthere 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 thecountry, and was filled with a sort of hopelessness. He always feltthis, on approaching London. 

His dislike of mankind, of the mass of mankind, amounted almost to anillness. 

 '"Where the quiet coloured end of evening smiles Miles and miles--"'

he was murmuring to himself, like a man condemned to death. Gerald, whowas very subtly alert, wary in all his senses, leaned forward and askedsmilingly:

'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 reasonwas now tired and dispirited, said to him:

'I always feel doomed when the train is running into London. I feelsuch 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'tfall. 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 ofoutspread London. Everybody in the carriage was on the alert, waitingto escape. At last they were under the huge arch of the station, in thetremendous shadow of the town. Birkin shut himself together--he was innow. 

The two men went together in a taxi-cab. 

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

'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 thepush doors into the large, lofty room where the faces and heads of thedrinkers showed dimly through the haze of smoke, reflected more dimly, and repeated ad infinitum in the great mirrors on the walls, so thatone seemed to enter a vague, dim world of shadowy drinkers hummingwithin an atmosphere of blue tobacco smoke. There was, however, the redplush of the seats to give substance within the bubble of pleasure. 

Gerald moved in his slow, observant, glistening-attentive motion downbetween the tables and the people whose shadowy faces looked up as hepassed. He seemed to be entering in some strange element, passing intoan illuminated new region, among a host of licentious souls. He waspleased, and entertained. He looked over all the dim, evanescent, strangely illuminated faces that bent across the tables. Then he sawBirkin rise and signal to him. 

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

Birkin, who looked muted, unreal, his presence left out, introduced heras Miss Darrington. She gave her hand with a sudden, unwillingmovement, looking all the while at Gerald with a dark, exposed stare. Aglow 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 smallliqueur 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 terrifiedwhen he sees me here. '

She spoke her r's like w's, lisping with a slightly babyishpronunciation which was at once affected and true to her character. Hervoice 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, 'whatdo 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 somesittings tomorrow. '

'Who shall you go to?' asked Birkin. 

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

'That is from the Madonna?'

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

'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 facesullenly, 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 Icome over to this table?'

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

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

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

All this time Gerald had been completely ignored. And yet he felt thatthe 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 herposition as a social inferior, yet assumes intimate CAMARADERIE withthe male she addresses:

'Do you know London well?'

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

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

'No, ' he replied. 

'He's a soldier, and an explorer, and a Napoleon of industry, ' saidBirkin, 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 rulingover 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 itssharp fair hair, was full of satisfaction, and glowing with life. Hepiqued 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 socurious and so exciting to him. He was acutely and delightfullyconscious of himself, of his own attractiveness. He felt full ofstrength, able to give off a sort of electric power. And he was awareof her dark, hot-looking eyes upon him. She had beautiful eyes, dark, fully-opened, hot, naked in their looking at him. And on them thereseemed to float a film of disintegration, a sort of misery andsullenness, like oil on water. She wore no hat in the heated cafe, herloose, simple jumper was strung on a string round her neck. But it wasmade of rich peach-coloured crepe-de-chine, that hung heavily andsoftly from her young throat and her slender wrists. Her appearance wassimple and complete, really beautiful, because of her regularity andform, her soft dark hair falling full and level on either side of herhead, her straight, small, softened features, Egyptian in the slightfulness of their curves, her slender neck and the simple, rich-colouredsmock hanging on her slender shoulders. She was very still, almostnull, in her manner, apart and watchful. 

She appealed to Gerald strongly. He felt an awful, enjoyable power overher, an instinctive cherishing very near to cruelty. For she was avictim. He felt that she was in his power, and he was generous. Theelectricity was turgid and voluptuously rich, in his limbs. He would beable to destroy her utterly in the strength of his discharge. But shewas 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 thenewcomer. The girl, with a curious, almost evil motion, looked roundover her shoulder without moving her body. Gerald watched her dark, soft hair swing over her ears. He felt her watching intensely the manwho was approaching, so he looked too. He saw a pale, full-built youngman 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 oncenaive and warm, and vapid. He approached towards Birkin, with a hasteof welcome. 

It was not till he was quite close that he perceived the girl. Herecoiled, 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 hungmotionless, an almost imbecile smile flickering palely on his face. Thegirl only stared at him with a black look in which flared anunfathomable hell of knowledge, and a certain impotence. She waslimited 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, heavyfashion, 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 Birkinto 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 risingto a kind of squeal. 

'She comes as she likes, ' said Birkin. 'Are you going to sit down, orare 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, verycurtly, and yet with a sort of protectiveness towards him, in hervoice. 

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

'Oh, it's given me such a turn! Pussum, I wish you wouldn't do thesethings. 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 wereshining 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 notborn yet, you can't feel really afraid of them. You know you can managethem. '

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

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

'Except in herds, ' interrupted Birkin. 

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

'Did you?' he laughed. 'They are over-rated, savages. They're too muchlike 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 beingshut up, locked up anywhere--or being fastened. I'm afraid of beingbound hand and foot. '

She looked at him steadily with her dark eyes, that rested on him androused him so deeply, that it left his upper self quite calm. It wasrather delicious, to feel her drawing his self-revelations from him, asfrom 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 contactwith him, must have the seeing him and knowing him. And this roused acurious exultance. Also he felt, she must relinquish herself into hishands, and be subject to him. She was so profane, slave-like, watchinghim, absorbed by him. It was not that she was interested in what hesaid; she was absorbed by his self-revelation, by HIM, she wanted thesecret of him, the experience of his male being. 

Gerald's face was lit up with an uncanny smile, full of light androusedness, yet unconscious. He sat with his arms on the table, hissunbrowned, rather sinister hands, that were animal and yet veryshapely and attractive, pushed forward towards her. And they fascinatedher. 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 resonantvoice. Her face closed hard. Continually she glanced at Halliday, andthen a black flare came over her eyes. The heavy, fair young manignored her completely; he was really afraid of her. For some momentsshe 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 hiddenin the country. And then he says I persecute him, that he can't get ridof 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 whatsomebody tells him to do. He never does anything he wants to dohimself--because he doesn't know what he wants. He's a perfect baby. '

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

'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, ' shereplied. 'He came and cried to me, tears, you never saw so many, sayingHE 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 hebehaves in this fashion. And now I'm going to have a baby, he wants togive me a hundred pounds and send me into the country, so that he wouldnever 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, tolook at her, impossible, she was so young and so far in spirit from anychild-bearing. 

She looked full into his face, and her dark, inchoate eyes had now afurtive 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. Heremained silent, thinking. Then, switching off and becoming cold, heasked, 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 thewaiter. 

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'redrinking brandy. '

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

'Pussum, why do you do that?' he cried in panic. He gave Gerald theimpression 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 andextract every flavour from it, in real panic. Gerald thought him astrange fool, and yet piquant. 

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

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

'What will you drink?' the young man asked. He was dark, andsmooth-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 ofthe 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 finickingin her eating, her fingers were fine and seemed very sensitive in thetips, so she put her food apart with fine, small motions, she atecarefully, delicately. It pleased him very much to see her, and itirritated Birkin. They were all drinking champagne. Maxim, the primyoung Russian with the smooth, warm-coloured face and black, oiled hairwas the only one who seemed to be perfectly calm and sober. Birkin waswhite and abstract, unnatural, Gerald was smiling with a constantbright, amused, cold light in his eyes, leaning a little protectivelytowards the Pussum, who was very handsome, and soft, unfolded like somered lotus in dreadful flowering nakedness, vainglorious now, flushedwith wine and with the excitement of men. Halliday looked foolish. Oneglass of wine was enough to make him drunk and giggling. Yet there wasalways 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 thereseemed an unseeing film of flame, fully upon Gerald. He laugheddangerously, from the blood. Her childish speech caressed his nerves, and her burning, filmed eyes, turned now full upon him, oblivious ofall her antecedents, gave him a sort of licence. 

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

'Do you mean, ' said Gerald, with the punctiliousness of a man who hasbeen drinking, 'that you are afraid of the sight of a black-beetle, oryou 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. 'Doblack-beetles bite? But that isn't the point. Are you afraid of theirbiting, 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 seeone, it gives me the creeps all over. If one were to crawl on me, I'mSURE 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. Insome 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 thesame. 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 allover his face. 

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

'Why, have you ever seen blood, except in a dentist's spittoon?' jeeredthe 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. Hestarted 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 downat her with acrid malevolence. 

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

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

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

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

'Oh!' squealed Halliday. 

'He's going to cat, Maxim, ' said the Pussum warningly. The suave youngRussian 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 mostconspicuous fashion. 

'He's an awful coward, really, ' said the Pussum to Gerald. 'He's gotsuch 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. 'Healways 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 goingto show his courage. But he's the biggest coward of them all, really, because he's afwaid what people will think about him--and Juliusdoesn'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 veryhandsome, flushed, and confident in dreadful knowledge. Two littlepoints 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 slightinsolence, 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 sankin 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 youcome round to the flat?' he said to Gerald. 'I should be so glad if youwould. 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--perfectlyghastly! 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 sosplendid. Pussum, you are coming. What? Oh but you MUST come, yes, youmust. What? Oh, my dear girl, don't make a fuss now, I feelperfectly--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, hushedvoice of the young Russian. 

They all moved off to the door. The girl kept near to Gerald, andseemed to be at one in her motion with him. He was aware of this, andfilled with demon-satisfaction that his motion held good for two. Heheld her in the hollow of his will, and she was soft, secret, invisiblein 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 Pussumtook her place, and Gerald sat next to her. They heard the youngRussian giving orders to the driver, then they were all seated in thedark, crowded close together, Halliday groaning and leaning out of thewindow. They felt the swift, muffled motion of the car. 

The Pussum sat near to Gerald, and she seemed to become soft, subtly toinfuse herself into his bones, as if she were passing into him in ablack, electric flow. Her being suffused into his veins like a magneticdarkness, and concentrated at the base of his spine like a fearfulsource of power. Meanwhile her voice sounded out reedy and nonchalant, as she talked indifferently with Birkin and with Maxim. Between her andGerald was this silence and this black, electric comprehension in thedarkness. 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 wasno longer responsible. Still her voice rang on like a bell, tinged witha tone of mockery. And as she swung her head, her fine mane of hairjust swept his face, and all his nerves were on fire, as with a subtlefriction 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, andpresently a door was being opened for them by a Hindu. Gerald looked insurprise, wondering if he were a gentleman, one of the Hindus down fromOxford, 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'sanything but a swell, really. We found him in the road, starving. So Itook him here, and another man gave him clothes. He's anything but whathe seems to be--his only advantage is that he can't speak English andcan'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 andclean-limbed, his bearing was calm, he looked elegant, aristocratic. Yet he was half a savage, grinning foolishly. Halliday went out intothe 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 Hallidayappeared in the room, smiling also foolishly, and saying:

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

Gerald looked round the room. It was an ordinary London sitting-room ina flat, evidently taken furnished, rather common and ugly. But therewere several negro statues, wood-carvings from West Africa, strange anddisturbing, the carved negroes looked almost like the foetus of a humanbeing. One was a woman sitting naked in a strange posture, and lookingtortured, her abdomen stuck out. The young Russian explained that shewas sitting in child-birth, clutching the ends of the band that hungfrom her neck, one in each hand, so that she could bear down, and helplabour. The strange, transfixed, rudimentary face of the woman againreminded Gerald of a foetus, it was also rather wonderful, conveyingthe suggestion of the extreme of physical sensation, beyond the limitsof mental consciousness. 

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

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

Gerald turned away. There were one or two new pictures in the room, inthe Futurist manner; there was a large piano. And these, with someordinary London lodging-house furniture of the better sort, completedthe 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 beingwas with Gerald, and she did not know how far this was admitted by anyof 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 eyewas brooding but inevitable. 

The man came in with tea and a bottle of Kummel. He set the tray on alittle 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 nervousapprehension. 

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

'My dear Pussum, you know you are your own mistress. I don't want youto 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 electricconnection between him and her so strongly, as she sat there quiet andwithheld, that another set of conditions altogether had come to pass. Her silence and her immutability perplexed him. HOW was he going tocome to her? And yet he felt it quite inevitable. He trusted completelyto the current that held them. His perplexity was only superficial, newconditions reigned, the old were surpassed; here one did as one waspossessed 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 morningat 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--dostay, won't you. Everything is quite ready--there is always somebodyhere--I always put people up--I love having the house crowded. '

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

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

He was smiling rather foolishly, and he spoke eagerly, with aninsinuating 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 wastense 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'sface. Then she went out of the room, with a cold good-night to them allgenerally. 

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, childishface looking sullen and vindictive. 

'I know you want to catch me out, ' came her cold, rather resonantvoice. '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 loosedressing-gown of purple silk, tied round her waist. She looked so smalland childish and vulnerable, almost pitiful. And yet the black looks ofher eyes made Gerald feel drowned in some potent darkness that almostfrightened him. 

The men lit another cigarette and talked casually. 

CHAPTER VII. 

FETISH

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

Hearing voices coming from the sitting-room, Halliday talking toLibidnikov, he went to the door and glanced in. He had on a silk wrapof 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 hewent out into the hall, striding a strange, white figure between theunliving furniture. He came back with the towels, and took his formerposition, 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 coulddo without clothing altogether, ' said Halliday. 

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

'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 waslike a Christ in a Pieta. The animal was not there at all, only theheavy, broken beauty. And Gerald realised how Halliday's eyes werebeautiful too, so blue and warm and confused, broken also in theirexpression. The fireglow fell on his heavy, rather bowed shoulders, hesat 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 peoplego 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 todo--to live from day to day without EVER putting on any sort ofclothing 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 beentirely 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 shouldfeel the air move against me, and feel the things I touched, instead ofhaving only to look at them. I'm sure life is all wrong because it hasbecome much too visual--we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, wecan 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 bodywith the black hair growing fine and freely, like tendrils, and hislimbs like smooth plant-stems. He was so healthy and well-made, why didhe make one ashamed, why did one feel repelled? Why should Gerald evendislike it, why did it seem to him to detract from his own dignity. Wasthat 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 somehowevanescent. 

'There's the bath-room now, if you want it, ' he said generally, and wasgoing 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 ofthe negro woman in labour. Her nude, protuberant body crouched in astrange, 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, theRussian golden and like a water-plant, Halliday tall and heavily, brokenly beautiful, Birkin very white and indefinite, not to beassigned, as he looked closely at the carven woman. Strangely elated, Gerald also lifted his eyes to the face of the wooden figure. And hisheart contracted. 

He saw vividly with his spirit the grey, forward-stretching face of thenegro woman, African and tense, abstracted in utter physical stress. Itwas a terrible face, void, peaked, abstracted almost intomeaninglessness by the weight of sensation beneath. He saw the Pussumin 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 wholetruth 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 ina 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 Africanthing. 

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

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

'You like the wrong things, Rupert, ' he said, 'things againstyourself. '

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

When Gerald went back to his room from the bath, he also carried hisclothes. He was so conventional at home, that when he was really away, and on the loose, as now, he enjoyed nothing so much as fulloutrageousness. So he strode with his blue silk wrap over his arm andfelt 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 hereyes. Perhaps she suffered. The sensation of her inchoate sufferingroused the old sharp flame in him, a mordant pity, a passion almost ofcruelty. 

'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 sinkhelplessly away from him. Her inchoate look of a violated slave, whosefulfilment lies in her further and further violation, made his nervesquiver with acutely desirable sensation. After all, his was the onlywill, she was the passive substance of his will. He tingled with thesubtle, 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 veryclean and bathed. Gerald and the Russian were both correct and COMME ILFAUT in appearance and manner, Birkin was gaunt and sick, and looked afailure in his attempt to be a properly dressed man, like Gerald andMaxim. Halliday wore tweeds and a green flannel shirt, and a rag of atie, which was just right for him. The Hindu brought in a great deal ofsoft toast, and looked exactly the same as he had looked the nightbefore, statically the same. 

At the end of the breakfast the Pussum appeared, in a purple silk wrapwith a shimmering sash. She had recovered herself somewhat, but wasmute and lifeless still. It was a torment to her when anybody spoke toher. Her face was like a small, fine mask, sinister too, masked withunwilling suffering. It was almost midday. Gerald rose and went away tohis business, glad to get out. But he had not finished. He was comingback again at evening, they were all dining together, and he had bookedseats for the party, excepting Birkin, at a music-hall. 

At night they came back to the flat very late again, again flushed withdrink. Again the man-servant--who invariably disappeared between thehours of ten and twelve at night--came in silently and inscrutably withtea, bending in a slow, strange, leopard-like fashion to put the traysoftly on the table. His face was immutable, aristocratic-looking, tinged slightly with grey under the skin; he was young andgood-looking. But Birkin felt a slight sickness, looking at him, andfeeling the slight greyness as an ash or a corruption, in thearistocratic inscrutability of expression a nauseating, bestialstupidity. 

Again they talked cordially and rousedly together. But already acertain friability was coming over the party, Birkin was mad withirritation, Halliday was turning in an insane hatred against Gerald, the Pussum was becoming hard and cold, like a flint knife, and Hallidaywas laying himself out to her. And her intention, ultimately, was tocapture Halliday, to have complete power over him. 

In the morning they all stalked and lounged about again. But Geraldcould feel a strange hostility to himself, in the air. It roused hisobstinacy, 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 fourthevening. Halliday turned with absurd animosity upon Gerald, in thecafe. There was a row. Gerald was on the point of knocking-inHalliday's face; when he was filled with sudden disgust andindifference, and he went away, leaving Halliday in a foolish state ofgloating triumph, the Pussum hard and established, and Maxim standingclear. 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 heknew it. But she would have been glad of ten pounds, and he would havebeen VERY glad to give them to her. Now he felt in a false position. Hewent away chewing his lips to get at the ends of his short clippedmoustache. He knew the Pussum was merely glad to be rid of him. She hadgot her Halliday whom she wanted. She wanted him completely in herpower. Then she would marry him. She wanted to marry him. She had sether will on marrying Halliday. She never wanted to hear of Geraldagain; 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 withthem. The real men, like Gerald, put her in her place too much. 

Still, she respected Gerald, she really respected him. She had managedto get his address, so that she could appeal to him in time ofdistress. She knew he wanted to give her money. She would perhaps writeto him on that inevitable rainy day. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

BREADALBY

Breadalby was a Georgian house with Corinthian pillars, standing amongthe softer, greener hills of Derbyshire, not far from Cromford. Infront, it looked over a lawn, over a few trees, down to a string offish-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 theDerwent Valley, outside the show scenery. Silent and forsaken, thegolden stucco showed between the trees, the house-front looked down thepark, unchanged and unchanging. 

Of late, however, Hermione had lived a good deal at the house. She hadturned away from London, away from Oxford, towards the silence of thecountry. Her father was mostly absent, abroad, she was either alone inthe house, with her visitors, of whom there were always several, or shehad with her her brother, a bachelor, and a Liberal member ofParliament. He always came down when the House was not sitting, seemedalways to be present in Breadalby, although he was most conscientiousin his attendance to duty. 

The summer was just coming in when Ursula and Gudrun went to stay thesecond time with Hermione. Coming along in the car, after they hadentered the park, they looked across the dip, where the fish-ponds layin silence, at the pillared front of the house, sunny and small like anEnglish drawing of the old school, on the brow of the green hill, against the trees. There were small figures on the green lawn, women inlavender and yellow moving to the shade of the enormous, beautifullybalanced 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 captivatedunwillingly, 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 theywere curving to the side door. A parlour-maid appeared, and thenHermione, coming forward with her pale face lifted, and her handsoutstretched, advancing straight to the new-comers, her voice singing:

'Here you are--I'm so glad to see you--' she kissed Gudrun--'so glad tosee you--' she kissed Ursula and remained with her arm round her. 'Areyou 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 twogirls were embarrassed because she would not move into the house, butmust have her little scene of welcome there on the path. The servantswaited. 

'Come in, ' said Hermione at last, having fully taken in the pair ofthem. Gudrun was the more beautiful and attractive, she had decidedagain, Ursula was more physical, more womanly. She admired Gudrun'sdress more. It was of green poplin, with a loose coat above it, ofbroad, 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 ofblack and orange, the stockings were dark green, the shoes black. Itwas a good get-up, at once fashionable and individual. Ursula, in darkblue, was more ordinary, though she also looked well. 

Hermione herself wore a dress of prune-coloured silk, with coral beadsand 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 upnow, shall we?'

Ursula was glad when she could be left alone in her room. Hermionelingered 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 andoppressive. 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 ayoung Italian woman, slight and fashionable, a young, athletic-lookingMiss Bradley, a learned, dry Baronet of fifty, who was always makingwitticisms and laughing at them heartily in a harsh, horse-laugh, therewas Rupert Birkin, and then a woman secretary, a Fraulein Marz, youngand slim and pretty. 

The food was very good, that was one thing. Gudrun, critical ofeverything, gave it her full approval. Ursula loved the situation, thewhite table by the cedar tree, the scent of new sunshine, the littlevision of the leafy park, with far-off deer feeding peacefully. Thereseemed 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 smallartillery, always slightly sententious, with a sententiousness that wasonly emphasised by the continual crackling of a witticism, thecontinual spatter of verbal jest, designed to give a tone of flippancyto a stream of conversation that was all critical and general, a canalof conversation rather than a stream. 

The attitude was mental and very wearying. Only the elderlysociologist, whose mental fibre was so tough as to be insentient, seemed to be thoroughly happy. Birkin was down in the mouth. Hermioneappeared, with amazing persistence, to wish to ridicule him and makehim look ignominious in the eyes of everybody. And it was surprisinghow she seemed to succeed, how helpless he seemed against her. Helooked completely insignificant. Ursula and Gudrun, both very unused, were mostly silent, listening to the slow, rhapsodic sing-song ofHermione, or the verbal sallies of Sir Joshua, or the prattle ofFraulein, or the responses of the other two women. 

Luncheon was over, coffee was brought out on the grass, the party leftthe table and sat about in lounge chairs, in the shade or in thesunshine as they wished. Fraulein departed into the house, Hermionetook up her embroidery, the little Contessa took a book, Miss Bradleywas weaving a basket out of fine grass, and there they all were on thelawn in the early summer afternoon, working leisurely and spatteringwith half-intellectual, deliberate talk. 

Suddenly there was the sound of the brakes and the shutting off of amotor-car. 

'There's Salsie!' sang Hermione, in her slow, amusing sing-song. Andlaying 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, ' saidSir Joshua. 

'Salsie, yes, it is her brother, ' said the little Contessa, lifting herhead for a moment from her book, and speaking as if to giveinformation, in her slightly deepened, guttural English. 

They all waited. And then round the bushes came the tall form ofAlexander Roddice, striding romantically like a Meredith hero whoremembers Disraeli. He was cordial with everybody, he was at once ahost, with an easy, offhand hospitality that he had learned forHermione's friends. He had just come down from London, from the House. At once the atmosphere of the House of Commons made itself felt overthe 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 saidso-and-so to the PM. 

Now Hermione came round the bushes with Gerald Crich. He had come alongwith Alexander. Gerald was presented to everybody, was kept by Hermionefor a few moments in full view, then he was led away, still byHermione. He was evidently her guest of the moment. 

There had been a split in the Cabinet; the minister for Education hadresigned owing to adverse criticism. This started a conversation oneducation. 

'Of course, ' said Hermione, lifting her face like a rhapsodist, 'thereCAN be no reason, no EXCUSE for education, except the joy and beauty ofknowledge in itself. ' She seemed to rumble and ruminate withsubterranean thoughts for a minute, then she proceeded: 'Vocationaleducation ISN'T education, it is the close of education. '

Gerald, on the brink of discussion, sniffed the air with delight andprepared for action. 

'Not necessarily, ' he said. 'But isn't education really likegymnastics, isn't the end of education the production of awell-trained, vigorous, energetic mind?'

'Just as athletics produce a healthy body, ready for anything, ' criedMiss Bradley, in hearty accord. 

Gudrun looked at her in silent loathing. 

'Well--' rumbled Hermione, 'I don't know. To me the pleasure of knowingis 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 reallyunderstood something about the stars. One feels so UPLIFTED, soUNBOUNDED . . . '

Birkin looked at her in a white fury. 

'What do you want to feel unbounded for?' he said sarcastically. 'Youdon't want to BE unbounded. '

Hermione recoiled in offence. 

'Yes, but one does have that limitless feeling, ' said Gerald. 'It'slike getting on top of the mountain and seeing the Pacific. '

'Silent upon a peak in Dariayn, ' murmured the Italian, lifting her facefor 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 behappy, to be FREE. '

'Knowledge is, of course, liberty, ' said Mattheson. 

'In compressed tabloids, ' said Birkin, looking at the dry, stiff littlebody of the Baronet. Immediately Gudrun saw the famous sociologist as aflat bottle, containing tabloids of compressed liberty. That pleasedher. 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 thingsconcluded, in the past. It's like bottling the liberty of last summerin 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 forinstance, knowledge of the past?'

'Yes, ' said Birkin. 

'There is a most beautiful thing in my book, ' suddenly piped the littleItalian woman. 'It says the man came to the door and threw his eyesdown the street. '

There was a general laugh in the company. Miss Bradley went and lookedover the shoulder of the Contessa. 

'See!' said the Contessa. 

'Bazarov came to the door and threw his eyes hurriedly down thestreet, ' she read. 

Again there was a loud laugh, the most startling of which was theBaronet'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, pronouncingevery 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 afine declamatory voice. 'Bazarov ouvra la porte et jeta les yeux dansla 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 alarge 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, oneby one. And they all said yes, feeling somehow like prisonersmarshalled 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 towalk 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 acurious 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 madehim stiff. 

She trailed off to the rest of the company, only turning to wave herhandkerchief 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 wilddaffodils on a little slope. 'This way, this way, ' sang her leisurelyvoice at intervals. And they had all to come this way. The daffodilswere pretty, but who could see them? Ursula was stiff all over withresentment 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 hetoo were a boy she wanted to wheedle and fondle. He was male, so shemust exert some kind of power over him. They trailed home by thefish-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 laughedas she told how the ousted lover had sat with his head buried under hiswing, on the gravel. 

When they arrived back at the house, Hermione stood on the lawn andsang out, in a strange, small, high voice that carried very far:

'Rupert! Rupert!' The first syllable was high and slow, the seconddropped 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 inher 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 hercheeks. 

'Have you?' she echoed. And she remained looking at him. She wasstimulated above all things by this conflict with him, when he was likea sulky boy, helpless, and she had him safe at Breadalby. Butunderneath she knew the split was coming, and her hatred of him wassubconscious 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 hisroom. He had taken a Chinese drawing of geese from the boudoir, and wascopying it, with much skill and vividness. 

'You are copying the drawing, ' she said, standing near the table, andlooking down at his work. 'Yes. How beautifully you do it! You like itvery 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 dosomething original?'

'I want to know it, ' he replied. 'One gets more of China, copying thispicture, than reading all the books. '

'And what do you get?'

She was at once roused, she laid as it were violent hands on him, toextract 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--thehot, stinging centrality of a goose in the flux of cold water andmud--the curious bitter stinging heat of a goose's blood, enteringtheir own blood like an inoculation of corruptive fire--fire of thecold-burning mud--the lotus mystery. '

Hermione looked at him along her narrow, pallid cheeks. Her eyes werestrange and drugged, heavy under their heavy, drooping lids. Her thinbosom shrugged convulsively. He stared back at her, devilish andunchanging. With another strange, sick convulsion, she turned away, asif she were sick, could feel dissolution setting-in in her body. Forwith her mind she was unable to attend to his words, he caught her, asit were, beneath all her defences, and destroyed her with someinsidious 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, shewas witless, decentralised. Use all her will as she might, she couldnot recover. She suffered the ghastliness of dissolution, broken andgone in a horrible corruption. And he stood and looked at her unmoved. She strayed out, pallid and preyed-upon like a ghost, like one attackedby 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 andfull of sepulchral darkness, strength. She had put on a dress of stiffold greenish brocade, that fitted tight and made her look tall andrather terrible, ghastly. In the gay light of the drawing-room she wasuncanny and oppressive. But seated in the half-light of the diningroom, sitting stiffly before the shaded candles on the table, she seemed apower, a presence. She listened and attended with a drugged attention. 

The party was gay and extravagant in appearance, everybody had put onevening dress except Birkin and Joshua Mattheson. The little ItalianContessa wore a dress of tissue, of orange and gold and black velvet insoft wide stripes, Gudrun was emerald green with strange net-work, Ursula was in yellow with dull silver veiling, Miss Bradley was ofgrey, crimson and jet, Fraulein Marz wore pale blue. It gave Hermione asudden convulsive sensation of pleasure, to see these rich coloursunder the candle-light. She was aware of the talk going on, ceaselessly, Joshua's voice dominating; of the ceaseless pitter-patterof women's light laughter and responses; of the brilliant colours andthe white table and the shadow above and below; and she seemed in aswoon of gratification, convulsed with pleasure and yet sick, like aREVENANT. She took very little part in the conversation, yet she heardit all, it was all hers. 

They all went together into the drawing-room, as if they were onefamily, easily, without any attention to ceremony. Fraulein handed thecoffee, everybody smoked cigarettes, or else long warden pipes of whiteclay, of which a sheaf was provided. 

'Will you smoke?--cigarettes or pipe?' asked Fraulein prettily. Therewas a circle of people, Sir Joshua with his eighteenth-centuryappearance, Gerald the amused, handsome young Englishman, Alexandertall and the handsome politician, democratic and lucid, Hermionestrange like a long Cassandra, and the women lurid with colour, alldutifully smoking their long white pipes, and sitting in a half-moon inthe comfortable, soft-lighted drawing-room, round the logs thatflickered on the marble hearth. 

The talk was very often political or sociological, and interesting, curiously anarchistic. There was an accumulation of powerful force inthe room, powerful and destructive. Everything seemed to be thrown intothe melting pot, and it seemed to Ursula they were all witches, helpingthe pot to bubble. There was an elation and a satisfaction in it all, but it was cruelly exhausting for the new-comers, this ruthless mentalpressure, this powerful, consuming, destructive mentality that emanatedfrom Joshua and Hermione and Birkin and dominated the rest. 

But a sickness, a fearful nausea gathered possession of Hermione. Therewas a lull in the talk, as it was arrested by her unconscious butall-powerful will. 

'Salsie, won't you play something?' said Hermione, breaking offcompletely. 'Won't somebody dance? Gudrun, you will dance, won't you? Iwish you would. Anche tu, Palestra, ballerai?--si, per piacere. Youtoo, Ursula. '

Hermione rose and slowly pulled the gold-embroidered band that hung bythe 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 andshawls and scarves, mostly oriental, things that Hermione, with herlove 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 wasfinally decided to do Naomi and Ruth and Orpah. Ursula was Naomi, Gudrun was Ruth, the Contessa was Orpah. The idea was to make a littleballet, in the style of the Russian Ballet of Pavlova and Nijinsky. 

The Contessa was ready first, Alexander went to the piano, a space wascleared. Orpah, in beautiful oriental clothes, began slowly to dancethe death of her husband. Then Ruth came, and they wept together, andlamented, then Naomi came to comfort them. It was all done in dumbshow, the women danced their emotion in gesture and motion. The littledrama went on for a quarter of an hour. 

Ursula was beautiful as Naomi. All her men were dead, it remained toher only to stand alone in indomitable assertion, demanding nothing. Ruth, woman-loving, loved her. Orpah, a vivid, sensational, subtlewidow, would go back to the former life, a repetition. The interplaybetween the women was real and rather frightening. It was strange tosee how Gudrun clung with heavy, desperate passion to Ursula, yetsmiled with subtle malevolence against her, how Ursula acceptedsilently, unable to provide any more either for herself or for theother, but dangerous and indomitable, refuting her grief. 

Hermione loved to watch. She could see the Contessa's rapid, stoat-likesensationalism, Gudrun's ultimate but treacherous cleaving to the womanin her sister, Ursula's dangerous helplessness, as if she werehelplessly weighted, and unreleased. 

'That was very beautiful, ' everybody cried with one accord. ButHermione writhed in her soul, knowing what she could not know. Shecried out for more dancing, and it was her will that set the Contessaand Birkin moving mockingly in Malbrouk. 

Gerald was excited by the desperate cleaving of Gudrun to Naomi. Theessence of that female, subterranean recklessness and mockerypenetrated his blood. He could not forget Gudrun's lifted, offered, cleaving, reckless, yet withal mocking weight. And Birkin, watchinglike a hermit crab from its hole, had seen the brilliant frustrationand helplessness of Ursula. She was rich, full of dangerous power. Shewas like a strange unconscious bud of powerful womanhood. He wasunconsciously drawn to her. She was his future. 

Alexander played some Hungarian music, and they all danced, seized bythe spirit. Gerald was marvellously exhilarated at finding himself inmotion, moving towards Gudrun, dancing with feet that could not yetescape from the waltz and the two-step, but feeling his force stiralong his limbs and his body, out of captivity. He did not know yet howto dance their convulsive, rag-time sort of dancing, but he knew how tobegin. Birkin, when he could get free from the weight of the peoplepresent, whom he disliked, danced rapidly and with a real gaiety. Andhow Hermione hated him for this irresponsible gaiety. 

'Now I see, ' cried the Contessa excitedly, watching his purely gaymotion, which he had all to himself. 'Mr Birkin, he is a changer. '

Hermione looked at her slowly, and shuddered, knowing that only aforeigner 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 achameleon, a creature of change. '

'He is not a man, he is treacherous, not one of us, ' said itself overin Hermione's consciousness. And her soul writhed in the blacksubjugation to him, because of his power to escape, to exist, otherthan she did, because he was not consistent, not a man, less than aman. She hated him in a despair that shattered her and broke her down, so that she suffered sheer dissolution like a corpse, and wasunconscious of everything save the horrible sickness of dissolutionthat was taking place within her, body and soul. 

The house being full, Gerald was given the smaller room, really thedressing-room, communicating with Birkin's bedroom. When they all tooktheir candles and mounted the stairs, where the lamps were burningsubduedly, Hermione captured Ursula and brought her into her ownbedroom, to talk to her. A sort of constraint came over Ursula in thebig, strange bedroom. Hermione seemed to be bearing down on her, awfuland inchoate, making some appeal. They were looking at some Indian silkshirts, gorgeous and sensual in themselves, their shape, their almostcorrupt gorgeousness. And Hermione came near, and her bosom writhed, and Ursula was for a moment blank with panic. And for a momentHermione's haggard eyes saw the fear on the face of the other, therewas again a sort of crash, a crashing down. And Ursula picked up ashirt 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 colourstogether--'

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 hehad danced he was happy. But Gerald would talk to him. Gerald, inevening dress, sat on Birkin's bed when the other lay down, and musttalk. 

'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 thembefore. '

'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 thedarker 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 itmatter to me?'

Birkin laughed. Gerald looked at his face, as it lay there laughing andbitter 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. Sheis 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 toDamascus or San Francisco; she's a bird of paradise. God knows whatshe'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 shedoesn't know them personally. She was never quite that set--moreconventional, 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 certainreclame. '

'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 twowagtails in Hermione's boudoir--you've seen them--they are carved inwood and painted. '

'I thought it was savage carving again. '

'No, hers. That's what they are--animals and birds, sometimes odd smallpeople 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 elsecatches her. Her contrariness prevents her taking it seriously--shemust never be too serious, she feels she might give herself away. Andshe won't give herself away--she's always on the defensive. That's whatI can't stand about her type. By the way, how did things go off withPussum after I left you? I haven't heard anything. '

'Oh, rather disgusting. Halliday turned objectionable, and I only justsaved 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'shad 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 ismaking obscene drawings of Jesus--action and reaction--and between thetwo, 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 thePussum, just to defile himself with her. '

'That's what I can't make out, ' said Gerald. 'Does he love her, thePussum, or doesn't he?'

'He neither does nor doesn't. She is the harlot, the actual harlot ofadultery to him. And he's got a craving to throw himself into the filthof 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 oldstory--action and reaction, and nothing between. '

'I don't know, ' said Gerald, after a pause, 'that he does insult thePussum so very much. She strikes me as being rather foul. '

'But I thought you liked her, ' exclaimed Birkin. 'I always felt fond ofher. 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 weekof her would have turned me over. There's a certain smell about theskin of those women, that in the end is sickening beyond words--even ifyou 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 tohis room. But he returned in a few minutes, in his shirt. 

'One thing, ' he said, seating himself on the bed again. 'We finished uprather stormily, and I never had time to give her anything. '

'Money?' said Birkin. 'She'll get what she wants from Halliday or fromone of her acquaintances. '

'But then, ' said Gerald, 'I'd rather give her her dues and settle theaccount. '

'She doesn't care. '

'No, perhaps not. But one feels the account is left open, and one wouldrather 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 werewhite-skinned, full, muscular legs, handsome and decided. Yet theymoved Birkin with a sort of pathos, tenderness, as if they werechildish. 

'I think I'd rather close the account, ' said Gerald, repeating himselfvaguely. 

'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 oftalking. '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, lookingdown 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 handaffectionately 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 accountin 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, isto pay them. '

'And the right thing for mistresses: keep them. And the right thing forwives: live under the same roof with them. Integer vitae scelerisquepurus--' 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 thewater, and had drawn the curtains. Birkin, sitting up in bed, lookedlazily 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 lovelyaccomplished past--this house, so still and golden, the park slumberingits centuries of peace. And then, what a snare and a delusion, thisbeauty of static things--what a horrible, dead prison Breadalby reallywas, what an intolerable confinement, the peace! Yet it was better thanthe sordid scrambling conflict of the present. If only one might createthe future after one's own heart--for a little pure truth, a littleunflinching application of simple truth to life, the heart cried outceaselessly. 

'I can't see what you will leave me at all, to be interested in, ' cameGerald's voice from the lower room. 'Neither the Pussums, nor themines, nor anything else. '

'You be interested in what you can, Gerald. Only I'm not interestedmyself, ' 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 butthe Pussum, part of you wants the mines, the business, and nothing butthe 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 mightmarry, ' 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 onyourself 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 tobe free each of the other. Yet there was a curious heart-strainingtowards each other. 

'Salvator femininus, ' said Gerald, satirically. 

'Why not?' said Birkin. 

'No reason at all, ' said Gerald, 'if it really works. But whom will youmarry?'

'A woman, ' said Birkin. 

'Good, ' said Gerald. 

Birkin and Gerald were the last to come down to breakfast. Hermioneliked everybody to be early. She suffered when she felt her day wasdiminished, she felt she had missed her life. She seemed to grip thehours by the throat, to force her life from them. She was rather paleand ghastly, as if left behind, in the morning. Yet she had her power, her will was strangely pervasive. With the entrance of the two youngmen 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 thatshe intended to discount his existence. 

'Will you take what you want from the sideboard?' said Alexander, in avoice slightly suggesting disapprobation. 'I hope the things aren'tcold. Oh no! Do you mind putting out the flame under the chafingdish, Rupert? Thank you. '

Even Alexander was rather authoritative where Hermione was cool. Hetook his tone from her, inevitably. Birkin sat down and looked at thetable. 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 itall, it had nothing to do with him. How well he knew Hermione, as shesat there, erect and silent and somewhat bemused, and yet so potent, sopowerful! He knew her statically, so finally, that it was almost like amadness. It was difficult to believe one was not mad, that one was nota figure in the hall of kings in some Egyptian tomb, where the dead allsat 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, howevernovel it was, and clever. Alexander the up-to-date host, so bloodlesslyfree-and-easy, Fraulein so prettily chiming in just as she should, thelittle Italian Countess taking notice of everybody, only playing herlittle game, objective and cold, like a weasel watching everything, andextracting 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 byeverybody--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 samenow as they were hundreds of years ago, the same figures moving roundin one of the innumerable permutations that make up the game. But thegame 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 gamefascinated her, and she loathed it. There was Ursula, with a slightlystartled look on her face, as if she were hurt, and the pain were justoutside 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 liftedher heavy eyes and saw him lapse suddenly away, on a sudden, unknowntide, and the waves broke over her. Only her indomitable will remainedstatic and mechanical, she sat at the table making her musing, strayremarks. But the darkness had covered her, she was like a ship that hasgone down. It was finished for her too, she was wrecked in thedarkness. Yet the unfailing mechanism of her will worked on, she hadthat 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 suddeninterest. 

'No, ' said Alexander. 'I'm not. But I believe in keeping up the oldinstitutions. '

'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 inearly 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 thesky, the swans were like lilies on the water below, the peacocks walkedwith long, prancing steps across the shadow and into the sunshine ofthe grass. One wanted to swoon into the by-gone perfection of it all. 

'Good-bye, ' called Alexander, waving his gloves cheerily, and hedisappeared 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. 'Willa 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 likea 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 anddown the grass, and stood, like a tiny figure of ivory and bronze, atthe 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 silkkerchief round his loins, his towels over his arms. He seemed to flaunthimself a little in the sun, lingering and laughing, strolling easily, looking white but natural in his nakedness. Then came Sir Joshua, in anovercoat, and lastly Hermione, striding with stiff grace from out of agreat 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 floatloosely away from her striding. She crossed the lawn like some strangememory, and passed slowly and statelily towards the water. 

There were three ponds, in terraces descending the valley, large andsmooth and beautiful, lying in the sun. The water ran over a littlestone wall, over small rocks, splashing down from one pond to the levelbelow. The swans had gone out on to the opposite bank, the reedssmelled sweet, a faint breeze touched the skin. 

Gerald had dived in, after Sir Joshua, and had swum to the end of thepond. There he climbed out and sat on the wall. There was a dive, andthe little Countess was swimming like a rat, to join him. They both satin the sun, laughing and crossing their arms on their breasts. SirJoshua swam up to them, and stood near them, up to his arm-pits in thewater. Then Hermione and Miss Bradley swam over, and they sat in a rowon 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 youever see anything like Sir Joshua? But really, Ursula, he belongs tothe primeval world, when great lizards crawled about. '

Gudrun looked in dismay on Sir Joshua, who stood up to the breast inthe water, his long, greyish hair washed down into his eyes, his neckset 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 mightroll and slither in the water almost like one of the slitheringsealions in the Zoo. 

Ursula watched in silence. Gerald was laughing happily, betweenHermione and the Italian. He reminded her of Dionysos, because his hairwas really yellow, his figure so full and laughing. Hermione, in herlarge, stiff, sinister grace, leaned near him, frightening, as if shewere not responsible for what she might do. He knew a certain danger inher, a convulsive madness. But he only laughed the more, turning oftento the little Countess, who was flashing up her face at him. 

They all dropped into the water, and were swimming together like ashoal of seals. Hermione was powerful and unconscious in the water, large and slow and powerful. Palestra was quick and silent as a waterrat, Gerald wavered and flickered, a white natural shadow. Then, oneafter 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 stoodbefore 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 feelsomething ironic in her. He walked away, piqued for the first time. 

'Why wouldn't you bathe?' he asked her again, later, when he was oncemore 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. Theflavour of her slang was piquant to him. Whether he would or not, shesignified the real world to him. He wanted to come up to her standards, fulfil her expectations. He knew that her criterion was the only onethat mattered. The others were all outsiders, instinctively, whateverthey might be socially. And Gerald could not help it, he was bound tostrive to come up to her criterion, fulfil her idea of a man and ahuman-being. 

After lunch, when all the others had withdrawn, Hermione and Gerald andBirkin lingered, finishing their talk. There had been some discussion, on the whole quite intellectual and artificial, about a new state, anew world of man. Supposing this old social state WERE broken anddestroyed, 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 ownlittle bit of a task--let him do that, and then please himself. Theunifying principle was the work in hand. Only work, the business ofproduction, held men together. It was mechanical, but then society WASa mechanism. Apart from work they were isolated, free to do as theyliked. 

'Oh!' cried Gudrun. 'Then we shan't have names any more--we shall belike the Germans, nothing but Herr Obermeister and Herr Untermeister. Ican imagine it--"I am Mrs Colliery-Manager Crich--I am MrsMember-of-Parliament Roddice. I am Miss Art-Teacher Brangwen. " Verypretty that. '

'Things would work very much better, Miss Art-Teacher Brangwen, ' saidGerald. 

'What things, Mr Colliery-Manager Crich? The relation between you andme, PAR EXEMPLE?'

'Yes, for example, ' cried the Italian. 'That which is between men andwomen--!'

'That is non-social, ' said Birkin, sarcastically. 

'Exactly, ' said Gerald. 'Between me and a woman, the social questiondoes 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 ofGerald. 

'She is both, ' said Gerald. 'She is a social being, as far as societyis concerned. But for her own private self, she is a free agent, it isher own affair, what she does. '

'But won't it be rather difficult to arrange the two halves?' askedUrsula. 

'Oh no, ' replied Gerald. 'They arrange themselves naturally--we see itnow, everywhere. '

'Don't you laugh so pleasantly till you're out of the wood, ' saidBirkin. 

Gerald knitted his brows in momentary irritation. 

'Was I laughing?' he said. 

'IF, ' said Hermione at last, 'we could only realise, that in the SPIRITwe are all one, all equal in the spirit, all brothers there--the restwouldn't matter, there would be no more of this carping and envy andthis struggle for power, which destroys, only destroys. '

This speech was received in silence, and almost immediately the partyrose from the table. But when the others had gone, Birkin turned roundin bitter declamation, saying:

'It is just the opposite, just the contrary, Hermione. We are alldifferent and unequal in spirit--it is only the SOCIAL differences thatare based on accidental material conditions. We are all abstractly ormathematically equal, if you like. Every man has hunger and thirst, twoeyes, one nose and two legs. We're all the same in point of number. Butspiritually, there is pure difference and neither equality norinequality counts. It is upon these two bits of knowledge that you mustfound a state. Your democracy is an absolute lie--your brotherhood ofman is a pure falsity, if you apply it further than the mathematicalabstraction. We all drank milk first, we all eat bread and meat, we allwant to ride in motor-cars--therein lies the beginning and the end ofthe brotherhood of man. But no equality. 

'But I, myself, who am myself, what have I to do with equality with anyother man or woman? In the spirit, I am as separate as one star is fromanother, as different in quality and quantity. Establish a state onTHAT. One man isn't any better than another, not because they areequal, but because they are intrinsically OTHER, that there is no termof comparison. The minute you begin to compare, one man is seen to befar better than another, all the inequality you can imagine is there bynature. I want every man to have his share in the world's goods, sothat I am rid of his importunity, so that I can tell him: "Now you'vegot 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. Hecould feel violent waves of hatred and loathing of all he said, comingout of her. It was dynamic hatred and loathing, coming strong and blackout of the unconsciousness. She heard his words in her unconsciousself, 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, cruelwith poor Hermione. He wanted to recompense her, to make it up. He hadhurt her, he had been vindictive. He wanted to be on good terms withher again. 

He went into her boudoir, a remote and very cushiony place. She wassitting at her table writing letters. She lifted her face abstractedlywhen he entered, watched him go to the sofa, and sit down. Then shelooked down at her paper again. 

He took up a large volume which he had been reading before, and becameminutely attentive to his author. His back was towards Hermione. Shecould not go on with her writing. Her whole mind was a chaos, darknessbreaking in upon it, and herself struggling to gain control with herwill, as a swimmer struggles with the swirling water. But in spite ofher efforts she was borne down, darkness seemed to break over her, shefelt as if her heart was bursting. The terrible tension grew strongerand stronger, it was most fearful agony, like being walled up. 

And then she realised that his presence was the wall, his presence wasdestroying her. Unless she could break out, she must die mostfearfully, walled up in horror. And he was the wall. She must breakdown the wall--she must break him down before her, the awfulobstruction of him who obstructed her life to the last. It must bedone, or she must perish most horribly. 

Terribly shocks ran over her body, like shocks of electricity, as ifmany volts of electricity suddenly struck her down. She was aware ofhim sitting silently there, an unthinkable evil obstruction. Only thisblotted 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 knowher voluptuous consummation. Her arms quivered and were strong, immeasurably and irresistibly strong. What delight, what delight instrength, what delirium of pleasure! She was going to have herconsummation of voluptuous ecstasy at last. It was coming! In utmostterror 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 onher desk for a paper-weight. She rolled it round in her hand as sherose silently. Her heart was a pure flame in her breast, she was purelyunconscious in ecstasy. She moved towards him and stood behind him fora moment in ecstasy. He, closed within the spell, remained motionlessand unconscious. 

Then swiftly, in a flame that drenched down her body like fluidlightning and gave her a perfect, unutterable consummation, unutterablesatisfaction, she brought down the ball of jewel stone with all herforce, crash on his head. But her fingers were in the way and deadenedthe blow. Nevertheless, down went his head on the table on which hisbook lay, the stone slid aside and over his ear, it was one convulsionof pure bliss for her, lit up by the crushed pain of her fingers. Butit 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 smashit, it must be smashed before her ecstasy was consummated, fulfilledfor 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 himwoke him and made him lift his face and twist to look at her. Her armwas raised, the hand clasping the ball of lapis lazuli. It was her lefthand, he realised again with horror that she was left-handed. Hurriedly, with a burrowing motion, he covered his head under the thickvolume 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 hepushed the table over and got away from her. He was like a flask thatis 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 clenchedtense 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 thetime without changing, like a neutralised angel confronting him. 

'It is not good, ' he said, when he had gone past her. 'It isn't I whowill 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. Thenshe 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. Inher own infallible purity, she had done what must be done. She wasright, she was pure. A drugged, almost sinister religious expressionbecame permanent on her face. 

Birkin, barely conscious, and yet perfectly direct in his motion, wentout of the house and straight across the park, to the open country, tothe hills. The brilliant day had become overcast, spots of rain werefalling. He wandered on to a wild valley-side, where were thickets ofhazel, many flowers, tufts of heather, and little clumps of youngfirtrees, budding with soft paws. It was rather wet everywhere, therewas a stream running down at the bottom of the valley, which wasgloomy, or seemed gloomy. He was aware that he could not regain hisconsciousness, that he was moving in a sort of darkness. 

Yet he wanted something. He was happy in the wet hillside, that wasovergrown and obscure with bushes and flowers. He wanted to touch themall, to saturate himself with the touch of them all. He took off hisclothes, and sat down naked among the primroses, moving his feet softlyamong the primroses, his legs, his knees, his arms right up to thearm-pits, lying down and letting them touch his belly, his breasts. Itwas such a fine, cool, subtle touch all over him, he seemed to saturatehimself with their contact. 

But they were too soft. He went through the long grass to a clump ofyoung fir-trees, that were no higher than a man. The soft sharp boughsbeat upon him, as he moved in keen pangs against them, threw littlecold showers of drops on his belly, and beat his loins with theirclusters of soft-sharp needles. There was a thistle which pricked himvividly, but not too much, because all his movements were toodiscriminate and soft. To lie down and roll in the sticky, cool younghyacinths, to lie on one's belly and cover one's back with handfuls offine wet grass, soft as a breath, soft and more delicate and morebeautiful than the touch of any woman; and then to sting one's thighagainst the living dark bristles of the fir-boughs; and then to feelthe light whip of the hazel on one's shoulders, stinging, and then toclasp the silvery birch-trunk against one's breast, its smoothness, itshardness, its vital knots and ridges--this was good, this was all verygood, very satisfying. Nothing else would do, nothing else wouldsatisfy, except this coolness and subtlety of vegetation travellinginto 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 aboutHermione 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 didpeople matter altogether? There was this perfect cool loneliness, solovely and fresh and unexplored. Really, what a mistake he had made, thinking he wanted people, thinking he wanted a woman. He did not wanta woman--not in the least. The leaves and the primroses and the trees, they were really lovely and cool and desirable, they really came intothe 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 dowith her? Why should he pretend to have anything to do with humanbeings at all? Here was his world, he wanted nobody and nothing but thelovely, subtle, responsive vegetation, and himself, his own livingself. 

It was necessary to go back into the world. That was true. But that didnot matter, so one knew where one belonged. He knew now where hebelonged. This was his place, his marriage place. The world wasextraneous. 

He climbed out of the valley, wondering if he were mad. But if so, hepreferred his own madness, to the regular sanity. He rejoiced in hisown 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 ofhis madness. It was so fresh and delicate and so satisfying. 

As for the certain grief he felt at the same time, in his soul, thatwas only the remains of an old ethic, that bade a human being adhere tohumanity. But he was weary of the old ethic, of the human being, and ofhumanity. He loved now the soft, delicate vegetation, that was so cooland perfect. He would overlook the old grief, he would put away the oldethic, he would be free in his new state. 

He was aware of the pain in his head becoming more and more difficultevery 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 outnowadays without hats, in the rain. 

He wondered again how much of his heaviness of heart, a certaindepression, was due to fear, fear lest anybody should have seen himnaked lying against the vegetation. What a dread he had of mankind, ofother people! It amounted almost to horror, to a sort of dreamterror--his horror of being observed by some other people. If he wereon an island, like Alexander Selkirk, with only the creatures and thetrees, he would be free and glad, there would be none of thisheaviness, this misgiving. He could love the vegetation and be quitehappy and unquestioned, by himself. 

He had better send a note to Hermione: she might trouble about him, andhe 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 thepresent. But it is quite all right--I don't want you to mind havingbiffed 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. Sothere'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 adim will. 

For a week or two he was ill, but he did not let Hermione know, and shethought he was sulking; there was a complete estrangement between them. She became rapt, abstracted in her conviction of exclusiverighteousness. She lived in and by her own self-esteem, conviction ofher own rightness of spirit. 

CHAPTER IX. 

COAL-DUST

Going home from school in the afternoon, the Brangwen girls descendedthe hill between the picturesque cottages of Willey Green till theycame to the railway crossing. There they found the gate shut, becausethe colliery train was rumbling nearer. They could hear the smalllocomotive panting hoarsely as it advanced with caution between theembankments. The one-legged man in the little signal-hut by the roadstared out from his security, like a crab from a snail-shell. 

Whilst the two girls waited, Gerald Crich trotted up on a red Arabmare. He rode well and softly, pleased with the delicate quivering ofthe creature between his knees. And he was very picturesque, at leastin Gudrun's eyes, sitting soft and close on the slender red mare, whoselong tail flowed on the air. He saluted the two girls, and drew up atthe crossing to wait for the gate, looking down the railway for theapproaching train. In spite of her ironic smile at his picturesqueness, Gudrun liked to look at him. He was well-set and easy, his face withits warm tan showed up his whitish, coarse moustache, and his blue eyeswere full of sharp light as he watched the distance. 

The locomotive chuffed slowly between the banks, hidden. The mare didnot 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 sharpblasts of the chuffing engine broke with more and more force on her. The repeated sharp blows of unknown, terrifying noise struck throughher till she was rocking with terror. She recoiled like a spring letgo. But a glistening, half-smiling look came into Gerald's face. Hebrought her back again, inevitably. 

The noise was released, the little locomotive with her clanking steelconnecting-rod emerged on the highroad, clanking sharply. The marerebounded like a drop of water from hot iron. Ursula and Gudrun pressedback into the hedge, in fear. But Gerald was heavy on the mare, andforced her back. It seemed as if he sank into her magnetically, andcould thrust her back against herself. 

'The fool!' cried Ursula loudly. 'Why doesn't he ride away till it'sgone by?'

Gudrun was looking at him with black-dilated, spellbound eyes. But hesat glistening and obstinate, forcing the wheeling mare, which spun andswerved like a wind, and yet could not get out of the grasp of hiswill, nor escape from the mad clamour of terror that resounded throughher, as the trucks thumped slowly, heavily, horrifying, one after theother, one pursuing the other, over the rails of the crossing. 

The locomotive, as if wanting to see what could be done, put on thebrakes, and back came the trucks rebounding on the iron buffers, striking like horrible cymbals, clashing nearer and nearer in frightfulstrident concussions. The mare opened her mouth and rose slowly, as iflifted 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 backwardson top of him. But he leaned forward, his face shining with fixedamusement, and at last he brought her down, sank her down, and wasbearing her back to the mark. But as strong as the pressure of hiscompulsion was the repulsion of her utter terror, throwing her backaway 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 faintwith poignant dizziness, which seemed to penetrate to her heart. 

'No--! No--! Let her go! Let her go, you fool, you FOOL--!' criedUrsula at the top of her voice, completely outside herself. And Gudrunhated her bitterly for being outside herself. It was unendurable thatUrsula's voice was so powerful and naked. 

A sharpened look came on Gerald's face. He bit himself down on the marelike a keen edge biting home, and FORCED her round. She roared as shebreathed, her nostrils were two wide, hot holes, her mouth was apart, her eyes frenzied. It was a repulsive sight. But he held on herunrelaxed, with an almost mechanical relentlessness, keen as a swordpressing in to her. Both man and horse were sweating with violence. Yethe seemed calm as a ray of cold sunshine. 

Meanwhile the eternal trucks were rumbling on, very slowly, treadingone after the other, one after the other, like a disgusting dream thathas no end. The connecting chains were grinding and squeaking as thetension varied, the mare pawed and struck away mechanically now, herterror fulfilled in her, for now the man encompassed her; her paws wereblind and pathetic as she beat the air, the man closed round her, andbrought her down, almost as if she were part of his own physique. 

'And she's bleeding! She's bleeding!' cried Ursula, frantic withopposition and hatred of Gerald. She alone understood him perfectly, inpure 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 camedown, pressing relentlessly. The world reeled and passed intonothingness for Gudrun, she could not know any more. 

When she recovered, her soul was calm and cold, without feeling. Thetrucks were still rumbling by, and the man and the mare were stillfighting. But she herself was cold and separate, she had no morefeeling for them. She was quite hard and cold and indifferent. 

They could see the top of the hooded guard's-van approaching, the soundof the trucks was diminishing, there was hope of relief from theintolerable noise. The heavy panting of the half-stunned mare soundedautomatically, the man seemed to be relaxing confidently, his willbright and unstained. The guard's-van came up, and passed slowly, theguard staring out in his transition on the spectacle in the road. And, through the man in the closed wagon, Gudrun could see the whole scenespectacularly, isolated and momentary, like a vision isolated ineternity. 

Lovely, grateful silence seemed to trail behind the receding train. Howsweet the silence is! Ursula looked with hatred on the buffers of thediminishing wagon. The gatekeeper stood ready at the door of his hut, to proceed to open the gate. But Gudrun sprang suddenly forward, infront of the struggling horse, threw off the latch and flung the gatesasunder, throwing one-half to the keeper, and running with the otherhalf, forwards. Gerald suddenly let go the horse and leaped forwards, almost on to Gudrun. She was not afraid. As he jerked aside the mare'shead, Gudrun cried, in a strange, high voice, like a gull, or like awitch 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 hisdancing horse, looked at her in some surprise, some wondering interest. Then the mare's hoofs had danced three times on the drum-like sleepersof the crossing, and man and horse were bounding springily, unequallyup the road. 

The two girls watched them go. The gate-keeper hobbled thudding overthe logs of the crossing, with his wooden leg. He had fastened thegate. Then he also turned, and called to the girls:

'A masterful young jockey, that; 'll have his own road, if ever anybodywould. '

'Yes, ' cried Ursula, in her hot, overbearing voice. 'Why couldn't hetake the horse away, till the trucks had gone by? He's a fool, and abully. Does he think it's manly, to torture a horse? It's a livingthing, 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--beautifullittle thing, beautiful. Now you couldn't see his father treat anyanimal 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'sgrand, when he's bullied a sensitive creature, ten times as sensitiveas himself?'

Again there was a cautious pause. Then again the man shook his head, asif 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 roundhere--different sort from our sort altogether. They say as he got herfrom Constantinople. '

'He would!' said Ursula. 'He'd better have left her to the Turks, I'msure they would have had more decency towards her. '

The man went in to drink his can of tea, the girls went on down thelane, that was deep in soft black dust. Gudrun was as if numbed in hermind by the sense of indomitable soft weight of the man, bearing downinto the living body of the horse: the strong, indomitable thighs ofthe blond man clenching the palpitating body of the mare into purecontrol; a sort of soft white magnetic domination from the loins andthighs and calves, enclosing and encompassing the mare heavily intounutterable subordination, soft blood-subordination, terrible. 

On the left, as the girls walked silently, the coal-mine lifted itsgreat mounds and its patterned head-stocks, the black railway with thetrucks at rest looked like a harbour just below, a large bay ofrailroad with anchored wagons. 

Near the second level-crossing, that went over many bright rails, was afarm belonging to the collieries, and a great round globe of iron, adisused boiler, huge and rusty and perfectly round, stood silently in apaddock by the road. The hens were pecking round it, some chickens werebalanced 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 ofpale-grey stones for mending the roads, and a cart standing, and amiddle-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. Bothmen were facing the crossing. 

They saw the two girls appear, small, brilliant figures in the neardistance, in the strong light of the late afternoon. Both wore light, gay summer dresses, Ursula had an orange-coloured knitted coat, Gudruna pale yellow, Ursula wore canary yellow stockings, Gudrun bright rose, the figures of the two women seemed to glitter in progress over thewide bay of the railway crossing, white and orange and yellow and roseglittering in motion across a hot world silted with coal-dust. 

The two men stood quite still in the heat, watching. The elder was ashort, hard-faced energetic man of middle age, the younger a labourerof twenty-three or so. They stood in silence watching the advance ofthe sisters. They watched whilst the girls drew near, and whilst theypassed, and whilst they receded down the dusty road, that had dwellingson one side, and dusty young corn on the other. 

Then the elder man, with the whiskers round his face, said in aprurient 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 wagesfor 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 hersinister creatures, standing watching after her, by the heap of palegrey slag. She loathed the man with whiskers round his face. 

'You're first class, you are, ' the man said to her, and to thedistance. 

'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 hewished to calculate what there might be, that was worth his week'swages. 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 blackishbrick walls. The heavy gold glamour of approaching sunset lay over allthe colliery district, and the ugliness overlaid with beauty was like anarcotic to the senses. On the roads silted with black dust, the richlight fell more warmly, more heavily, over all the amorphous squalor akind of magic was cast, from the glowing close of day. 

'It has a foul kind of beauty, this place, ' said Gudrun, evidentlysuffering from fascination. 'Can't you feel in some way, a thick, hotattraction in it? I can. And it quite stupifies me. '

They were passing between blocks of miners' dwellings. In the backyards of several dwellings, a miner could be seen washing himself inthe open on this hot evening, naked down to the loins, his greattrousers of moleskin slipping almost away. Miners already cleaned weresitting on their heels, with their backs near the walls, talking andsilent in pure physical well-being, tired, and taking physical rest. Their voices sounded out with strong intonation, and the broad dialectwas curiously caressing to the blood. It seemed to envelop Gudrun in alabourer's caress, there was in the whole atmosphere a resonance ofphysical men, a glamorous thickness of labour and maleness, surchargedin the air. But it was universal in the district, and thereforeunnoticed by the inhabitants. 

To Gudrun, however, it was potent and half-repulsive. She could nevertell why Beldover was so utterly different from London and the south, why one's whole feelings were different, why one seemed to live inanother sphere. Now she realised that this was the world of powerful, underworld men who spent most of their time in the darkness. In theirvoices she could hear the voluptuous resonance of darkness, the strong, dangerous underworld, mindless, inhuman. They sounded also like strangemachines, 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 movethrough a wave of disruptive force, that was given off from thepresence of thousands of vigorous, underworld, half-automatisedcolliers, and which went to the brain and the heart, awaking a fataldesire, and a fatal callousness. 

There came over her a nostalgia for the place. She hated it, she knewhow utterly cut off it was, how hideous and how sickeningly mindless. Sometimes she beat her wings like a new Daphne, turning not into a treebut a machine. And yet, she was overcome by the nostalgia. Shestruggled to get more and more into accord with the atmosphere of theplace, 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 potentatmosphere of intense, dark callousness. There were always minersabout. They moved with their strange, distorted dignity, a certainbeauty, and unnatural stillness in their bearing, a look of abstractionand half resignation in their pale, often gaunt faces. They belonged toanother world, they had a strange glamour, their voices were full of anintolerable deep resonance, like a machine's burring, a music moremaddening than the siren's long ago. 

She found herself, with the rest of the common women, drawn out onFriday evenings to the little market. Friday was pay-day for thecolliers, 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, thelittle market-place on the crown of the hill, and the main street ofBeldover were black with thickly-crowded men and women. 

It was dark, the market-place was hot with kerosene flares, which threwa ruddy light on the grave faces of the purchasing wives, and on thepale abstract faces of the men. The air was full of the sound of criersand of people talking, thick streams of people moved on the pavementstowards the solid crowd of the market. The shops were blazing andpacked with women, in the streets were men, mostly men, miners of allages. Money was spent with almost lavish freedom. 

The carts that came could not pass through. They had to wait, thedriver calling and shouting, till the dense crowd would make way. Everywhere, young fellows from the outlying districts were makingconversation with the girls, standing in the road and at the corners. The doors of the public-houses were open and full of light, men passedin and out in a continual stream, everywhere men were calling out toone another, or crossing to meet one another, or standing in littlegangs and circles, discussing, endlessly discussing. The sense of talk, buzzing, jarring, half-secret, the endless mining and politicalwrangling, vibrated in the air like discordant machinery. And it wastheir voices which affected Gudrun almost to swooning. They aroused astrange, nostalgic ache of desire, something almost demoniacal, neverto be fulfilled. 

Like any other common girl of the district, Gudrun strolled up anddown, up and down the length of the brilliant two-hundred paces of thepavement nearest the market-place. She knew it was a vulgar thing todo; her father and mother could not bear it; but the nostalgia cameover her, she must be among the people. Sometimes she sat among thelouts in the cinema: rakish-looking, unattractive louts they were. Yetshe must be among them. 

And, like any other common lass, she found her 'boy. ' It was anelectrician, one of the electricians introduced according to Gerald'snew scheme. He was an earnest, clever man, a scientist with a passionfor sociology. He lived alone in a cottage, in lodgings, in WilleyGreen. He was a gentleman, and sufficiently well-to-do. His landladyspread the reports about him; he WOULD have a large wooden tub in hisbedroom, and every time he came in from work, he WOULD have pails andpails of water brought up, to bathe in, then he put on clean shirt andunder-clothing EVERY day, and clean silk socks; fastidious and exactinghe was in these respects, but in every other way, most ordinary andunassuming. 

Gudrun knew all these things. The Brangwen's house was one to which thegossip came naturally and inevitably. Palmer was in the first place afriend of Ursula's. But in his pale, elegant, serious face there showedthe same nostalgia that Gudrun felt. He too must walk up and down thestreet on Friday evening. So he walked with Gudrun, and a friendshipwas struck up between them. But he was not in love with Gudrun; heREALLY wanted Ursula, but for some strange reason, nothing could happenbetween her and him. He liked to have Gudrun about, as afellow-mind--but that was all. And she had no real feeling for him. Hewas a scientist, he had to have a woman to back him. But he was reallyimpersonal, he had the fineness of an elegant piece of machinery. Hewas too cold, too destructive to care really for women, too great anegoist. He was polarised by the men. Individually he detested anddespised them. In the mass they fascinated him, as machinery fascinatedhim. They were a new sort of machinery to him--but incalculable, incalculable. 

So Gudrun strolled the streets with Palmer, or went to the cinema withhim. And his long, pale, rather elegant face flickered as he made hissarcastic remarks. There they were, the two of them: two elegants inone sense: in the other sense, two units, absolutely adhering to thepeople, teeming with the distorted colliers. The same secret seemed tobe working in the souls of all alike, Gudrun, Palmer, the rakish youngbloods, the gaunt, middle-aged men. All had a secret sense of power, and of inexpressible destructiveness, and of fatal half-heartedness, asort of rottenness in the will. 

Sometimes Gudrun would start aside, see it all, see how she was sinkingin. And then she was filled with a fury of contempt and anger. She feltshe was sinking into one mass with the rest--all so close andintermingled and breathless. It was horrible. She stifled. She preparedfor flight, feverishly she flew to her work. But soon she let go. Shestarted off into the country--the darkish, glamorous country. The spellwas beginning to work again. 

CHAPTER X. 

SKETCH-BOOK

One morning the sisters were sketching by the side of Willey Water, atthe remote end of the lake. Gudrun had waded out to a gravelly shoal, and was seated like a Buddhist, staring fixedly at the water-plantsthat rose succulent from the mud of the low shores. What she could seewas mud, soft, oozy, watery mud, and from its festering chill, water-plants rose up, thick and cool and fleshy, very straight andturgid, thrusting out their leaves at right angles, and having darklurid colours, dark green and blotches of black-purple and bronze. Butshe 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 outfrom themselves, how they stood stiff and succulent against the air. 

Ursula was watching the butterflies, of which there were dozens nearthe water, little blue ones suddenly snapping out of nothingness into ajewel-life, a large black-and-red one standing upon a flower andbreathing with his soft wings, intoxicatingly, breathing pure, etherealsunshine; two white ones wrestling in the low air; there was a haloround them; ah, when they came tumbling nearer they were orangetips, and it was the orange that had made the halo. Ursula rose and driftedaway, 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, andthen staring unconsciously, absorbedly at the rigid, naked, succulentstems. Her feet were bare, her hat lay on the bank opposite. 

She started out of her trance, hearing the knocking of oars. She lookedround. There was a boat with a gaudy Japanese parasol, and a man inwhite, rowing. The woman was Hermione, and the man was Gerald. She knewit instantly. And instantly she perished in the keen FRISSON ofanticipation, an electric vibration in her veins, intense, much moreintense than that which was always humming low in the atmosphere ofBeldover. 

Gerald was her escape from the heavy slough of the pale, underworld, automatic colliers. He started out of the mud. He was master. She sawhis back, the movement of his white loins. But not that--it was thewhiteness he seemed to enclose as he bent forwards, rowing. He seemedto stoop to something. His glistening, whitish hair seemed like theelectricity of the sky. 

'There's Gudrun, ' came Hermione's voice floating distinct over thewater. '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, withoutthinking of her. In his world, his conscious world, she was stillnobody. He knew that Hermione had a curious pleasure in treading downall the social differences, at least apparently, and he left it to her. 

'How do you do, Gudrun?' sang Hermione, using the Christian name in thefashionable 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 herunfinished 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 totake 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. Anintensification of pride went over his nerves, because he felt, in someway she was compelled by him. The exchange of feeling between them wasstrong and apart from their consciousness. 

And as if in a spell, Gudrun was aware of his body, stretching andsurging like the marsh-fire, stretching towards her, his hand comingstraight forward like a stem. Her voluptuous, acute apprehension of himmade the blood faint in her veins, her mind went dim and unconscious. And he rocked on the water perfectly, like the rocking ofphosphorescence. He looked round at the boat. It was drifting off alittle. He lifted the oar to bring it back. And the exquisite pleasureof slowly arresting the boat, in the heavy-soft water, was complete asa swoon. 

'THAT'S what you have done, ' said Hermione, looking searchingly at theplants on the shore, and comparing with Gudrun's drawing. Gudrun lookedround in the direction of Hermione's long, pointing finger. 'That isit, 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 Hermioneignored him, he must not presume, before she had finished. But he, hiswill as unthwarted and as unflinching as hers, stretched forward tillhe touched the book. A little shock, a storm of revulsion against him, shook Hermione unconsciously. She released the book when he had notproperly got it, and it tumbled against the side of the boat andbounced into the water. 

'There!' sang Hermione, with a strange ring of malevolent victory. 'I'mso sorry, so awfully sorry. Can't you get it, Gerald?'

This last was said in a note of anxious sneering that made Gerald'sveins tingle with fine hate for her. He leaned far out of the boat, reaching down into the water. He could feel his position wasridiculous, 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 swayedviolently. Hermione, however, remained unperturbed. He grasped thebook, under the water, and brought it up, dripping. 

'I'm so dreadfully sorry--dreadfully sorry, ' repeated Hermione. 'I'mafraid it was all my fault. '

'It's of no importance--really, I assure you--it doesn't matter in theleast, ' said Gudrun loudly, with emphasis, her face flushed scarlet. And she held out her hand impatiently for the wet book, to have donewith the scene. Gerald gave it to her. He was not quite himself. 

'I'm so dreadfully sorry, ' repeated Hermione, till both Gerald andGudrun 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 herrefutation of Hermione's persistence. 

'I assure you, ' said Gudrun, with cutting distinctness, 'the drawingsare quite as good as ever they were, for my purpose. I want them onlyfor reference. '

'But can't I give you a new book? I wish you'd let me do that. I feelso truly sorry. I feel it was all my fault. '

'As far as I saw, ' said Gudrun, 'it wasn't your fault at all. If therewas any FAULT, it was Mr Crich's. But the whole thing is ENTIRELYtrivial, and it really is ridiculous to take any notice of it. '

Gerald watched Gudrun closely, whilst she repulsed Hermione. There wasa body of cold power in her. He watched her with an insight thatamounted to clairvoyance. He saw her a dangerous, hostile spirit, thatcould stand undiminished and unabated. It was so finished, and of suchperfect gesture, moreover. 

'I'm awfully glad if it doesn't matter, ' he said; 'if there's no realharm done. '

She looked back at him, with her fine blue eyes, and signalled fullinto his spirit, as she said, her voice ringing with intimacy almostcaressive 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. Inher 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 theassociation 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 automaticallytook the oar and pushed off. But he was looking all the time, with aglimmering, subtly-smiling admiration in his eyes, at Gudrun, who stoodon the shoal shaking the wet book in her hand. She turned away andignored 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 satignored under her coloured parasol. 

Gerald looked round without replying, the oars balanced and glancing inthe sun. 

'I think it's all right, ' he said good-humouredly, beginning to rowagain without thinking of what he was doing. And Hermione disliked himextremely for his good-humoured obliviousness, she was nullified, shecould not regain ascendancy. 

CHAPTER XI. 

AN ISLAND

Meanwhile Ursula had wandered on from Willey Water along the course ofthe bright little stream. The afternoon was full of larks' singing. Onthe bright hill-sides was a subdued smoulder of gorse. A fewforget-me-nots flowered by the water. There was a rousedness and aglancing everywhere. 

She strayed absorbedly on, over the brooks. She wanted to go to themill-pond above. The big mill-house was deserted, save for a labourerand his wife who lived in the kitchen. So she passed through the emptyfarm-yard and through the wilderness of a garden, and mounted the bankby the sluice. When she got to the top, to see the old, velvety surfaceof the pond before her, she noticed a man on the bank, tinkering with apunt. It was Birkin sawing and hammering away. 

She stood at the head of the sluice, looking at him. He was unaware ofanybody's presence. He looked very busy, like a wild animal, active andintent. She felt she ought to go away, he would not want her. He seemedto be so much occupied. But she did not want to go away. Therefore shemoved along the bank till he would look up. 

Which he soon did. The moment he saw her, he dropped his tools and cameforward, saying:

'How do you do? I'm making the punt water-tight. Tell me if you thinkit is right. '

She went along with him. 

'You are your father's daughter, so you can tell me if it will do, ' hesaid. 

She bent to look at the patched punt. 

'I am sure I am my father's daughter, ' she said, fearful of having tojudge. '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. Thougheven so, it isn't a great matter, I should come up again. Help me toget it into the water, will you?'

With combined efforts they turned over the heavy punt and set itafloat. 

'Now, ' he said, 'I'll try it and you can watch what happens. Then if itcarries, 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 lustreof very deep water. There were two small islands overgrown with bushesand a few trees, towards the middle. Birkin pushed himself off, andveered clumsily in the pond. Luckily the punt drifted so that he couldcatch 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 theisland. 

They landed under a willow tree. She shrank from the little jungle ofrank plants before her, evil-smelling figwort and hemlock. But heexplored into it. 

'I shall mow this down, ' he said, 'and then it will be romantic--likePaul et Virginie. '

'Yes, one could have lovely Watteau picnics here, ' cried Ursula withenthusiasm. 

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. Hewas 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 herordinary 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, verymuch. '

'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'treally right, at the source. That's the humiliation. I don't see thatthe illness counts so much, after that. One is ill because one doesn'tlive properly--can't. It's the failure to live that makes one ill, andhumiliates 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 alwaysto be bumping one's nose against the blank wall ahead. '

Ursula laughed. She was frightened, and when she was frightened shealways 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 ownself-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 ofchocolate she had found in her pocket, and began making a boat. Hewatched her without heeding her. There was something strangely patheticand tender in her moving, unconscious finger-tips, that were agitatedand 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 reallygrowing part of me. I feel all tangled and messed up, and I CAN'T getstraight anyhow. I don't know what really to DO. One must do somethingsomewhere. '

'Why should you always be DOING?' she retorted. 'It is so plebeian. Ithink it is much better to be really patrician, and to do nothing butjust be oneself, like a walking flower. '

'I quite agree, ' he said, 'if one has burst into blossom. But I can'tget my flower to blossom anyhow. Either it is blighted in the bud, orhas got the smother-fly, or it isn't nourished. Curse it, it isn't evena bud. It is a contravened knot. '

Again she laughed. He was so very fretful and exasperated. But she wasanxious and puzzled. How was one to get out, anyhow. There must be away out somewhere. 

There was a silence, wherein she wanted to cry. She reached for anotherbit of chocolate paper, and began to fold another boat. 

'And why is it, ' she asked at length, 'that there is no flowering, nodignity of human life now?'

'The whole idea is dead. Humanity itself is dry-rotten, really. Thereare myriads of human beings hanging on the bush--and they look verynice and rosy, your healthy young men and women. But they are apples ofSodom, as a matter of fact, Dead Sea Fruit, gall-apples. It isn't truethat 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, coveredwith fine brilliant galls of people. '

Ursula could not help stiffening herself against this, it was toopicturesque and final. But neither could she help making him go on. 

'And if it is so, WHY is it?' she asked, hostile. They were rousingeach other to a fine passion of opposition. 

'Why, why are people all balls of bitter dust? Because they won't falloff the tree when they're ripe. They hang on to their old positionswhen the position is over-past, till they become infested with littleworms 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 ofeverything 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 inthe fact that I know it. I detest what I am, outwardly. I loathe myselfas a human being. Humanity is a huge aggregate lie, and a huge lie isless than a small truth. Humanity is less, far less than theindividual, because the individual may sometimes be capable of truth, and humanity is a tree of lies. And they say that love is the greatestthing; they persist in SAYING this, the foul liars, and just look atwhat they do! Look at all the millions of people who repeat everyminute that love is the greatest, and charity is the greatest--and seewhat 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 thegreatest, does it? What they DO doesn't alter the truth of what theysay, does it?'

'Completely, because if what they say WERE true, then they couldn'thelp fulfilling it. But they maintain a lie, and so they run amok atlast. It's a lie to say that love is the greatest. You might as wellsay that hate is the greatest, since the opposite of everythingbalances. What people want is hate--hate and nothing but hate. And inthe name of righteousness and love, they get it. They distil themselveswith nitroglycerine, all the lot of them, out of very love. It's thelie that kills. If we want hate, let us have it--death, murder, torture, violent destruction--let us have it: but not in the name oflove. But I abhor humanity, I wish it was swept away. It could go, andthere would be no ABSOLUTE loss, if every human being perishedtomorrow. The reality would be untouched. Nay, it would be better. Thereal tree of life would then be rid of the most ghastly, heavy crop ofDead 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 sittingup?'

The pleasant sincerity of his voice made Ursula pause to consider herown proposition. And really it WAS attractive: a clean, lovely, humanless world. It was the REALLY desirable. Her heart hesitated, andexulted. But still, she was dissatisfied with HIM. 

'But, ' she objected, 'you'd be dead yourself, so what good would it doyou?'

'I would die like a shot, to know that the earth would really becleaned of all the people. It is the most beautiful and freeingthought. Then there would NEVER be another foul humanity created, for auniversal defilement. '

'No, ' said Ursula, 'there would be nothing. '

'What! Nothing? Just because humanity was wiped out? You flatteryourself. There'd be everything. '

'But how, if there were no people?'

'Do you think that creation depends on MAN! It merely doesn't. Thereare the trees and the grass and birds. I much prefer to think of thelark rising up in the morning upon a human-less world. Man is amistake, he must go. There is the grass, and hares and adders, and theunseen hosts, actual angels that go about freely when a dirty humanitydoesn'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 theactuality of humanity, its hideous actuality. She knew it could notdisappear so cleanly and conveniently. It had a long way to go yet, along and hideous way. Her subtle, feminine, demoniacal soul knew itwell. 

'If only man was swept off the face of the earth, creation would go onso marvellously, with a new start, non-human. Man is one of themistakes of creation--like the ichthyosauri. If only he were goneagain, think what lovely things would come out of the liberateddays;--things straight out of the fire. '

'But man will never be gone, ' she said, with insidious, diabolicalknowledge of the horrors of persistence. 'The world will go with him. '

'Ah no, ' he answered, 'not so. I believe in the proud angels and thedemons that are our fore-runners. They will destroy us, because we arenot proud enough. The ichthyosauri were not proud: they crawled andfloundered as we do. And besides, look at elder-flowers andbluebells--they are a sign that pure creation takes place--even thebutterfly. But humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar stage--itrots 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 furyin him, all the while, and at the same time a great amusement ineverything, and a final tolerance. And it was this tolerance shemistrusted, not the fury. She saw that, all the while, in spite ofhimself, he would have to be trying to save the world. And thisknowledge, whilst it comforted her heart somewhere with a littleself-satisfaction, stability, yet filled her with a certain sharpcontempt and hate of him. She wanted him to herself, she hated theSalvator Mundi touch. It was something diffuse and generalised abouthim, which she could not stand. He would behave in the same way, saythe same things, give himself as completely to anybody who came along, anybody and everybody who liked to appeal to him. It was despicable, avery insidious form of prostitution. 

'But, ' she said, 'you believe in individual love, even if you don'tbelieve in loving humanity--?'

'I don't believe in love at all--that is, any more than I believe inhate, or in grief. Love is one of the emotions like all the others--andso it is all right whilst you feel it But I can't see how it becomes anabsolute. It is just part of human relationships, no more. And it isonly part of ANY human relationship. And why one should be requiredALWAYS to feel it, any more than one always feels sorrow or distantjoy, I cannot conceive. Love isn't a desideratum--it is an emotion youfeel or you don't feel, according to circumstance. '

'Then why do you care about people at all?' she asked, 'if you don'tbelieve 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, withsome 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 askedmocking. '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 andbirds? 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 intohis distance. 

Ursula disliked him. But also she felt she had lost something. Shelooked at him as he sat crouched on the bank. There was a certainpriggish Sunday-school stiffness over him, priggish and detestable. Andyet, 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, hischin, his whole physique, something so alive, somewhere, in spite ofthe look of sickness. 

And it was this duality in feeling which he created in her, that made afine 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 aSalvator Mundi and a Sunday-school teacher, a prig of the stiffesttype. 

He looked up at her. He saw her face strangely enkindled, as ifsuffused from within by a powerful sweet fire. His soul was arrested inwonder. She was enkindled in her own living fire. Arrested in wonderand in pure, perfect attraction, he moved towards her. She sat like astrange queen, almost supernatural in her glowing smiling richness. 

'The point about love, ' he said, his consciousness quickly adjustingitself, 'is that we hate the word because we have vulgarised it. Itought to be prescribed, tabooed from utterance, for many years, till weget 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 oldmeanings go. '

'But still it is love, ' she persisted. A strange, wicked yellow lightshone at him in her eyes. 

He hesitated, baffled, withdrawing. 

'No, ' he said, 'it isn't. Spoken like that, never in the world. You'veno business to utter the word. '

'I must leave it to you, to take it out of the Ark of the Covenant atthe right moment, ' she mocked. 

Again they looked at each other. She suddenly sprang up, turned herback to him, and walked away. He too rose slowly and went to thewater's edge, where, crouching, he began to amuse himselfunconsciously. Picking a daisy he dropped it on the pond, so that thestem was a keel, the flower floated like a little water lily, staringwith 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 afterthat another, and sat watching them with bright, absolved eyes, crouching near on the bank. Ursula turned to look. A strange feelingpossessed her, as if something were taking place. But it was allintangible. And some sort of control was being put on her. She couldnot know. She could only watch the brilliant little discs of thedaisies veering slowly in travel on the dark, lustrous water. Thelittle flotilla was drifting into the light, a company of white specksin the distance. 

'Do let us go to the shore, to follow them, ' she said, afraid of beingany 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 banktowards the sluice. The daisies were scattered broadcast on the pond, tiny radiant things, like an exaltation, points of exaltation here andthere. Why did they move her so strongly and mystically?

'Look, ' he said, 'your boat of purple paper is escorting them, and theyare a convoy of rafts. '

Some of the daisies came slowly towards her, hesitating, making a shybright little cotillion on the dark clear water. Their gay brightcandour moved her so much as they came near, that she was almost intears. 

'Why are they so lovely, ' she cried. 'Why do I think them so lovely?'

'They are nice flowers, ' he said, her emotional tones putting aconstraint on him. 

'You know that a daisy is a company of florets, a concourse, becomeindividual. Don't the botanists put it highest in the line ofdevelopment? I believe they do. '

'The compositae, yes, I think so, ' said Ursula, who was never very sureof anything. Things she knew perfectly well, at one moment, seemed tobecome doubtful the next. 

'Explain it so, then, ' he said. 'The daisy is a perfect littledemocracy, 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, surroundedby 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 adark horse to you, ' she added satirically. 

They stood aside, forgetful. As if a little stunned, they both weremotionless, barely conscious. The little conflict into which they hadfallen had torn their consciousness and left them like two impersonalforces, there in contact. 

He became aware of the lapse. He wanted to say something, to get on toa new more ordinary footing. 

'You know, ' he said, 'that I am having rooms here at the mill? Don'tyou think we can have some good times?'

'Oh are you?' she said, ignoring all his implication of admittedintimacy. 

He adjusted himself at once, became normally distant. 

'If I find I can live sufficiently by myself, ' he continued, 'I shallgive up my work altogether. It has become dead to me. I don't believein the humanity I pretend to be part of, I don't care a straw for thesocial ideals I live by, I hate the dying organic form of socialmankind--so it can't be anything but trumpery, to work at education. Ishall drop it as soon as I am clear enough--tomorrow perhaps--and be bymyself. '

'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 beenanything 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 getthe 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 disturbedby it. She did not notice. Only she thought he seemed uneasy. 

'As a matter of fact, ' he said, in rather a small voice, 'I believethat is Hermione come now, with Gerald Crich. She wanted to see therooms 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'tbear her. I think she is a lie, if you like, you who are always talkingabout 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 youkeep her hanging on at all. '

He was silent now, frowning. 

'Perhaps, ' he said. 'I don't WANT her to furnish the rooms here--and Idon'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 shewould not have stayed away, either. 

'We know each other well, you and I, already, ' he said. She did notanswer. 

In the large darkish kitchen of the mill, the labourer's wife wastalking shrilly to Hermione and Gerald, who stood, he in white and shein a glistening bluish foulard, strangely luminous in the dusk of theroom; whilst from the cages on the walls, a dozen or more canaries sangat the top of their voices. The cages were all placed round a smallsquare window at the back, where the sunshine came in, a beautifulbeam, filtering through green leaves of a tree. The voice of Mrs Salmonshrilled against the noise of the birds, which rose ever more wild andtriumphant, and the woman's voice went up and up against them, and thebirds replied with wild animation. 

'Here's Rupert!' shouted Gerald in the midst of the din. He wassuffering badly, being very sensitive in the ear. 

'O-o-h them birds, they won't let you speak--!' shrilled the labourer'swife in disgust. 'I'll cover them up. '

And she darted here and there, throwing a duster, an apron, a towel, atable-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 strangefunereal look. But from under the towels odd defiant trills andbubblings still shook out. 

'Oh, they won't go on, ' said Mrs Salmon reassuringly. 'They'll go tosleep now. '

'Really, ' said Hermione, politely. 

'They will, ' said Gerald. 'They will go to sleep automatically, now theimpression 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 straightaway 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 thecanary in a corner, bunched and fluffed up for sleep. 

'How ridiculous!' she cried. 'It really thinks the night has come! Howabsurd! Really, how can one have any respect for a creature that is soeasily taken in!'

'Yes, ' sang Hermione, coming also to look. She put her hand on Ursula'sarm and chuckled a low laugh. 'Yes, doesn't he look comical?' shechuckled. '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 Birkinthere. '

'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 Isaw 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 butoverwrought. She had always her strange, rapt look, unnatural andirresponsible. 

'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 fromUrsula, ceased to know her existence. 

'How do you feel, Rupert?' she sang in a new, affectionate tone, toBirkin. 

'Very well, ' he replied. 

'Were you quite comfortable?' The curious, sinister, rapt look was onHermione's face, she shrugged her bosom in a convulsed movement, andseemed 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'swife. 'And I'm sure our master will; so I HOPE he'll find himselfcomfortable. '

Hermione turned and looked at her slowly. 

'Thank you so much, ' she said, and then she turned completely awayagain. 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 thewoman. 

'Yes sir, I think I can find one, ' replied the woman, bustlingimmediately to a basket. 'This is the only one I've got, if it willdo. '

Hermione took it, though it was offered to him. 

'Thank you so much, ' she said. 'It will do very nicely. Thank you somuch. ' 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, withthe 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 thelabourer's wife, also gay because SHE had something to do. 

'Would you?' said Hermione, turning to her with the curious motion ofintimacy that seemed to envelop the woman, draw her almost toHermione's breast, and which left the others standing apart. 'I shouldbe 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 justget 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, butclean and sunny. There was a window looking on to the tangled frontgarden. 

'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 thetape. 

'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 havethe ordering of the job, with Birkin. He obeyed her subduedly. Ursulaand Gerald looked on. It was a peculiarity of Hermione's, that at everymoment, she had one intimate, and turned all the rest of those presentinto onlookers. This raised her into a state of triumph. 

They measured and discussed in the dining-room, and Hermione decidedwhat the floor coverings must be. It sent her into a strange, convulsedanger, to be thwarted. Birkin always let her have her way, for themoment. 

Then they moved across, through the hall, to the other front room, thatwas a little smaller than the first. 

'This is the study, ' said Hermione. 'Rupert, I have a rug that I wantyou to have for here. Will you let me give it to you? Do--I want togive 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 youthink 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 calledBergamos--twelve feet by seven--. Do you think it will do?'

'It would DO, ' he said. 'But why should you give me an expensive rug? Ican 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 puttingher 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 youhave this?'

'All right, ' he said, defeated, and she triumphed. 

They went upstairs. There were two bedrooms to correspond with therooms downstairs. One of them was half furnished, and Birkin hadevidently slept there. Hermione went round the room carefully, takingin every detail, as if absorbing the evidence of his presence, in allthe inanimate things. She felt the bed and examined the coverings. 

'Are you SURE you were quite comfortable?' she said, pressing thepillow. 

'Perfectly, ' he replied coldly. 

'And were you warm? There is no down quilt. I am sure you need one. Youmustn'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. Ursulastood at the window and watched the woman carrying the tea up the bankto the pond. She hated the palaver Hermione made, she wanted to drinktea, she wanted anything but this fuss and business. 

At last they all mounted the grassy bank, to the picnic. Hermionepoured 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 therailway-crossing whilst a horrible lot of trucks went by; and the poorthing, she was in a perfect frenzy, a perfect agony. It was the mosthorrible 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 sheshies and goes off every time an engine whistles. '

'But why inflict unnecessary torture?' said Ursula. 'Why make her standall that time at the crossing? You might just as well have ridden backup the road, and saved all that horror. Her sides were bleeding whereyou 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 atALL, 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? Shehas as much right to her own being, as you have to yours. '

'There I disagree, ' said Gerald. 'I consider that mare is there for myuse. 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 itwishes, 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 thelower 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 dofeel, that it is false to project our own feelings on every animatecreature. It is a lack of discrimination, a lack of criticism. '

'Quite, ' said Birkin sharply. 'Nothing is so detestable as the maudlinattributing of human feelings and consciousness to animals. '

'Yes, ' said Hermione, wearily, 'we must really take a position. Eitherwe 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 thehorse is master of you. And this is a thing I can't help. I can't helpbeing master of the horse. '

'If only we could learn how to use our will, ' said Hermione, 'we coulddo anything. The will can cure anything, and put anything right. That Iam 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 Geraldvaguely. '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--makeoneself 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 biteyour nails, bite them, make yourself bite them. And you would find thehabit was broken. '

'Is that so?' said Gerald. 

'Yes. And in so many things, I have MADE myself well. I was a veryqueer and nervous girl. And by learning to use my will, simply by usingmy 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 wentover the younger woman. Some strange, dark, convulsive power was inHermione, 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 waslean. 

'I'm sure it isn't, ' she said at length. There always seemed aninterval, a strange split between what she seemed to feel andexperience, and what she actually said and thought. She seemed to catchher thoughts at length from off the surface of a maelstrom of chaoticblack emotions and reactions, and Birkin was always filled withrepulsion, she caught so infallibly, her will never failed her. Hervoice was always dispassionate and tense, and perfectly confident. Yetshe shuddered with a sense of nausea, a sort of seasickness that alwaysthreatened to overwhelm her mind. But her mind remained unbroken, herwill was still perfect. It almost sent Birkin mad. But he would never, never dare to break her will, and let loose the maelstrom of hersubconsciousness, and see her in her ultimate madness. Yet he wasalways striking at her. 

'And of course, ' he said to Gerald, 'horses HAVEN'T got a completewill, like human beings. A horse has no ONE will. Every horse, strictly, has two wills. With one will, it wants to put itself in thehuman 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 ahorse bolt, while you've been driving it. '

'I have felt a horse bolt while I was driving it, ' said Gerald, 'but itdidn't make me know it had two wills. I only knew it was frightened. '

Hermione had ceased to listen. She simply became oblivious when thesesubjects were started. 

'Why should a horse want to put itself in the human power?' askedUrsula. 'That is quite incomprehensible to me. I don't believe it everwanted it. '

'Yes it did. It's the last, perhaps highest, love-impulse: resign yourwill 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 insideher. With one will, she wants to subject herself utterly. With theother 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 greatsense of beauty, that I feel I can hardly bear it. '

Ursula, to whom she had appealed, rose with her, moved to the lastimpersonal depths. And Birkin seemed to her almost a monster of hatefularrogance. She went with Hermione along the bank of the pond, talkingof beautiful, soothing things, picking the gentle cowslips. 

'Wouldn't you like a dress, ' said Ursula to Hermione, 'of this yellowspotted with orange--a cotton dress?'

'Yes, ' said Hermione, stopping and looking at the flower, letting thethought come home to her and soothe her. 'Wouldn't it be pretty? Ishould 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, toknow what he meant by the dual will in horses. A flicker of excitementdanced on Gerald's face. 

Hermione and Ursula strayed on together, united in a sudden bond ofdeep affection and closeness. 

'I really do not want to be forced into all this criticism and analysisof life. I really DO want to see things in their entirety, with theirbeauty left to them, and their wholeness, their natural holiness. Don'tyou feel it, don't you feel you CAN'T be tortured into any moreknowledge?' said Hermione, stopping in front of Ursula, and turning toher 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 stoppingarrested in her progress and turning to Ursula, 'sometimes I wonder ifI OUGHT to submit to all this realisation, if I am not being weak inrejecting it. But I feel I CAN'T--I CAN'T. It seems to destroyEVERYTHING. All the beauty and the--and the true holiness isdestroyed--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 thehead. Really, something must be left to the Lord, there always is andalways 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 onlytear things to pieces. He really IS like a boy who must pull everythingto pieces to see how it is made. And I can't think it is right--it doesseem so irreverent, as you say. '

'Like tearing open a bud to see what the flower will be like, ' saidUrsula. 

'Yes. And that kills everything, doesn't it? It doesn't allow anypossibility 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 confirmationfrom her. Then the two women were silent. As soon as they were inaccord, they began mutually to mistrust each other. In spite ofherself, Ursula felt herself recoiling from Hermione. It was all shecould do to restrain her revulsion. 

They returned to the men, like two conspirators who have withdrawn tocome to an agreement. Birkin looked up at them. Ursula hated him forhis cold watchfulness. But he said nothing. 

'Shall we be going?' said Hermione. 'Rupert, you are coming toShortlands to dinner? Will you come at once, will you come now, withus?'

'I'm not dressed, ' replied Birkin. 'And you know Gerald stickles forconvention. '

'I don't stickle for it, ' said Gerald. 'But if you'd got as sick as Ihave of rowdy go-as-you-please in the house, you'd prefer it if peoplewere 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 islord of the beast and the fowl, I still don't think he has any right toviolate the feelings of the inferior creation. I still think it wouldhave been much more sensible and nice of you if you'd trotted back upthe road while the train went by, and been considerate. '

'I see, ' said Gerald, smiling, but somewhat annoyed. 'I must rememberanother 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 byHermione, she had really come into contact with her, so that there wasa 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 withHermione, 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 onceirritated her and saved her. 

Only now and again, violent little shudders would come over her, out ofher subconsciousness, and she knew it was the fact that she had statedher 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 weightof anxiety and acrid bitterness settled on her. And yet Ursula knew shewas only deceiving herself, and that he would proceed. She said no wordto anybody. 

Then, sure enough, there came a note from him, asking if she would cometo tea with Gudrun, to his rooms in town. 

'Why does he ask Gudrun as well?' she asked herself at once. 'Does hewant to protect himself, or does he think I would not go alone?' Shewas tormented by the thought that he wanted to protect himself. But atthe end of all, she only said to herself:

'I don't want Gudrun to be there, because I want him to say somethingmore to me. So I shan't tell Gudrun anything about it, and I shall goalone. Then I shall know. '

She found herself sitting on the tram-car, mounting up the hill goingout of the town, to the place where he had his lodging. She seemed tohave passed into a kind of dream world, absolved from the conditions ofactuality. She watched the sordid streets of the town go by beneathher, as if she were a spirit disconnected from the material universe. What had it all to do with her? She was palpitating and formless withinthe flux of the ghost life. She could not consider any more, whatanybody would say of her or think about her. People had passed out ofher range, she was absolved. She had fallen strange and dim, out of thesheath of the material life, as a berry falls from the only world ithas 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 bythe landlady. He too was moved outside himself. She saw him agitatedand shaken, a frail, unsubstantial body silent like the node of someviolent force, that came out from him and shook her almost into aswoon. 

'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 theroom. She was aware that it was a pleasant room, full of light and veryrestful in its form--aware also of a fuchsia tree, with danglingscarlet 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 struggledto 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 eachother, we must pledge ourselves for ever. If we are going to make arelationship, even of friendship, there must be something final andinfallible about it. '

There was a clang of mistrust and almost anger in his voice. She didnot answer. Her heart was too much contracted. She could not havespoken. 

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. Itis 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 foryou--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 thelips. 

'Yes, it does. At the very last, one is alone, beyond the influence oflove. There is a real impersonal me, that is beyond love, beyond anyemotional relationship. So it is with you. But we want to deludeourselves that love is the root. It isn't. It is only the branches. Theroot is beyond love, a naked kind of isolation, an isolated me, thatdoes NOT meet and mingle, and never can. '

She watched him with wide, troubled eyes. His face was incandescent inits 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 isnot love. '

She could not submit to this. She felt it swooning over her. But shecould 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 isfurther than love, beyond the scope, as stars are beyond the scope ofvision, some of them. '

'Then there is no love, ' cried Ursula. 

'Ultimately, no, there is something else. But, ultimately, there IS nolove. '

Ursula was given over to this statement for some moments. Then she halfrose 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 hungmotionless 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 allhis might. 

'What?'

He was silent for a long time, unable to be in communication with herwhile she was in this state of opposition. 

'There is, ' he said, in a voice of pure abstraction; 'a final me whichis stark and impersonal and beyond responsibility. So there is a finalyou. 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 termsof agreement. There we are two stark, unknown beings, two utterlystrange creatures, I would want to approach you, and you me. And therecould be no obligation, because there is no standard for action there, because no understanding has been reaped from that plane. It is quiteinhuman, --so there can be no calling to book, in any formwhatsoever--because one is outside the pale of all that is accepted, and nothing known applies. One can only follow the impulse, taking thatwhich 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 KNOWwhat I want of you. I deliver MYSELF over to the unknown, in coming toyou, I am without reserves or defences, stripped entirely, into theunknown. Only there needs the pledge between us, that we will both castoff everything, cast off ourselves even, and cease to be, so that thatwhich 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 verystrong belief at this particular moment. '

She disliked him for this sudden relapse into weariness andfaithlessness. 

'But don't you think me good-looking?' she persisted, in a mockingvoice. 

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 theleast, ' 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 bevisually 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 youthat 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 thoughtsnor opinions nor your ideas--they are all bagatelles to me. '

'You are very conceited, Monsieur, ' she mocked. 'How do you know whatmy womanly feelings are, or my thoughts or my ideas? You don't evenknow 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 awaythen, and leave me alone. I don't want any more of your meretriciouspersiflage. '

'Is it really persiflage?' she mocked, her face really relaxing intolaughter. She interpreted it, that he had made a deep confession oflove to her. But he was so absurd in his words, also. 

They were silent for many minutes, she was pleased and elated like achild. His concentration broke, he began to look at her simply andnaturally. 

'What I want is a strange conjunction with you--' he said quietly; 'notmeeting and mingling--you are quite right--but an equilibrium, a purebalance of two single beings--as the stars balance each other. '

She looked at him. He was very earnest, and earnestness was alwaysrather ridiculous, commonplace, to her. It made her feel unfree anduncomfortable. 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 andstretched, rising on its long legs, and arching its slim back. Then itsat 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 intothe garden. 

'What's he after?' said Birkin, rising. 

The young cat trotted lordly down the path, waving his tail. He was anordinary tabby with white paws, a slender young gentleman. A crouching, fluffy, brownish-grey cat was stealing up the side of the fence. TheMino walked statelily up to her, with manly nonchalance. She crouchedbefore him and pressed herself on the ground in humility, a fluffy softoutcast, looking up at him with wild eyes that were green and lovely asgreat jewels. He looked casually down on her. So she crept a few inchesfurther, proceeding on her way to the back door, crouching in awonderful, 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 ofher face. She ran off a few steps, like a blown leaf along the ground, then crouched unobtrusively, in submissive, wild patience. The Minopretended to take no notice of her. He blinked his eyes superbly at thelandscape. In a minute she drew herself together and moved softly, afleecy brown-grey shadow, a few paces forward. She began to quicken herpace, in a moment she would be gone like a dream, when the young greylord sprang before her, and gave her a light handsome cuff. Shesubsided 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 greenfires staring at Birkin. Then she had rushed in a soft swift rush, halfway down the garden. There she paused to look round. The Mino turnedhis 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. Thenagain, like a shadow, she slid towards the kitchen. 

In a lovely springing leap, like a wind, the Mino was upon her, and hadboxed her twice, very definitely, with a white, delicate fist. She sankand slid back, unquestioning. He walked after her, and cuffed her onceor 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 toher. '

'Isn't it horrid of him!' she cried; and going out into the garden shecalled to the Mino:

'Stop it, don't bully. Stop hitting her. '

The stray cat vanished like a swift, invisible shadow. The Mino glancedat 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 itglanced away at the landscape, looking into the distance as ifcompletely oblivious of the two human beings. 

'Mino, ' said Ursula, 'I don't like you. You are a bully like allmales. '

'No, ' said Birkin, 'he is justified. He is not a bully. He is onlyinsisting to the poor stray that she shall acknowledge him as a sort offate, her own fate: because you can see she is fluffy and promiscuousas the wind. I am with him entirely. He wants superfine stability. '

'Yes, I know!' cried Ursula. 'He wants his own way--I know what yourfine 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 yourmale 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 twopeople, he went trotting off, with assumed spontaneity and gaiety, histail erect, his white feet blithe. 

'Now he will find the belle sauvage once more, and entertain her withhis superior wisdom, ' laughed Birkin. 

Ursula looked at the man who stood in the garden with his hair blowingand his eyes smiling ironically, and she cried:

'Oh it makes me so cross, this assumption of male superiority! And itis such a lie! One wouldn't mind if there were any justification forit. '

'The wild cat, ' said Birkin, 'doesn't mind. She perceives that it isjustified. '

'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--areal Wille zur Macht--so base, so petty. '

'I agree that the Wille zur Macht is a base and petty thing. But withthe Mino, it is the desire to bring this female cat into a pure stableequilibrium, a transcendent and abiding RAPPORT with the single male. Whereas without him, as you see, she is a mere stray, a fluffy sporadicbit of chaos. It is a volonte de pouvoir, if you like, a will toability, taking pouvoir as a verb. '

'Ah--! Sophistries! It's the old Adam. '

'Oh yes. Adam kept Eve in the indestructible paradise, when he kept hersingle with himself, like a star in its orbit. '

'Yes--yes--' cried Ursula, pointing her finger at him. 'There youare--a star in its orbit! A satellite--a satellite of Mars--that's whatshe is to be! There--there--you've given yourself away! You want asatellite, Mars and his satellite! You've said it--you've saidit--you've dished yourself!'

He stood smiling in frustration and amusement and irritation andadmiration and love. She was so quick, and so lambent, like discerniblefire, and so vindictive, and so rich in her dangerous flamysensitiveness. 

'I've not said it at all, ' he replied, 'if you will give me a chance tospeak. '

'No, no!' she cried. 'I won't let you speak. You've said it, asatellite, 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. 'Ineither implied nor indicated nor mentioned a satellite, nor intended asatellite, 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, alittle 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 starsbalanced 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 nofurther 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 andplates, painted with mauve-lustre and green, also shapely bowls andglass plates, and old spoons, on a woven cloth of pale grey and blackand purple. It was very rich and fine. But Ursula could see Hermione'sinfluence. 

'Your things are so lovely!' she said, almost angrily. 

'I like them. It gives me real pleasure to use things that areattractive in themselves--pleasant things. And Mrs Daykin is good. Shethinks 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 andcomplete 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 andsuch beautiful lodgings. There is nothing left them to desire. '

'In the house-keeping way, we'll hope not. It is disgusting, peoplemarrying for a home. '

'Still, ' said Ursula, 'a man has very little need for a woman now, hashe?'

'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. Onlynobody takes the trouble to be essential. '

'How essential?' she said. 

'I do think, ' he said, 'that the world is only held together by themystic conjunction, the ultimate unison between people--a bond. And theimmediate 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 andeastward and southern direction. If you admit a unison, you forfeit allthe possibilities of chaos. '

'But love is freedom, ' she declared. 

'Don't cant to me, ' he replied. 'Love is a direction which excludes allother 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'sall. It is ultimate nihilism, this freedom-in-love business, thisfreedom 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 neverpure 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 mustcommit oneself to a conjunction with the other--for ever. But it is notselfless--it is a maintaining of the self in mystic balance andintegrity--like a star balanced with another star. '

'I don't trust you when you drag in the stars, ' she said. 'If you werequite true, it wouldn't be necessary to be so far-fetched. '

'Don't trust me then, ' he said, angry. 'It is enough that I trustmyself. '

'And that is where you make another mistake, ' she replied. 'You DON'Ttrust yourself. You don't fully believe yourself what you are saying. You don't really want this conjunction, otherwise you wouldn't talk somuch 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 wantlove to administer to your egoism, to subserve you. Love is a processof subservience with you--and with everybody. I hate it. '

'No, ' she cried, pressing back her head like a cobra, her eyesflashing. 'It is a process of pride--I want to be proud--'

'Proud and subservient, proud and subservient, I know you, ' he retorteddryly. 'Proud and subservient, then subservient to the proud--I knowyou 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 sococksure? 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 aboutSkrebensky, her first love, and about her later experiences. He satvery still, watching her as she talked. And he seemed to listen withreverence. Her face was beautiful and full of baffled light as she toldhim all the things that had hurt her or perplexed her so deeply. Heseemed to warm and comfort his soul at the beautiful light of hernature. 

'If she REALLY could pledge herself, ' he thought to himself, withpassionate insistence but hardly any hope. Yet a curious littleirresponsible 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, astrange 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 awoman capable of such abandon, such dangerous thoroughness ofdestructivity. Yet he chuckled within himself also. 

She came over to him and put her hand on his shoulder, looking down athim with strange golden-lighted eyes, very tender, but with a curiousdevilish 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 sardoniccomprehension. 

'I love you right enough, ' he said, grimly. 'But I want it to besomething else. '

'But why? But why?' she insisted, bending her wonderful luminous faceto 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 hersubtly, murmuring in a subtle voice of love, and irony, and submission:

'Yes, --my love, yes, --my love. Let love be enough then. I love youthen--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 rowingboats, and guests could take tea either in the marquee that was set upin the grounds of the house, or they could picnic in the shade of thegreat walnut tree at the boat-house by the lake. This year the staff ofthe Grammar-School was invited, along with the chief officials of thefirm. Gerald and the younger Criches did not care for this party, butit had become customary now, and it pleased the father, as being theonly occasion when he could gather some people of the district togetherin festivity with him. For he loved to give pleasures to his dependentsand to those poorer than himself. But his children preferred thecompany 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 haddone almost since they were children, the more so, as they all felt alittle guilty now, and unwilling to thwart their father any more, sincehe was so ill in health. Therefore, quite cheerfully Laura prepared totake her mother's place as hostess, and Gerald assumed responsibilityfor the amusements on the water. 

Birkin had written to Ursula saying he expected to see her at theparty, and Gudrun, although she scorned the patronage of the Criches, would nevertheless accompany her mother and father if the weather werefine. 

The day came blue and full of sunshine, with little wafts of wind. Thesisters both wore dresses of white crepe, and hats of soft grass. ButGudrun had a sash of brilliant black and pink and yellow colour woundbroadly round her waist, and she had pink silk stockings, and black andpink and yellow decoration on the brim of her hat, weighing it down alittle. She carried also a yellow silk coat over her arm, so that shelooked remarkable, like a painting from the Salon. Her appearance was asore trial to her father, who said angrily:

'Don't you think you might as well get yourself up for a Christmascracker, an'ha' done with it?'

But Gudrun looked handsome and brilliant, and she wore her clothes inpure defiance. When people stared at her, and giggled after her, shemade 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 hershoulder at the giggling party. 

'No, really, it's impossible!' Ursula would reply distinctly. And sothe two girls took it out of their universal enemy. But their fatherbecame more and more enraged. 

Ursula was all snowy white, save that her hat was pink, and entirelywithout trimming, and her shoes were dark red, and she carried anorange-coloured coat. And in this guise they were walking all the wayto Shortlands, their father and mother going in front. 

They were laughing at their mother, who, dressed in a summer materialof black and purple stripes, and wearing a hat of purple straw, wassetting forth with much more of the shyness and trepidation of a younggirl than her daughters ever felt, walking demurely beside her husband, who, as usual, looked rather crumpled in his best suit, as if he werethe father of a young family and had been holding the baby whilst hiswife got dressed. 

'Look at the young couple in front, ' said Gudrun calmly. Ursula lookedat her mother and father, and was suddenly seized with uncontrollablelaughter. The two girls stood in the road and laughed till the tearsran down their faces, as they caught sight again of the shy, unworldlycouple of their parents going on ahead. 

'We are roaring at you, mother, ' called Ursula, helplessly followingafter 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 shouldlike to know?'

She could not understand that there could be anything amiss with herappearance. She had a perfect calm sufficiency, an easy indifference toany criticism whatsoever, as if she were beyond it. Her clothes werealways rather odd, and as a rule slip-shod, yet she wore them with aperfect ease and satisfaction. Whatever she had on, so long as she wasbarely tidy, she was right, beyond remark; such an aristocrat she wasby instinct. 

'You look so stately, like a country Baroness, ' said Ursula, laughingwith a little tenderness at her mother's naive puzzled air. 

'JUST like a country Baroness!' chimed in Gudrun. Now the mother'snatural hauteur became self-conscious, and the girls shrieked again. 

'Go home, you pair of idiots, great giggling idiots!' cried the fatherinflamed 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 MrsBrangwen, turning on her way. 

'I'll see if I'm going to be followed by a pair of giggling yellingjackanapes--' he cried vengefully. 

The girls stood still, laughing helplessly at his fury, upon the pathbeside the hedge. 

'Why you're as silly as they are, to take any notice, ' said MrsBrangwen also becoming angry now he was really enraged. 

'There are some people coming, father, ' cried Ursula, with mockingwarning. 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'mgoing 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, vindictivevoice, the laughter suddenly left the girls, and their heartscontracted 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 uncouthgentleness which made her parents uncomfortable. 'We were laughingbecause 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 andfair, the meadows sloped down in sunshine on one side, the thick darkwoods dropped steeply on the other. The little pleasure-launch wasfussing out from the shore, twanging its music, crowded with people, flapping its paddles. Near the boat-house was a throng of gaily-dressedpersons, small in the distance. And on the high-road, some of thecommon people were standing along the hedge, looking at the festivitybeyond, 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 ofthat, my dear. '

Gudrun's apprehensive horror of people in the mass unnerved Ursula. 'Itlooks rather awful, ' she said anxiously. 

'And imagine what they'll be like--IMAGINE!' said Gudrun, still in thatunnerving, 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 ironicloathing and apprehension was very trying to Ursula. 

'We needn't stay, ' she said. 

'I certainly shan't stay five minutes among that little lot, ' saidGudrun. They advanced nearer, till they saw policemen at the gates. 

'Policemen to keep you in, too!' said Gudrun. 'My word, this is abeautiful affair. '

'We'd better look after father and mother, ' said Ursula anxiously. 

'Mother's PERFECTLY capable of getting through this littlecelebration, ' said Gudrun with some contempt. 

But Ursula knew that her father felt uncouth and angry and unhappy, soshe was far from her ease. They waited outside the gate till theirparents came up. The tall, thin man in his crumpled clothes wasunnerved and irritable as a boy, finding himself on the brink of thissocial function. He did not feel a gentleman, he did not feel anythingexcept pure exasperation. 

Ursula took her place at his side, they gave their tickets to thepoliceman, and passed in on to the grass, four abreast; the tall, hot, ruddy-dark man with his narrow boyish brow drawn with irritation, thefresh-faced, easy woman, perfectly collected though her hair wasslipping on one side, then Gudrun, her eyes round and dark and staring, her full soft face impassive, almost sulky, so that she seemed to bebacking away in antagonism even whilst she was advancing; and thenUrsula, with the odd, brilliant, dazzled look on her face, that alwayscame when she was in some false situation. 

Birkin was the good angel. He came smiling to them with his affectedsocial grace, that somehow was never QUITE right. But he took off hishat and smiled at them with a real smile in his eyes, so that Brangwencried 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 Ursulavery well. '

His eyes smiled full of natural warmth. He had a soft, flatteringmanner with women, particularly with women who were not young. 

'Yes, ' said Mrs Brangwen, cool but yet gratified. 'I have heard themspeak 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 theshade of the walnut tree, with cups of tea in their hands, a waiter inevening dress was hurrying round, some girls were simpering withparasols, some young men, who had just come in from rowing, weresitting cross-legged on the grass, coatless, their shirt-sleeves rolledup in manly fashion, their hands resting on their white flanneltrousers, their gaudy ties floating about, as they laughed and tried tobe witty with the young damsels. 

'Why, ' thought Gudrun churlishly, 'don't they have the manners to puttheir coats on, and not to assume such intimacy in their appearance. '

She abhorred the ordinary young man, with his hair plastered back, andhis easy-going chumminess. 

Hermione Roddice came up, in a handsome gown of white lace, trailing anenormous silk shawl blotched with great embroidered flowers, andbalancing an enormous plain hat on her head. She looked striking, astonishing, almost macabre, so tall, with the fringe of her greatcream-coloured vividly-blotched shawl trailing on the ground after her, her thick hair coming low over her eyes, her face strange and long andpale, 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 glancingslowly over Gudrun's father and mother. It was a trying moment, exasperating for Gudrun. Hermione was really so strongly entrenched inher class superiority, she could come up and know people out of simplecuriosity, as if they were creatures on exhibition. Gudrun would do thesame herself. But she resented being in the position when somebodymight 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 stiffembroidered 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 toBrangwen as if he were NOT a gentleman. Gerlad was so obvious in hisdemeanour. He had to shake hands with his left hand, because he hadhurt his right, and carried it, bandaged up, in the pocket of hisjacket. Gudrun was VERY thankful that none of her party asked him whatwas the matter with the hand. 

The steam launch was fussing in, all its music jingling, people callingexcitedly from on board. Gerald went to see to the debarkation, Birkinwas getting tea for Mrs Brangwen, Brangwen had joined a Grammar-Schoolgroup, Hermione was sitting down by their mother, the girls went to thelanding-stage to watch the launch come in. 

She hooted and tooted gaily, then her paddles were silent, the ropeswere thrown ashore, she drifted in with a little bump. Immediately thepassengers 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 smallgangway was put out. Then they streamed ashore, clamouring as if theyhad 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, thecaptain lounged on the little bridge. Seeing all safe, Gerald came toGudrun and Ursula. 

'You wouldn't care to go on board for the next trip, and have teathere?' 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, sheseemed 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 theThames 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 spokerapidly and excitedly, the colour high in her cheeks. 'There wasabsolutely nowhere to sit down, nowhere, a man just above sang "Rockedin the Cradle of the Deep" the WHOLE way; he was blind and he had asmall organ, one of those portable organs, and he expected money; soyou can imagine what THAT was like; there came a constant smell ofluncheon from below, and puffs of hot oily machinery; the journey tookhours and hours and hours; and for miles, literally for miles, dreadfulboys ran with us on the shore, in that AWFUL Thames mud, going in UP TOTHE WAIST--they had their trousers turned back, and they went up totheir hips in that indescribable Thames mud, their faces always turnedto us, and screaming, exactly like carrion creatures, screaming "'Erey'are sir, 'ere y'are sir, 'ere y'are sir, " exactly like some foulcarrion objects, perfectly obscene; and paterfamilias on board, laughing when the boys went right down in that awful mud, occasionallythrowing them a ha'penny. And if you'd seen the intent look on thefaces of these boys, and the way they darted in the filth when a coinwas flung--really, no vulture or jackal could dream of approachingthem, for foulness. I NEVER would go on a pleasure boat again--never. '

Gerald watched her all the time she spoke, his eyes glittering withfaint rousedness. It was not so much what she said; it was she herselfwho roused him, roused him with a small, vivid pricking. 

'Of course, ' he said, 'every civilised body is bound to have itsvermin. '

'Why?' cried Ursula. 'I don't have vermin. '

'And it's not that--it's the QUALITY of the whole thing--paterfamiliaslaughing and thinking it sport, and throwing the ha'pennies, andmaterfamilias spreading her fat little knees and eating, continuallyeating--' replied Gudrun. 

'Yes, ' said Ursula. 'It isn't the boys so much who are vermin; it's thepeople 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, waswatching the people who were going on to the boat. He was verygood-looking and self-contained, but his air of soldierly alertness wasrather irritating. 

'Will you have tea here then, or go across to the house, where there'sa tent on the lawn?' he asked. 

'Can't we have a rowing boat, and get out?' asked Ursula, who wasalways rushing in too fast. 

'To get out?' smiled Gerald. 

'You see, ' cried Gudrun, flushing at Ursula's outspoken rudeness, 'wedon'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 athim. 

'Ah, ' she said, 'you know what we mean. Can't we go up there, andexplore that coast?' She pointed to a grove on the hillock of themeadow-side, near the shore half way down the lake. 'That looksperfectly lovely. We might even bathe. Isn't it beautiful in thislight. Really, it's like one of the reaches of the Nile--as oneimagines 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 allout. '

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--yetsporting. 

'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 outfor fear somebody should drown themselves. Do you think you'd be safein that?'

'Oh perfectly, ' said Gudrun. 

'What an angel!' cried Ursula. 

'Don't, for MY sake, have an accident--because I'm responsible for thewater. '

'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 canpicnic all to yourselves, --that's the idea, isn't it?'

'How fearfully good! How frightfully nice if you could!' cried Gudrunwarmly, her colour flushing up again. It made the blood stir in hisveins, the subtle way she turned to him and infused her gratitude intohis body. 

'Where's Birkin?' he said, his eyes twinkling. 'He might help me to getit 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 beenmentioned. The curious way she skirted round the subject sent a new, subtle caress through his veins. He took his hand out of his pocket. Itwas bandaged. He looked at it, then put it in his pocket again. Gudrunquivered at the sight of the wrapped up paw. 

'Oh I can manage with one hand. The canoe is as light as a feather, ' hesaid. '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 putthe 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. Itcrushed 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, ifthere was the slightest doubt. But I've had a canoe at Arundel, and Iassure you I'm perfectly safe. '

So saying, having given her word like a man, she and Ursula entered thefrail craft, and pushed gently off. The two men stood watching them. Gudrun was paddling. She knew the men were watching her, and it madeher 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 boatslid away. 'It's lovely--like sitting in a leaf. '

He laughed at the fancy. Her voice was shrill and strange, calling fromthe distance. He watched her as she paddled away. There was somethingchildlike about her, trustful and deferential, like a child. He watchedher 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 whostood there on the quay, so good-looking and efficient in his whiteclothes, and moreover the most important man she knew at the moment. She did not take any notice of the wavering, indistinct, lambentBirkin, who stood at his side. One figure at a time occupied the fieldof her attention. 

The boat rustled lightly along the water. They passed the bathers whosestriped tents stood between the willows of the meadow's edge, and drewalong the open shore, past the meadows that sloped golden in the lightof the already late afternoon. Other boats were stealing under thewooded shore opposite, they could hear people's laughter and voices. But Gudrun rowed on towards the clump of trees that balanced perfect inthe distance, in the golden light. 

The sisters found a little place where a tiny stream flowed into thelake, with reeds and flowery marsh of pink willow herb, and a gravellybank to the side. Here they ran delicately ashore, with their frailboat, the two girls took off their shoes and stockings and went throughthe water's edge to the grass. The tiny ripples of the lake were warmand clear, they lifted their boat on to the bank, and looked round withjoy. They were quite alone in a forsaken little stream-mouth, and onthe knoll just behind was the clump of trees. 

'We will bathe just for a moment, ' said Ursula, 'and then we'll havetea. '

They looked round. Nobody could notice them, or could come up in timeto see them. In less than a minute Ursula had thrown off her clothesand 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 andran into the grove again, like nymphs. 

'How lovely it is to be free, ' said Ursula, running swiftly here andthere between the tree trunks, quite naked, her hair blowing loose. Thegrove was of beech-trees, big and splendid, a steel-grey scaffolding oftrunks and boughs, with level sprays of strong green here and there, whilst through the northern side the distance glimmered open as througha window. 

When they had run and danced themselves dry, the girls quickly dressedand sat down to the fragrant tea. They sat on the northern side of thegrove, in the yellow sunshine facing the slope of the grassy hill, alone in a little wild world of their own. The tea was hot andaromatic, there were delicious little sandwiches of cucumber and ofcaviare, 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 thewestering sun. 

'So am I. '

When they were together, doing the things they enjoyed, the two sisterswere quite complete in a perfect world of their own. And this was oneof the perfect moments of freedom and delight, such as children aloneknow, 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 toherself, softly: 'Annchen von Tharau. ' Gudrun listened, as she satbeneath the trees, and the yearning came into her heart. Ursula seemedso peaceful and sufficient unto herself, sitting there unconsciouslycrooning her song, strong and unquestioned at the centre of her ownuniverse. And Gudrun felt herself outside. Always this desolating, agonised feeling, that she was outside of life, an onlooker, whilstUrsula was a partaker, caused Gudrun to suffer from a sense of her ownnegation, and made her, that she must always demand the other to beaware of her, to be in connection with her. 

'Do you mind if I do Dalcroze to that tune, Hurtler?' she asked in acurious 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 havingto repeat herself. 

Ursula thought a moment, gathering her straying wits together. 

'While you do--?' she asked vaguely. 

'Dalcroze movements, ' said Gudrun, suffering tortures ofself-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 andfeet, began slowly to dance in the eurythmic manner, pulsing andfluttering rhythmically with her feet, making slower, regular gestureswith her hands and arms, now spreading her arms wide, now raising themabove 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 driftinghere and there in a strange impulsive rhapsody, seeming to be lifted ona breeze of incantation, shuddering with strange little runs. Ursulasat on the grass, her mouth open in her singing, her eyes laughing asif she thought it was a great joke, but a yellow light flashing up inthem, as she caught some of the unconscious ritualistic suggestion ofthe complex shuddering and waving and drifting of her sister's whiteform, that was clutched in pure, mindless, tossing rhythm, and a willset 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 wentGudrun in the dance, stamping as if she were trying to throw off somebond, flinging her hands suddenly and stamping again, then rushing withface uplifted and throat full and beautiful, and eyes half closed, sightless. The sun was low and yellow, sinking down, and in the skyfloated a thin, ineffectual moon. 

Ursula was quite absorbed in her song, when suddenly Gudrun stopped andsaid 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 colouredand fleecy in the evening light, their horns branching into the sky, pushing forward their muzzles inquisitively, to know what it was allabout. Their eyes glittered through their tangle of hair, their nakednostrils 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 aqueer, half-doubtful, half-sardonic motion, a faint smile round hermouth. 

'Don't they look charming, Ursula?' cried Gudrun, in a high, stridentvoice, something like the scream of a seagull. 

'Charming, ' cried Ursula in trepidation. 'But won't they do anything tous?'

Again Gudrun looked back at her sister with an enigmatic smile, andshook her head. 

'I'm sure they won't, ' she said, as if she had to convince herselfalso, and yet, as if she were confident of some secret power inherself, and had to put it to the test. 'Sit down and sing again, ' shecalled in her high, strident voice. 

'I'm frightened, ' cried Ursula, in a pathetic voice, watching the groupof sturdy short cattle, that stood with their knees planted, andwatched with their dark, wicked eyes, through the matted fringe oftheir hair. Nevertheless, she sank down again, in her former posture. 

'They are quite safe, ' came Gudrun's high call. 'Sing something, you'veonly 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 armsoutspread and her face uplifted, went in a strange palpitating dancetowards the cattle, lifting her body towards them as if in a spell, herfeet pulsing as if in some little frenzy of unconscious sensation, herarms, her wrists, her hands stretching and heaving and falling andreaching and reaching and falling, her breasts lifted and shakentowards the cattle, her throat exposed as in some voluptuous ecstasytowards them, whilst she drifted imperceptibly nearer, an uncanny whitefigure, towards them, carried away in its own rapt trance, ebbing instrange fluctuations upon the cattle, that waited, and ducked theirheads a little in sudden contraction from her, watching all the time asif hypnotised, their bare horns branching in the clear light, as thewhite figure of the woman ebbed upon them, in the slow, hypnotisingconvulsion of the dance. She could feel them just in front of her, itwas as if she had the electric pulse from their breasts running intoher hands. Soon she would touch them, actually touch them. A terribleshiver 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 andfascination. Oh, they were brave little beasts, these wild Scotchbullocks, wild and fleecy. Suddenly one of them snorted, ducked itshead, and backed. 

'Hue! Hi-eee!' came a sudden loud shout from the edge of the grove. Thecattle broke and fell back quite spontaneously, went running up thehill, their fleece waving like fire to their motion. Gudrun stoodsuspended out on the grass, Ursula rose to her feet. 

It was Gerald and Birkin come to find them, and Gerald had cried out tofrighten off the cattle. 

'What do you think you're doing?' he now called, in a high, wonderingvexed 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, afterthe cattle, which had gathered in a little, spell-bound cluster higherup. 

'Where are you going?' Gerald called after her. And he followed her upthe hill-side. The sun had gone behind the hill, and shadows wereclinging to the earth, the sky above was full of travelling light. 

'A poor song for a dance, ' said Birkin to Ursula, standing before herwith a sardonic, flickering laugh on his face. And in another second, he was singing softly to himself, and dancing a grotesque step-dance infront of her, his limbs and body shaking loose, his face flickeringpalely, a constant thing, whilst his feet beat a rapid mocking tattoo, and his body seemed to hang all loose and quaking in between, like ashadow. 

'I think we've all gone mad, ' she said, laughing rather frightened. 

'Pity we aren't madder, ' he answered, as he kept up the incessantshaking dance. Then suddenly he leaned up to her and kissed her fingerslightly, putting his face to hers and looking into her eyes with a palegrin. She stepped back, affronted. 

'Offended--?' he asked ironically, suddenly going quite still andreserved 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 shestiffened 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 intothe incredibly rapid, slack-waggling dance, watching her malevolently. And moving in the rapid, stationary dance, he came a little nearer, andreached 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 thiswere 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 inyour mouth, so frightfully full?'

'So that I can spit it out the more readily, ' he said, pleased by hisown retort. 

Gerald Crich, his face narrowing to an intent gleam, followed up thehill with quick strides, straight after Gudrun. The cattle stood withtheir noses together on the brow of a slope, watching the scene below, the men in white hovering about the white forms of the women, watchingabove all Gudrun, who was advancing slowly towards them. She stood amoment, glancing back at Gerald, and then at the cattle. 

Then in a sudden motion, she lifted her arms and rushed sheer upon thelong-horned bullocks, in shuddering irregular runs, pausing for asecond and looking at them, then lifting her hands and running forwardwith a flash, till they ceased pawing the ground, and gave way, snorting with terror, lifting their heads from the ground and flingingthemselves away, galloping off into the evening, becoming tiny in thedistance, 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 notsafe, 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 themnow, ' she said, holding out her hand. 

'You know where they are, ' he said, pointing over the hill. 'You canhave 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 onhis face. 

'Why should I think that?' he said. 

She was watching him all the time with her dark, dilated, inchoateeyes. She leaned forward and swung round her arm, catching him a lightblow 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 violenceagainst him. She shut off the fear and dismay that filled her consciousmind. 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 notspeak, his lungs were so suffused with blood, his heart stretchedalmost to bursting with a great gush of ungovernable emotion. It was asif some reservoir of black emotion had burst within him, and swampedhim. 

'You have struck the first blow, ' he said at last, forcing the wordsfrom his lungs, in a voice so soft and low, it sounded like a dreamwithin her, not spoken in the outer air. 

'And I shall strike the last, ' she retorted involuntarily, withconfident assurance. He was silent, he did not contradict her. 

She stood negligently, staring away from him, into the distance. On theedge of her consciousness the question was asking itself, automatically:

'Why ARE you behaving in this IMPOSSIBLE and ridiculous fashion. ' Butshe was sullen, she half shoved the question out of herself. She couldnot get it clean away, so she felt self-conscious. 

Gerald, very pale, was watching her closely. His eyes were lit up withintent lights, absorbed and gleaming. She turned suddenly on him. 

'It's you who make me behave like this, you know, ' she said, almostsuggestive. 

'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 thepallor of the first twilight. The earth was spread with darkness, likelacquer, overhead was a pale sky, all primrose, and the lake was paleas milk in one part. Away at the landing stage, tiniest points ofcoloured rays were stringing themselves in the dusk. The launch wasbeing illuminated. All round, shadow was gathering from the trees. 

Gerald, white like a presence in his summer clothes, was following downthe open grassy slope. Gudrun waited for him to come up. Then shesoftly 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, tosave himself. She laughed a silvery little mockery, yet intolerablycaressive. 

'That's one way of putting it, ' she said. 

The terrible swooning burden on his mind, the awful swooning, the lossof all his control, was too much for him. He grasped her arm in his onehand, 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 herblood ran cold. 

'Yes, it's all right, ' she said softly, as if drugged, her voicecrooning and witch-like. 

He walked on beside her, a striding, mindless body. But he recovered alittle as he went. He suffered badly. He had killed his brother when aboy, and was set apart, like Cain. 

They found Birkin and Ursula sitting together by the boats, talking andlaughing. Birkin had been teasing Ursula. 

'Do you smell this little marsh?' he said, sniffing the air. He wasvery 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 forthlilies and snakes, and the ignis fatuus, and rolling all the timeonward. 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 riverof life, rolling on and quickening all the world to a brightness, onand on to heaven, flowing into a bright eternal sea, a heaven of angelsthronging. 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 ofdissolution. You see it rolls in us just as the other rolls--the blackriver of corruption. And our flowers are of this--our sea-bornAphrodite, 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, ' hereplied. 'When the stream of synthetic creation lapses, we findourselves part of the inverse process, the blood of destructivecreation. Aphrodite is born in the first spasm of universaldissolution--then the snakes and swans and lotus--marsh-flowers--andGudrun 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, intoto, I don't yet know. '

'You mean we are flowers of dissolution--fleurs du mal? I don't feel asif I were, ' she protested. 

He was silent for a time. 

'I don't feel as if we were, ALTOGETHER, ' he replied. 'Some people arepure flowers of dark corruption--lilies. But there ought to be someroses, 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 ofdissolution--when they're flowers at all--what difference does itmake?'

'No difference--and all the difference. Dissolution rolls on, just asproduction does, ' he said. 'It is a progressive process--and it ends inuniversal nothing--the end of the world, if you like. But why isn't theend 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 creationafter--but not for us. If it is the end, then we are of the end--fleursdu mal if you like. If we are fleurs du mal, we are not roses ofhappiness, 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 ourhope. 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 duskbehind. 

Birkin rose. Gerald and Gudrun came up. They all began to smoke, in themoments of silence. One after another, Birkin lighted their cigarettes. The match flickered in the twilight, and they were all smokingpeacefully by the water-side. The lake was dim, the light dying fromoff it, in the midst of the dark land. The air all round wasintangible, neither here nor there, and there was an unreal noise ofbanjoes, or suchlike music. 

As the golden swim of light overhead died out, the moon gainedbrightness, and seemed to begin to smile forth her ascendancy. The darkwoods on the opposite shore melted into universal shadow. And amid thisuniversal under-shadow, there was a scattered intrusion of lights. Fardown the lake were fantastic pale strings of colour, like beads of wanfire, green and red and yellow. The music came out in a little puff, asthe launch, all illuminated, veered into the great shadow, stirring heroutlines 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 lastwhiteness of the sky, and there was no shadow, solitary, frail flamesof 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 lovelyglobes. And again, in the lake, shadowy red gleams hovered inreflection about the boat. Everywhere were these noiseless ruddycreatures of fire drifting near the surface of the water, caught at bythe rarest, scarce visible reflections. 

Birkin brought the lanterns from the bigger boat, and the four shadowywhite figures gathered round, to light them. Ursula held up the first, Birkin lowered the light from the rosy, glowing cup of his hands, intothe depths of the lantern. It was kindled, and they all stood back tolook at the great blue moon of light that hung from Ursula's hand, casting a strange gleam on her face. It flickered, and Birkin wentbending over the well of light. His face shone out like an apparition, so unconscious, and again, something demoniacal. Ursula was dim andveiled, looming over him. 

'That is all right, ' said his voice softly. 

She held up the lantern. It had a flight of storks streaming through aturquoise sky of light, over a dark earth. 

'This is beautiful, ' she said. 

'Lovely, ' echoed Gudrun, who wanted to hold one also, and lift it upfull 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 seehow beautiful it would be. It was primrose yellow, with tall straightflowers growing darkly from their dark leaves, lifting their heads intothe primrose day, while butterflies hovered about them, in the pureclear 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 beyondherself. Gerald leaned near to her, into her zone of light, as if tosee. He came close to her, and stood touching her, looking with her atthe primrose-shining globe. And she turned her face to his, that wasfaintly bright in the light of the lantern, and they stood together inone luminous union, close together and ringed round with light, all therest excluded. 

Birkin looked away, and went to light Ursula's second lantern. It had apale ruddy sea-bottom, with black crabs and sea-weed moving sinuouslyunder a transparent sea, that passed into flamy ruddiness above. 

'You've got the heavens above, and the waters under the earth, ' saidBirkin to her. 

'Anything but the earth itself, ' she laughed, watching his live handsthat hovered to attend to the light. 

'I'm dying to see what my second one is, ' cried Gudrun, in a vibratingrather strident voice, that seemed to repel the others from her. 

Birkin went and kindled it. It was of a lovely deep blue colour, with ared floor, and a great white cuttle-fish flowing in white soft streamsall over it. The cuttle-fish had a face that stared straight from theheart 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 yourboat? 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 youdon'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 whichGudrun 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 paleshadow of the evening. 

'Won't you go with Gudrun in the canoe?' said Birkin. 'It'll be moreinteresting. '

There was a moment's pause. Birkin and Ursula stood dimly, with theirswinging 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 therowing? 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 toherself, and that she was subtly gratified that she should have powerover them both. He gave himself, in a strange, electric submission. 

She handed him the lanterns, whilst she went to fix the cane at the endof the canoe. He followed after her, and stood with the lanternsdangling against his white-flannelled thighs, emphasising the shadowaround. 

'Kiss me before we go, ' came his voice softly from out of the shadowabove. 

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 forwardand kissed him, with a slow, luxurious kiss, lingering on the mouth. And then she took the lanterns from him, while he stood swooning withthe perfect fire that burned in all his joints. 

They lifted the canoe into the water, Gudrun took her place, and Geraldpushed 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 herwith inexpressible beauty. 

And she watched him as he sat near her, very near to her, in the sternof the canoe, his legs coming towards hers, his feet touching hers. Andshe paddled softly, lingeringly, longing for him to say somethingmeaningful 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, unconsciousvoice, as if something were speaking out of him. And she was as ifmagically aware of their being balanced in separation, in the boat. Sheswooned 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 witha reedy, thrilled voice:

'Yet we cannot very well change, whilst we are on the water. ' Shecaressed him subtly and strangely, having him completely at her mercy. 

A dozen or more boats on the lake swung their rosy and moon-likelanterns low on the water, that reflected as from a fire. In thedistance, the steamer twanged and thrummed and washed with herfaintly-splashing paddles, trailing her strings of coloured lights, andoccasionally lighting up the whole scene luridly with an effusion offireworks, Roman candles and sheafs of stars and other simple effects, illuminating the surface of the water, and showing the boats creepinground, low down. Then the lovely darkness fell again, the lanterns andthe little threaded lights glimmered softly, there was a muffledknocking 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 softlycheek to cheek as Birkin rowed, and iridescent, evanescent gleamschasing in the wake. He was aware, too, of his own delicately colouredlights casting their softness behind him. 

Gudrun rested her paddle and looked round. The canoe lifted with thelightest ebbing of the water. Gerald's white knees were very near toher. 

'Isn't it beautiful!' she said softly, as if reverently. 

She looked at him, as he leaned back against the faint crystal of thelantern-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 passionfor him, he was so beautiful in his male stillness and mystery. It wasa 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. Sheloved to look at him. For the present she did not want to touch him, toknow the further, satisfying substance of his living body. He waspurely intangible, yet so near. Her hands lay on the paddle likeslumber, she only wanted to see him, like a crystal shadow, to feel hisessential presence. 

'Yes, ' he said vaguely. 'It is very beautiful. '

He was listening to the faint near sounds, the dropping of water-dropsfrom the oar-blades, the slight drumming of the lanterns behind him, asthey rubbed against one another, the occasional rustling of Gudrun'sfull skirt, an alien land noise. His mind was almost submerged, he wasalmost transfused, lapsed out for the first time in his life, into thethings 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 likepure, perfect sleep, his first great sleep of life. He had been soinsistent, so guarded, all his life. But here was sleep, and peace, andperfect 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 thatvery quiet, toneless voice of sheer intimacy. 

'The lights will show, ' he said. 

So they drifted almost motionless, in silence. He wanted silence, pureand 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. 'Butperhaps 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 wassinging. Then as if the night smashed, suddenly there was a greatshout, a confusion of shouting, warring on the water, then the horridnoise 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, lookingkeenly 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 nervousapprehension. 

'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 swayinglights, the launch did not look far off. She was rocking her lights inthe early night. Gudrun rowed as hard as she could. But now that it wasa serious matter, she seemed uncertain and clumsy in her stroke, it wasdifficult to paddle swiftly. She glanced at his face. He was lookingfixedly 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. Itwould be too extravagant and sensational. ' But her heart was cold, because of his sharp impersonal face. It was as if he belongednaturally 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 tobe up to some of her tricks. '

And he glanced again at the paddle, the boat was not going quicklyenough for him. It made Gudrun almost helpless at the rowing, thisnervous stress. She kept up with all her might. Still the voices werecalling and answering. 

'Where, where? There you are--that's it. Which? No--No-o-o. Damn itall, here, HERE--' Boats were hurrying from all directions to thescene, coloured lanterns could be seen waving close to the surface ofthe lake, reflections swaying after them in uneven haste. The steamerhooted again, for some unknown reason. Gudrun's boat was travellingquickly, the lanterns were swinging behind Gerald. 

And then again came the child's high, screaming voice, with a note ofweeping 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 tohimself. 

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 hisfeet. He sat bare-headed, all in white now. He felt the belt at hiswaist. They were nearing the launch, which stood still big above them, her myriad lamps making lovely darts, and sinuous running tongues ofugly red and green and yellow light on the lustrous dark water, underthe 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 swingingineffectually, the boats nosing round. 

'Hi there--Rockley!--hi there!'

'Mr Gerald!' came the captain's terrified voice. 'Miss Diana's in thewater. '

'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'snothing 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, 'thatone 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 cryinganxiously. He took no heed. 

'Lean back that way, ' said Gerald to Gudrun, as he stood up in thefrail boat. 'She won't upset. '

In another moment, he had dropped clean down, soft and plumb, into thewater. Gudrun was swaying violently in her boat, the agitated watershook with transient lights, she realised that it was faintlymoonlight, and that he was gone. So it was possible to be gone. Aterrible sense of fatality robbed her of all feeling and thought. Sheknew he was gone out of the world, there was merely the same world, andabsence, his absence. The night seemed large and vacuous. Lanternsswayed here and there, people were talking in an undertone on thelaunch and in the boats. She could hear Winifred moaning: 'OH DO FINDHER 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 henever come back? She felt she must jump into the water too, to know thehorror also. 

She started, hearing someone say: 'There he is. ' She saw the movementof his swimming, like a water-rat. And she rowed involuntarily to him. But he was near another boat, a bigger one. Still she rowed towardshim. She must be very near. She saw him--he looked like a seal. Helooked like a seal as he took hold of the side of the boat. His fairhair was washed down on his round head, his face seemed to glistensuavely. She could hear him panting. 

Then he clambered into the boat. Oh, and the beauty of the subjectionof his loins, white and dimly luminous as he climbed over the side ofthe boat, made her want to die, to die. The beauty of his dim andluminous loins as he climbed into the boat, his back rounded andsoft--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, suchbeauty!

He was not like a man to her, he was an incarnation, a great phase oflife. She saw him press the water out of his face, and look at thebandage on his hand. And she knew it was all no good, and that shewould never go beyond him, he was the final approximation of life toher. 

'Put the lights out, we shall see better, ' came his voice, sudden andmechanical and belonging to the world of man. She could scarcelybelieve there was a world of man. She leaned round and blew out herlanterns. They were difficult to blow out. Everywhere the lights weregone save the coloured points on the sides of the launch. Theblueygrey, 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 atheart, frightened of the great, level surface of the water, so heavyand deadly. She was so alone, with the level, unliving field of thewater stretching beneath her. It was not a good isolation, it was aterrible, cold separation of suspense. She was suspended upon thesurface of the insidious reality until such time as she also shoulddisappear 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 sheclaimed her connection with him, across the invisible space of thewater. But round her heart was an isolation unbearable, through whichnothing would penetrate. 

'Take the launch in. It's no use keeping her there. Get lines for thedragging, ' came the decisive, instrumental voice, that was full of thesound of the world. 

The launch began gradually to beat the waters. 

'Gerald! Gerald!' came the wild crying voice of Winifred. He did notanswer. Slowly the launch drifted round in a pathetic, clumsy circle, and slunk away to the land, retreating into the dimness. The wash ofher paddles grew duller. Gudrun rocked in her light boat, and dippedthe 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 kepta look-out for Gerald. 

'There he is!' cried Ursula, who had the sharpest eyes. He had not beenlong under. Birkin pulled towards him, Gudrun following. He swamslowly, 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. Gudrunagain 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 wetfigure, on the stooping back and the rounded loins. But it lookeddefeated now, his body, it clambered and fell with slow clumsiness. Hewas breathing hoarsely too, like an animal that is suffering. He satslack and motionless in the boat, his head blunt and blind like aseal's, his whole appearance inhuman, unknowing. Gudrun shuddered asshe mechanically followed his boat. Birkin rowed without speaking tothe 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 inthe water. Turn back again, I'm going to find them. ' The women werefrightened, his voice was so imperative and dangerous, almost mad, notto be opposed. 

'No!' said Birkin. 'You can't. ' There was a strange fluid compulsion inhis voice. Gerald was silent in a battle of wills. It was as if hewould kill the other man. But Birkin rowed evenly and unswerving, withan 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, hishead like a seal's head. 

They came to the landing-stage. Wet and naked-looking, Gerald climbedup 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 findthem. And there's a current, as cold as hell. '

'We'll let the water out, ' said the father. 'Go home you and look toyourself. See that he's looked after, Rupert, ' he added in a neutralvoice. 

'Well father, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm afraid it's my fault. But itcan't be helped; I've done what I could for the moment. I could go ondiving, of course--not much, though--and not much use--'

He moved away barefoot, on the planks of the platform. Then he trod onsomething sharp. 

'Of course, you've got no shoes on, ' said Birkin. 

'His shoes are here!' cried Gudrun from below. She was making fast herboat. 

Gerald waited for them to be brought to him. Gudrun came with them. Hepulled them on his feet. 

'If you once die, ' he said, 'then when it's over, it's finished. Whycome 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 jawshook as he spoke. 

'That's true, ' he said, 'maybe. But it's curious how much room thereseems, a whole universe under there; and as cold as hell, you're ashelpless as if your head was cut off. ' He could scarcely speak, heshook so violently. 'There's one thing about our family, you know, ' hecontinued. 'Once anything goes wrong, it can never be put rightagain--not with us. I've noticed it all my life--you can't put a thingright, 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, andso endless, so different really from what it is on top, so endless--youwonder how it is so many are alive, why we're up here. Are you going? Ishall see you again, shan't I? Good-night, and thank you. Thank youvery much!'

The two girls waited a while, to see if there were any hope. The moonshone clearly overhead, with almost impertinent brightness, the smalldark boats clustered on the water, there were voices and subduedshouts. But it was all to no purpose. Gudrun went home when Birkinreturned. 

He was commissioned to open the sluice that let out the water from thelake, which was pierced at one end, near the high-road, thus serving asa reservoir to supply with water the distant mines, in case ofnecessity. 'Come with me, ' he said to Ursula, 'and then I will walkhome 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 thewater, where was a great stone basin which received the overflow, and aflight of stone steps descended into the depths of the water itself. Atthe head of the steps was the lock of the sluice-gate. 

The night was silver-grey and perfect, save for the scattered restlesssound of voices. The grey sheen of the moonlight caught the stretch ofwater, dark boats plashed and moved. But Ursula's mind ceased to bereceptive, everything was unimportant and unreal. 

Birkin fixed the iron handle of the sluice, and turned it with awrench. The cogs began slowly to rise. He turned and turned, like aslave, his white figure became distinct. Ursula looked away. She couldnot bear to see him winding heavily and laboriously, bending and risingmechanically like a slave, turning the handle. 

Then, a real shock to her, there came a loud splashing of water fromout of the dark, tree-filled hollow beyond the road, a splashing thatdeepened rapidly to a harsh roar, and then became a heavy, boomingnoise of a great body of water falling solidly all the time. Itoccupied the whole of the night, this great steady booming of water, everything was drowned within it, drowned and lost. Ursula seemed tohave to struggle for her life. She put her hands over her ears, andlooked at the high bland moon. 

'Can't we go now?' she cried to Birkin, who was watching the water onthe steps, to see if it would get any lower. It seemed to fascinatehim. He looked at her and nodded. 

The little dark boats had moved nearer, people were crowding curiouslyalong the hedge by the high-road, to see what was to be seen. Birkinand Ursula went to the cottage with the key, then turned their backs onthe lake. She was in great haste. She could not bear the terriblecrushing boom of the escaping water. 

'Do you think they are dead?' she cried in a high voice, to makeherself heard. 

'Yes, ' he replied. 

'Isn't it horrible!'

He paid no heed. They walked up the hill, further and further away fromthe noise. 

'Do you mind very much?' she asked him. 

'I don't mind about the dead, ' he said, 'once they are dead. The worstof 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, negatedthing. '

'You are rather horrible, ' murmured Ursula. 

'No! I'd rather Diana Crich were dead. Her living somehow, was allwrong. As for the young man, poor devil--he'll find his way out quicklyinstead 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 frighteningto her in its change:

'I should like to be through with it--I should like to be through withthe 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'tdeath. One is tired of the life that belongs to death--our kind oflife. But whether it is finished, God knows. I want love that is likesleep, like being born again, vulnerable as a baby that just comes intothe world. '

Ursula listened, half attentive, half avoiding what he said. She seemedto catch the drift of his statement, and then she drew away. She wantedto hear, but she did not want to be implicated. She was reluctant toyield there, where he wanted her, to yield as it were her veryidentity. 

'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 thislife--and yet it is more than life itself. One is delivered over like anaked 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 agesture we make, a dumb show like any other. And she seemed to feel hisgesture through her blood, and she drew back, even though her desiresent her forward. 

'But, ' she said gravely, 'didn't you say you wanted something that wasNOT love--something beyond love?'

He turned in confusion. There was always confusion in speech. Yet itmust 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 tobreak a way through the walls of the prison as the infant in labourstrives through the walls of the womb. There is no new movement now, without the breaking through of the old body, deliberately, inknowledge, in the struggle to get out. 

'I don't want love, ' he said. 'I don't want to know you. I want to begone out of myself, and you to be lost to yourself, so we are founddifferent. One shouldn't talk when one is tired and wretched. OneHamletises, and it seems a lie. Only believe me when I show you a bitof 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 vagueand 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 dolove 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. 'Youcould never take it on trust. '

He changed, laughed softly, and turned and took her in his arms, in themiddle of the road. 

'Yes, ' he said softly. 

And he kissed her face and brow, slowly, gently, with a sort ofdelicate happiness which surprised her extremely, and to which shecould not respond. They were soft, blind kisses, perfect in theirstillness. Yet she held back from them. It was like strange moths, verysoft and silent, settling on her from the darkness of her soul. She wasuneasy. She drew away. 

'Isn't somebody coming?' she said. 

So they looked down the dark road, then set off again walking towardsBeldover. Then suddenly, to show him she was no shallow prude, shestopped and held him tight, hard against her, and covered his face withhard, fierce kisses of passion. In spite of his otherness, the oldblood beat up in him. 

'Not this, not this, ' he whimpered to himself, as the first perfectmood of softness and sleep-loveliness ebbed back away from the rushingof 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. Yetin the small core of the flame was an unyielding anguish of anotherthing. But this also was lost; he only wanted her, with an extremedesire that seemed inevitable as death, beyond question. 

Then, satisfied and shattered, fulfilled and destroyed, he went homeaway from her, drifting vaguely through the darkness, lapsed into theold fire of burning passion. Far away, far away, there seemed to be asmall lament in the darkness. But what did it matter? What did itmatter, what did anything matter save this ultimate and triumphantexperience of physical passion, that had blazed up anew like a newspell of life. 'I was becoming quite dead-alive, nothing but aword-bag, ' he said in triumph, scorning his other self. Yet somewherefar off and small, the other hovered. 

The men were still dragging the lake when he got back. He stood on thebank and heard Gerald's voice. The water was still booming in thenight, the moon was fair, the hills beyond were elusive. The lake wassinking. There came the raw smell of the banks, in the night air. 

Up at Shortlands there were lights in the windows, as if nobody hadgone to bed. On the landing-stage was the old doctor, the father of theyoung man who was lost. He stood quite silent, waiting. Birkin alsostood and watched, Gerald came up in a boat. 

'You still here, Rupert?' he said. 'We can't get them. The bottomslopes, you know, very steep. The water lies between two very sharpslopes, with little branch valleys, and God knows where the drift willtake you. It isn't as if it was a level bottom. You never know whereyou are, with the dragging. '

'Is there any need for you to be working?' said Birkin. 'Wouldn't it bemuch better if you went to bed?'

'To bed! Good God, do you think I should sleep? We'll find 'em, beforeI go away from here. '

'But the men would find them just the same without you--why should youinsist?'

Gerald looked up at him. Then he put his hand affectionately onBirkin's shoulder, saying:

'Don't you bother about me, Rupert. If there's anybody's health tothink about, it's yours, not mine. How do you feel yourself?'

'Very well. But you, you spoil your own chance of life--you waste yourbest 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 amill-stone of beastly memories round your neck. Come away now. '

'A mill-stone of beastly memories!' Gerald repeated. Then he put hishand again affectionately on Birkin's shoulder. 'God, you've got such atelling way of putting things, Rupert, you have. '

Birkin's heart sank. He was irritated and weary of having a telling wayof putting things. 

'Won't you leave it? Come over to my place'--he urged as one urges adrunken 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'lldo. You understand, don't you? I want to see this job through. But I'llcome tomorrow, right enough. Oh, I'd rather come and have a chat withyou than--than do anything else, I verily believe. Yes, I would. Youmean a lot to me, Rupert, more than you know. '

'What do I mean, more than I know?' asked Birkin irritably. He wasacutely aware of Gerald's hand on his shoulder. And he did not wantthis altercation. He wanted the other man to come out of the uglymisery. 

'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 heartbeat so heavily. Then Gerald's fingers gripped hard and communicativeinto Birkin's shoulder, as he said:

'No, I'll see this job through, Rupert. Thank you--I know what youmean. We're all right, you know, you and me. '

'I may be all right, but I'm sure you're not, mucking about here, ' saidBirkin. And he went away. 

The bodies of the dead were not recovered till towards dawn. Diana hadher 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 toquarter size, it had horrible raw banks of clay, that smelled of rawrottenish water. Dawn roused faintly behind the eastern hill. The waterstill boomed through the sluice. 

As the birds were whistling for the first morning, and the hills at theback of the desolate lake stood radiant with the new mists, there was astraggling procession up to Shortlands, men bearing the bodies on astretcher, Gerald going beside them, the two grey-bearded fathersfollowing in silence. Indoors the family was all sitting up, waiting. Somebody must go to tell the mother, in her room. The doctor in secretstruggled to bring back his son, till he himself was exhausted. 

Over all the outlying district was a hush of dreadful excitement onthat Sunday morning. The colliery people felt as if this catastrophehad happened directly to themselves, indeed they were more shocked andfrightened than if their own men had been killed. Such a tragedy inShortlands, the high home of the district! One of the young mistresses, persisting in dancing on the cabin roof of the launch, wilful youngmadam, 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, thereseemed a strange presence. It was as if the angel of death were verynear, there was a sense of the supernatural in the air. The men hadexcited, startled faces, the women looked solemn, some of them had beencrying. The children enjoyed the excitement at first. There was anintensity in the air, almost magical. Did all enjoy it? Did all enjoythe thrill?

Gudrun had wild ideas of rushing to comfort Gerald. She was thinkingall the time of the perfect comforting, reassuring thing to say to him. She was shocked and frightened, but she put that away, thinking of howshe should deport herself with Gerald: act her part. That was the realthrill: how she should act her part. 

Ursula was deeply and passionately in love with Birkin, and she wascapable of nothing. She was perfectly callous about all the talk of theaccident, but her estranged air looked like trouble. She merely sat byherself, whenever she could, and longed to see him again. She wantedhim to come to the house, --she would not have it otherwise, he mustcome at once. She was waiting for him. She stayed indoors all day, waiting for him to knock at the door. Every minute, she glancedautomatically 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, andwithin the emptiness a heavy despair gathered. Her passion seemed tobleed to death, and there was nothing. She sat suspended in a state ofcomplete nullity, harder to bear than death. 

'Unless something happens, ' she said to herself, in the perfectlucidity of final suffering, 'I shall die. I am at the end of my lineof life. '

She sat crushed and obliterated in a darkness that was the border ofdeath. She realised how all her life she had been drawing nearer andnearer to this brink, where there was no beyond, from which one had toleap like Sappho into the unknown. The knowledge of the imminence ofdeath was like a drug. Darkly, without thinking at all, she knew thatshe was near to death. She had travelled all her life along the line offulfilment, and it was nearly concluded. She knew all she had to know, she had experienced all she had to experience, she was fulfilled in akind of bitter ripeness, there remained only to fall from the tree intodeath. And one must fulfil one's development to the end, must carry theadventure to its conclusion. And the next step was over the border intodeath. So it was then! There was a certain peace in the knowledge. 

After all, when one was fulfilled, one was happiest in falling intodeath, as a bitter fruit plunges in its ripeness downwards. Death is agreat consummation, a consummating experience. It is a development fromlife. That we know, while we are yet living. What then need we thinkfor further? One can never see beyond the consummation. It is enoughthat death is a great and conclusive experience. Why should we ask whatcomes after the experience, when the experience is still unknown to us?Let us die, since the great experience is the one that follows now uponall the rest, death, which is the next great crisis in front of whichwe have arrived. If we wait, if we baulk the issue, we do but hangabout the gates in undignified uneasiness. There it is, in front of us, as in front of Sappho, the illimitable space. Thereinto goes thejourney. 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 maymean. If a man can see the next step to be taken, why should he fearthe next but one? Why ask about the next but one? Of the next step weare certain. It is the step into death. 

'I shall die--I shall quickly die, ' said Ursula to herself, clear as ifin a trance, clear, calm, and certain beyond human certainty. Butsomewhere behind, in the twilight, there was a bitter weeping and ahopelessness. That must not be attended to. One must go where theunfaltering spirit goes, there must be no baulking the issue, becauseof fear. No baulking the issue, no listening to the lesser voices. Ifthe deepest desire be now, to go on into the unknown of death, shallone forfeit the deepest truth for one more shallow?

'Then let it end, ' she said to herself. It was a decision. It was not aquestion of taking one's life--she would NEVER kill herself, that wasrepulsive and violent. It was a question of KNOWING the next step. Andthe next step led into the space of death. Did it?--or was there--?

Her thoughts drifted into unconsciousness, she sat as if asleep besidethe fire. And then the thought came back. The space o' death! Could shegive herself to it? Ah yes--it was a sleep. She had had enough So longshe had held out; and resisted. Now was the time to relinquish, not toresist any more. 

In a kind of spiritual trance, she yielded, she gave way, and all wasdark. She could feel, within the darkness, the terrible assertion ofher body, the unutterable anguish of dissolution, the only anguish thatis too much, the far-off, awful nausea of dissolution set in within thebody. 

'Does the body correspond so immediately with the spirit?' she askedherself. And she knew, with the clarity of ultimate knowledge, that thebody is only one of the manifestations of the spirit, the transmutationof the integral spirit is the transmutation of the physical body aswell. Unless I set my will, unless I absolve myself from the rhythm oflife, fix myself and remain static, cut off from living, absolvedwithin my own will. But better die than live mechanically a life thatis a repetition of repetitions. To die is to move on with theinvisible. To die is also a joy, a joy of submitting to that which isgreater than the known, namely, the pure unknown. That is a joy. But tolive mechanised and cut off within the motion of the will, to live asan entity absolved from the unknown, that is shameful and ignominious. There is no ignominy in death. There is complete ignominy in anunreplenished, mechanised life. Life indeed may be ignominious, shameful to the soul. But death is never a shame. Death itself, likethe illimitable space, is beyond our sullying. 

Tomorrow was Monday. Monday, the beginning of another school-week!Another shameful, barren school-week, mere routine and mechanicalactivity. Was not the adventure of death infinitely preferable? Was notdeath infinitely more lovely and noble than such a life? A life ofbarren routine, without inner meaning, without any real significance. How sordid life was, how it was a terrible shame to the soul, to livenow! How much cleaner and more dignified to be dead! One could not bearany more of this shame of sordid routine and mechanical nullity. Onemight come to fruit in death. She had had enough. For where was life tobe found? No flowers grow upon busy machinery, there is no sky to aroutine, there is no space to a rotary motion. And all life was arotary motion, mechanised, cut off from reality. There was nothing tolook 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 skyof death with elation, as one had looked out of the classroom window asa child, and seen perfect freedom in the outside. Now one was not achild, and one knew that the soul was a prisoner within this sordidvast edifice of life, and there was no escape, save in death. 

But what a joy! What a gladness to think that whatever humanity did, itcould not seize hold of the kingdom of death, to nullify that. The seathey 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 theyclaimed too, shared it up, parcelled it out to certain owners, theytrespassed in the air to fight for it. Everything was gone, walled in, with spikes on top of the walls, and one must ignominiously creepbetween the spiky walls through a labyrinth of life. 

But the great, dark, illimitable kingdom of death, there humanity wasput to scorn. So much they could do upon earth, the multifarious littlegods 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 lookforward to. There one would wash off all the lies and ignominy and dirtthat had been put upon one here, a perfect bath of cleanness and gladrefreshment, and go unknown, unquestioned, unabased. After all, one wasrich, if only in the promise of perfect death. It was a gladness aboveall, that this remained to look forward to, the pure inhuman othernessof death. 

Whatever life might be, it could not take away death, the inhumantranscendent death. Oh, let us ask no question of it, what it is or isnot. 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 andthe sordidness of our humanity. In death we shall not be human, and weshall not know. The promise of this is our heritage, we look forwardlike heirs to their majority. 

Ursula sat quite still and quite forgotten, alone by the fire in thedrawing-room. The children were playing in the kitchen, all the otherswere gone to church. And she was gone into the ultimate darkness of herown soul. 

She was startled by hearing the bell ring, away in the kitchen, thechildren came scudding along the passage in delicious alarm. 

'Ursula, there's somebody. '

'I know. Don't be silly, ' she replied. She too was startled, almostfrightened. She dared hardly go to the door. 

Birkin stood on the threshold, his rain-coat turned up to his ears. Hehad come now, now she was gone far away. She was aware of the rainynight behind him. 

'Oh is it you?' she said. 

'I am glad you are at home, ' he said in a low voice, entering thehouse. 

'They are all gone to church. '

He took off his coat and hung it up. The children were peeping at himround the corner. 

'Go and get undressed now, Billy and Dora, ' said Ursula. 'Mother willbe back soon, and she'll be disappointed if you're not in bed. '

The children, in a sudden angelic mood, retired without a word. Birkinand Ursula went into the drawing-room. 

The fire burned low. He looked at her and wondered at the luminousdelicacy of her beauty, and the wide shining of her eyes. He watchedfrom a distance, with wonder in his heart, she seemed transfigured withlight. 

'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 fromhim. She remained apart, in a kind of brightness. They both sat silentin the soft light of the lamp. He felt he ought to go away again, heought not to have come. Still he did not gather enough resolution tomove. But he was DE TROP, her mood was absent and separate. 

Then there came the voices of the two children calling shyly outsidethe door, softly, with self-excited timidity:

'Ursula! Ursula!'

She rose and opened the door. On the threshold stood the two childrenin their long nightgowns, with wide-eyed, angelic faces. They werebeing very good for the moment, playing the role perfectly of twoobedient 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 saygood-night to Mr Birkin?'

The children merged shyly into the room, on bare feet. Billy's face waswide and grinning, but there was a great solemnity of being good in hisround blue eyes. Dora, peeping from the floss of her fair hair, hungback like some tiny Dryad, that has no soul. 

'Will you say good-night to me?' asked Birkin, in a voice that wasstrangely soft and smooth. Dora drifted away at once, like a leaflifted on a breath of wind. But Billy went softly forward, slow andwilling, lifting his pinched-up mouth implicitly to be kissed. Ursulawatched the full, gathered lips of the man gently touch those of theboy, so gently. Then Birkin lifted his fingers and touched the boy'sround, confiding cheek, with a faint touch of love. Neither spoke. Billy seemed angelic like a cherub boy, or like an acolyte, Birkin wasa tall, grave angel looking down to him. 

'Are you going to be kissed?' Ursula broke in, speaking to the littlegirl. 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, ' saidUrsula. 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 couldnot 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 downhe sat motionless, with his arms on his knees. She saw him, how he wasmotionless and ageless, like some crouching idol, some image of adeathly religion. He looked round at her, and his face, very pale andunreal, 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. Hedid not answer her question. 

'Don't you know whether you are unwell or not, without thinking aboutit?' 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 ownbody 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 perfectlyghastly. '

'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 beforgiven for treating your body like it--you OUGHT to suffer, a man whotakes 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, thenthe mother and Gudrun, and then the father and the boy. 

'Good-evening, ' said Brangwen, faintly surprised. 'Came to see me, didyou?'

'No, ' said Birkin, 'not about anything, in particular, that is. The daywas dismal, and I thought you wouldn't mind if I called in. '

'It HAS been a depressing day, ' said Mrs Brangwen sympathetically. Atthat moment the voices of the children were heard calling fromupstairs: 'Mother! Mother!' She lifted her face and answered mildlyinto the distance: 'I shall come up to you in a minute, Doysie. ' Thento Birkin: 'There is nothing fresh at Shortlands, I suppose? Ah, ' shesighed, '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. Thehouse is overexcited and unwholesome, I thought. '

'I should think they were people who hadn't much restraint, ' saidGudrun. 

'Or too much, ' Birkin answered. 

'Oh yes, I'm sure, ' said Gudrun, almost vindictively, 'one or theother. '

'They all feel they ought to behave in some unnatural fashion, ' saidBirkin. 'When people are in grief, they would do better to cover theirfaces and keep in retirement, as in the old days. '

'Certainly!' cried Gudrun, flushed and inflammable. 'What can be worsethan this public grief--what is more horrible, more false! If GRIEF isnot private, and hidden, what is?'

'Exactly, ' he said. 'I felt ashamed when I was there and they were allgoing about in a lugubrious false way, feeling they must not be naturalor ordinary. '

'Well--' said Mrs Brangwen, offended at this criticism, 'it isn't soeasy 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 wasgone Ursula felt such a poignant hatred of him, that all her brainseemed turned into a sharp crystal of fine hatred. Her whole natureseemed sharpened and intensified into a pure dart of hate. She couldnot imagine what it was. It merely took hold of her, the most poignantand ultimate hatred, pure and clear and beyond thought. She could notthink of it at all, she was translated beyond herself. It was like apossession. She felt she was possessed. And for several days she wentabout possessed by this exquisite force of hatred against him. Itsurpassed anything she had ever known before, it seemed to throw herout of the world into some terrible region where nothing of her oldlife held good. She was quite lost and dazed, really dead to her ownlife. 

It was so completely incomprehensible and irrational. She did not knowWHY she hated him, her hate was quite abstract. She had only realisedwith a shock that stunned her, that she was overcome by this puretransportation. He was the enemy, fine as a diamond, and as hard andjewel-like, the quintessence of all that was inimical. 

She thought of his face, white and purely wrought, and of his eyes thathad such a dark, constant will of assertion, and she touched her ownforehead, to feel if she were mad, she was so transfigured in whiteflame of essential hate. 

It was not temporal, her hatred, she did not hate him for this or forthat; she did not want to do anything to him, to have any connectionwith him. Her relation was ultimate and utterly beyond words, the hatewas so pure and gemlike. It was as if he were a beam of essentialenmity, a beam of light that did not only destroy her, but denied heraltogether, revoked her whole world. She saw him as a clear stroke ofuttermost contradiction, a strange gem-like being whose existencedefined her own non-existence. When she heard he was ill again, herhatred only intensified itself a few degrees, if that were possible. Itstunned her and annihilated her, but she could not escape it. She couldnot 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 hownear to breaking was the vessel that held his life. He knew also howstrong and durable it was. And he did not care. Better a thousand timestake one's chance with death, than accept a life one did not want. Butbest of all to persist and persist and persist for ever, till one weresatisfied in life. 

He knew that Ursula was referred back to him. He knew his life restedwith her. But he would rather not live than accept the love sheproffered. The old way of love seemed a dreadful bondage, a sort ofconscription. What it was in him he did not know, but the thought oflove, marriage, and children, and a life lived together, in thehorrible privacy of domestic and connubial satisfaction, was repulsive. He wanted something clearer, more open, cooler, as it were. The hotnarrow intimacy between man and wife was abhorrent. The way they shuttheir doors, these married people, and shut themselves in to their ownexclusive alliance with each other, even in love, disgusted him. It wasa whole community of mistrustful couples insulated in private houses orprivate rooms, always in couples, and no further life, no furtherimmediate, no disinterested relationship admitted: a kaleidoscope ofcouples, disjoined, separatist, meaningless entities of marriedcouples. True, he hated promiscuity even worse than marriage, and aliaison was only another kind of coupling, reactionary from the legalmarriage. Reaction was a greater bore than action. 

On the whole, he hated sex, it was such a limitation. It was sex thatturned a man into a broken half of a couple, the woman into the otherbroken half. And he wanted to be single in himself, the woman single inherself. He wanted sex to revert to the level of the other appetites, to be regarded as a functional process, not as a fulfilment. Hebelieved in sex marriage. But beyond this, he wanted a furtherconjunction, where man had being and woman had being, two pure beings, each constituting the freedom of the other, balancing each other liketwo poles of one force, like two angels, or two demons. 

He wanted so much to be free, not under the compulsion of any need forunification, or tortured by unsatisfied desire. Desire and aspirationshould find their object without all this torture, as now, in a worldof plenty of water, simple thirst is inconsiderable, satisfied almostunconsciously. And he wanted to be with Ursula as free as with himself, single and clear and cool, yet balanced, polarised with her. Themerging, the clutching, the mingling of love was become madly abhorrentto him. 

But it seemed to him, woman was always so horrible and clutching, shehad such a lust for possession, a greed of self-importance in love. Shewanted to have, to own, to control, to be dominant. Everything must bereferred back to her, to Woman, the Great Mother of everything, out ofwhom proceeded everything and to whom everything must finally berendered up. 

It filled him with almost insane fury, this calm assumption of theMagna Mater, that all was hers, because she had borne it. Man was hersbecause she had borne him. A Mater Dolorosa, she had borne him, a MagnaMater, 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 henot know it in Hermione. Hermione, the humble, the subservient, whatwas she all the while but the Mater Dolorosa, in her subservience, claiming with horrible, insidious arrogance and female tyranny, her ownagain, claiming back the man she had borne in suffering. By her verysuffering and humility she bound her son with chains, she held him hereverlasting 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 restdepended. He saw the yellow flare in her eyes, he knew the unthinkableoverweening assumption of primacy in her. She was unconscious of itherself. She was only too ready to knock her head on the ground beforea man. But this was only when she was so certain of her man, that shecould worship him as a woman worships her own infant, with a worship ofperfect possession. 

It was intolerable, this possession at the hands of woman. Always a manmust be considered as the broken off fragment of a woman, and the sexwas the still aching scar of the laceration. Man must be added on to awoman, before he had any real place or wholeness. 

And why? Why should we consider ourselves, men and women, as brokenfragments of one whole? It is not true. We are not broken fragments ofone 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 usof the mixed, the unresolved. And passion is the further separating ofthis mixture, that which is manly being taken into the being of theman, that which is womanly passing to the woman, till the two are clearand whole as angels, the admixture of sex in the highest sensesurpassed, leaving two single beings constellated together like twostars. 

In the old age, before sex was, we were mixed, each one a mixture. Theprocess of singling into individuality resulted into the greatpolarisation of sex. The womanly drew to one side, the manly to theother. But the separation was imperfect even them. And so ourworld-cycle passes. There is now to come the new day, when we arebeings each of us, fulfilled in difference. The man is pure man, thewoman pure woman, they are perfectly polarised. But there is no longerany of the horrible merging, mingling self-abnegation of love. There isonly the pure duality of polarisation, each one free from anycontamination of the other. In each, the individual is primal, sex issubordinate, but perfectly polarised. Each has a single, separatebeing, with its own laws. The man has his pure freedom, the woman hers. Each acknowledges the perfection of the polarised sex-circuit. Eachadmits the different nature in the other. 

So Birkin meditated whilst he was ill. He liked sometimes to be illenough to take to his bed. For then he got better very quickly, andthings 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 someactivity. According to conventionality, he wore black clothes, helooked formal, handsome and COMME IL FAUT. His hair was fair almost towhiteness, 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 hisown understanding was much sounder and safer. Birkin was delightful, awonderful spirit, but after all, not to be taken seriously, not quiteto be counted as a man among men. 

'Why are you laid up again?' he asked kindly, taking the sick man'shand. It was always Gerald who was protective, offering the warmshelter 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 keepbetter 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 warmlight came into his eyes. 

'I don't know that they're any different. I don't see how they couldbe. There's nothing to change. '

'I suppose you are conducting the business as successfully as ever, andignoring the demand of the soul. '

'That's it, ' said Gerald. 'At least as far as the business isconcerned. 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 thebusiness?'

'The rest of my affairs? What are those? I couldn't say; I don't knowwhat you refer to. '

'Yes, you do, ' said Birkin. 'Are you gloomy or cheerful? And what aboutGudrun 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 lasttime 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 thecattle up the hill, and I went after her--you remember. '

'Yes, I remember. But what made her do that? You didn't definitely askher for it, I suppose?'

'I? No, not that I know of. I merely said to her, that it was dangerousto 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'tyou?" So I asked her "why, " and for answer she flung me a back-handeracross 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 abackin 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 afterwardsfor 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 Icertainly 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 doneher 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 hadsaid she would strike the last blow too. But some reserve made him keepthis 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 wassilent 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 theaccident. '

'Yes. Is it calming down?'

'I don't know. It's a shock, of course. But I don't believe motherminds. I really don't believe she takes any notice. And what's sofunny, she used to be all for the children--nothing mattered, nothingwhatever mattered but the children. And now, she doesn't take any morenotice 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 anydifferent. We've all got to die, and it doesn't seem to make any greatdifference, anyhow, whether you die or not. I can't feel any GRIEF youknow. 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 aweapon. He felt awkward, but indifferent. As a matter of fact, he didcare 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'tinterest me, you know. '

'TIMOR MORTIS CONTURBAT ME, ' quoted Birkin, adding--'No, death doesn'treally seem the point any more. It curiously doesn't concern one. It'slike an ordinary tomorrow. '

Gerald looked closely at his friend. The eyes of the two men met, andan unspoken understanding was exchanged. 

Gerald narrowed his eyes, his face was cool and unscrupulous as helooked at Birkin, impersonally, with a vision that ended in a point inspace, 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 wedisappear, ' said Birkin. 

'There is, ' said Gerald. 'But what sort of way?' He seemed to press theother man for knowledge which he himself knew far better than Birkindid. 

'Right down the slopes of degeneration--mystic, universal degeneration. There are many stages of pure degradation to go through: agelong. Welive on long after our death, and progressively, in progressivedevolution. '

Gerald listened with a faint, fine smile on his face, all the time, asif, somewhere, he knew so much better than Birkin, all about this: asif his own knowledge were direct and personal, whereas Birkin's was amatter of observation and inference, not quite hitting the nail on thehead:--though aiming near enough at it. But he was not going to givehimself away. If Birkin could get at the secrets, let him. Gerald wouldnever help him. Gerald would be a dark horse to the end. 

'Of course, ' he said, with a startling change of conversation, 'it isfather who really feels it. It will finish him. For him the worldcollapses. All his care now is for Winnie--he must save Winnie. He saysshe ought to be sent away to school, but she won't hear of it, andhe'll never do it. Of course she IS in rather a queer way. We're all ofus curiously bad at living. We can do things--but we can't get on withlife at all. It's curious--a family failing. '

'She oughtn't to be sent away to school, ' said Birkin, who wasconsidering a new proposition. 

'She oughtn't. Why?'

'She's a queer child--a special child, more special even than you. Andin my opinion special children should never be sent away to school. Only moderately ordinary children should be sent to school--so it seemsto me. '

'I'm inclined to think just the opposite. I think it would probablymake 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 shewouldn't be willing even to pretend to. She's proud, and solitary, andnaturally apart. If she has a single nature, why do you want to makeher gregarious?'

'No, I don't want to make her anything. But I think school would begood for her. '

'Was it good for you?'

Gerald's eyes narrowed uglily. School had been torture to him. Yet hehad not questioned whether one should go through this torture. Heseemed to believe in education through subjection and torment. 

'I hated it at the time, but I can see it was necessary, ' he said. 'Itbrought me into line a bit--and you can't live unless you do come intoline somewhere. '

'Well, ' said Birkin, 'I begin to think that you can't live unless youkeep 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 specialnature, 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 theworld down to fit yourself. As a matter of fact, two exceptional peoplemake another world. You and I, we make another, separate world. Youdon't WANT a world same as your brothers-in-law. It's just the specialquality 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 ofliberty. '

Gerald looked at Birkin with subtle eyes of knowledge. But he wouldnever openly admit what he felt. He knew more than Birkin, in onedirection--much more. And this gave him his gentle love for the otherman, as if Birkin were in some way young, innocent, child-like: soamazingly clever, but incurably innocent. 

'Yet you are so banal as to consider me chiefly a freak, ' said Birkinpointedly. 

'A freak!' exclaimed Gerald, startled. And his face opened suddenly, asif lighted with simplicity, as when a flower opens out of the cunningbud. 'No--I never consider you a freak. ' And he watched the other manwith strange eyes, that Birkin could not understand. 'I feel, ' Geraldcontinued, 'that there is always an element of uncertainty aboutyou--perhaps you are uncertain about yourself. But I'm never sure ofyou. You can go away and change as easily as if you had no soul. '

He looked at Birkin with penetrating eyes. Birkin was amazed. Hethought he had all the soul in the world. He stared in amazement. AndGerald, watching, saw the amazing attractive goodliness of his eyes, ayoung, 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. Thiswas always present in Gerald's consciousness, filling him with bitterunbelief: this consciousness of the young, animal-like spontaneity ofdetachment. 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 sawhimself confronted with another problem--the problem of love andeternal conjunction between two men. Of course this was necessary--ithad been a necessity inside himself all his life--to love a man purelyand fully. Of course he had been loving Gerald all along, and all alongdenying it. 

He lay in the bed and wondered, whilst his friend sat beside him, lostin 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 thecut?' said Gerald. 

'Yes--and swear to be true to each other, of one blood, all theirlives. That is what we ought to do. No wounds, that is obsolete. But weought to swear to love each other, you and I, implicitly, andperfectly, finally, without any possibility of going back on it. '

He looked at Gerald with clear, happy eyes of discovery. Gerald lookeddown 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. 'Wewill swear to stand by each other--be true to eachother--ultimately--infallibly--given to each other, organically--withoutpossibility of taking back. '

Birkin sought hard to express himself. But Gerald hardly listened. Hisface shone with a certain luminous pleasure. He was pleased. But hekept his reserve. He held himself back. 

'Shall we swear to each other, one day?' said Birkin, putting out hishand towards Gerald. 

Gerald just touched the extended fine, living hand, as if withheld andafraid. 

'We'll leave it till I understand it better, ' he said, in a voice ofexcuse. 

Birkin watched him. A little sharp disappointment, perhaps a touch ofcontempt came into his heart. 

'Yes, ' he said. 'You must tell me what you think, later. You know whatI mean? Not sloppy emotionalism. An impersonal union that leaves onefree. '

They lapsed both into silence. Birkin was looking at Gerald all thetime. He seemed now to see, not the physical, animal man, which heusually saw in Gerald, and which usually he liked so much, but the manhimself, complete, and as if fated, doomed, limited. This strange senseof fatality in Gerald, as if he were limited to one form of existence, one knowledge, one activity, a sort of fatal halfness, which to himselfseemed wholeness, always overcame Birkin after their moments ofpassionate approach, and filled him with a sort of contempt, orboredom. It was the insistence on the limitation which so bored Birkinin Gerald. Gerald could never fly away from himself, in realindifferent 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 drawand to model in clay. You know Winnie is astonishingly clever with thatplasticine stuff. Hermione declares she is an artist. ' Gerald spoke inthe 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 anartist. Because Gudrun somewhere is one. And every true artist is thesalvation 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 fitto 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 cheapanywhere. Or if she does, she'll pretty soon take herself back. Sowhether she would condescend to do private teaching, particularly here, in Beldover, I don't know. But it would be just the thing. Winifred hasgot a special nature. And if you can put into her way the means ofbeing self-sufficient, that is the best thing possible. She'll neverget on with the ordinary life. You find it difficult enough yourself, and she is several skins thinner than you are. It is awful to thinkwhat 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 fatebrings. You can see how much marriage is to be trusted to--look at yourown mother. '

'Do you think mother is abnormal?'

'No! I think she only wanted something more, or other than the commonrun 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 mostnormal people have the worst subterranean selves, take them one byone. '

'Sometimes I think it is a curse to be alive, ' said Gerald with suddenimpotent anger. 

'Well, ' said Birkin, 'why not! Let it be a curse sometimes to bealive--at other times it is anything but a curse. You've got plenty ofzest in it really. '

'Less than you'd think, ' said Gerald, revealing a strange poverty inhis 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 theGrammar School, and coming to teach Win, ' said Gerald. 

'The difference between a public servant and a private one. The onlynobleman 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. Hewill be fussy and greatful enough. '

'So he ought. And so ought all of you. Do you think you can hire awoman like Gudrun Brangwen with money? She is your equal likeanything--probably your superior. '

'Is she?' said Gerald. 

'Yes, and if you haven't the guts to know it, I hope she'll leave youto your own devices. '

'Nevertheless, ' said Gerald, 'if she is my equal, I wish she weren't ateacher, 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 parsonbecause I preach?'

Gerald laughed. He was always uneasy on this score. He did not WANT toclaim social superiority, yet he WOULD not claim intrinsic personalsuperiority, because he would never base his standard of values on purebeing. So he wobbled upon a tacit assumption of social standing. No, Birkin wanted him to accept the fact of intrinsic difference betweenhuman beings, which he did not intend to accept. It was against hissocial 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 andmocking. 

'I knew you'd say something like that, ' laughed Gerald, ratheruneasily. 

'Did you?'

'Yes, Rupert. It wouldn't do for us all to be like you are--we shouldsoon be in the cart. When I am above the world, I shall ignore allbusinesses. '

'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 anddrink--'

'And be satisfied, ' added Birkin. 

Gerald came near the bed and stood looking down at Birkin whose throatwas exposed, whose tossed hair fell attractively on the warm brow, above the eyes that were so unchallenged and still in the satiricalface. Gerald, full-limbed and turgid with energy, stood unwilling togo, he was held by the presence of the other man. He had not the powerto go away. 

'So, ' said Birkin. 'Good-bye. ' And he reached out his hand from underthe bed-clothes, smiling with a glimmering look. 

'Good-bye, ' said Gerald, taking the warm hand of his friend in a firmgrasp. '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 ahawk's, were suffused now with warm light and with unadmitted love, Birkin looked back as out of a darkness, unsounded and unknown, yetwith a kind of warmth, that seemed to flow over Gerald's brain like afertile 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 thedoor, 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. Itseemed to Ursula as if Birkin had gone out of her for the time, he hadlost his significance, he scarcely mattered in her world. She had herown friends, her own activities, her own life. She turned back to theold ways with zest, away from him. 

And Gudrun, after feeling every moment in all her veins conscious ofGerald Crich, connected even physically with him, was now almostindifferent to the thought of him. She was nursing new schemes forgoing away and trying a new form of life. All the time, there wassomething in her urging her to avoid the final establishing of arelationship with Gerald. She felt it would be wiser and better to haveno more than a casual acquaintance with him. 

She had a scheme for going to St Petersburg, where she had a friend whowas a sculptor like herself, and who lived with a wealthy Russian whosehobby was jewel-making. The emotional, rather rootless life of theRussians appealed to her. She did not want to go to Paris. Paris wasdry, and essentially boring. She would like to go to Rome, Munich, Vienna, or to St Petersburg or Moscow. She had a friend in StPetersburg and a friend in Munich. To each of these she wrote, askingabout 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 invarious shows. She knew she could become quite the 'go' if she went toLondon. But she knew London, she wanted something else. She had seventypounds, of which nobody knew anything. She would move soon, as soon asshe heard from her friends. Her nature, in spite of her apparentplacidity 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 somethingshrewish and cat-like beneath, asked the girls into her toocosy, tootidy kitchen. There was a cat-like comfort and cleanliness everywhere. 

'Yes, Miss Brangwen, ' she said, in her slightly whining, insinuatingvoice, '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. Youlike life, and big, grand places. Some of us has to be content withWilley 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 youmean, 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 hatedthe school. 

'Ay, you do, then! I've heard so much, one way and the other. It's niceto know what those that's in it feel. But opinions vary, don't they? MrCrich up at Highclose is all for it. Ay, poor man, I'm afraid he's notlong 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. Poorman, 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 everyou 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 proudhaughty lady when she came into these parts--my word, she was that! Shemustn't be looked at, and it was worth your life to speak to her. ' Thewoman 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 littleterrors they were, little fiends--that Gerald was a demon if ever therewas 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 hislittle bottom for him, when he was a child in arms. Ay, and he'd havebeen better if he'd had it pinched oftener. But she wouldn't have themcorrected--no-o, wouldn't hear of it. I can remember the rows she hadwith Mr Crich, my word. When he'd got worked up, properly worked uptill 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 atiger, with very murder in her face. She had a face that could LOOKdeath. And when the door was opened, she'd go in with her handslifted--"What have you been doing to MY children, you coward. " She waslike one out of her mind. I believe he was frightened of her; he had tobe driven mad before he'd lift a finger. Didn't the servants have alife of it! And didn't we used to be thankful when one of them caughtit. They were the torment of your life. '

'Really!' said Gudrun. 

'In every possible way. If you wouldn't let them smash their pots onthe table, if you wouldn't let them drag the kitten about with a stringround its neck, if you wouldn't give them whatever they asked for, every mortal thing--then there was a shine on, and their mother comingin asking--"What's the matter with him? What have you done to him? Whatis it, Darling?" And then she'd turn on you as if she'd trample youunder her feet. But she didn't trample on me. I was the only one thatcould do anything with her demons--for she wasn't going to be botheredwith them herself. No, SHE took no trouble for them. But they must justhave their way, they mustn't be spoken to. And Master Gerald was thebeauty. 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 hislittle bottom for him, ' sent her into a white, stony fury. She couldnot bear it, she wanted to have the woman taken out at once andstrangled. 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 seehow he took it. And she loathed herself for the thought. 

But at Shortlands the life-long struggle was coming to a close. Thefather was ill and was going to die. He had bad internal pains, whichtook away all his attentive life, and left him with only a vestige ofhis consciousness. More and more a silence came over him, he was lessand less acutely aware of his surroundings. The pain seemed to absorbhis activity. He knew it was there, he knew it would come again. It waslike something lurking in the darkness within him. And he had not thepower, or the will, to seek it out and to know it. There it remained inthe darkness, the great pain, tearing him at times, and then beingsilent. 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 waswithin the darkness, let it remain unknown. So he never admitted it, except in a secret corner of himself, where all his never-revealedfears and secrets were accumulated. For the rest, he had a pain, itwent away, it made no difference. It even stimulated him, excited him. 

But it gradually absorbed his life. Gradually it drew away all hispotentiality, it bled him into the dark, it weaned him of life and drewhim away into the darkness. And in this twilight of his life littleremained visible to him. The business, his work, that was goneentirely. His public interests had disappeared as if they had neverbeen. Even his family had become extraneous to him, he could onlyremember, in some slight non-essential part of himself, that such andsuch 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 wifebarely existed. She indeed was like the darkness, like the pain withinhim. By some strange association, the darkness that contained the painand the darkness that contained his wife were identical. All histhoughts and understandings became blurred and fused, and now his wifeand the consuming pain were the same dark secret power against him, that he never faced. He never drove the dread out of its lair withinhim. He only knew that there was a dark place, and something inhabitingthis darkness which issued from time to time and rent him. But he darednot penetrate and drive the beast into the open. He had rather ignoreits existence. Only, in his vague way, the dread was his wife, thedestroyer, and it was the pain, the destruction, a darkness which wasone and both. 

He very rarely saw his wife. She kept her room. Only occasionally shecame forth, with her head stretched forward, and in her low, possessedvoice, she asked him how he was. And he answered her, in the habit ofmore 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 neverbroken down. He would die even now without breaking down, withoutknowing what his feelings were, towards her. All his life, he had said:'Poor Christiana, she has such a strong temper. ' With unbroken will, hehad stood by this position with regard to her, he had substituted pityfor all his hostility, pity had been his shield and his safeguard, andhis infallible weapon. And still, in his consciousness, he was sorryfor her, her nature was so violent and so impatient. 

But now his pity, with his life, was wearing thin, and the dread almostamounting to horror, was rising into being. But before the armour ofhis pity really broke, he would die, as an insect when its shell iscracked. This was his final resource. Others would live on, and knowthe 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 tohis love for his neighbour. Perhaps he had loved his neighbour evenbetter than himself--which is going one further than the commandment. Always, this flame had burned in his heart, sustaining him througheverything, the welfare of the people. He was a large employer oflabour, he was a great mine-owner. And he had never lost this from hisheart, that in Christ he was one with his workmen. Nay, he had feltinferior to them, as if they through poverty and labour were nearer toGod than he. He had always the unacknowledged belief, that it was hisworkmen, the miners, who held in their hands the means of salvation. Tomove nearer to God, he must move towards his miners, his life mustgravitate towards theirs. They were, unconsciously, his idol, his Godmade 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 greatdemons of hell. Strange, like a bird of prey, with the fascinatingbeauty and abstraction of a hawk, she had beat against the bars of hisphilanthropy, and like a hawk in a cage, she had sunk into silence. Byforce of circumstance, because all the world combined to make the cageunbreakable, he had been too strong for her, he had kept her prisoner. And because she was his prisoner, his passion for her had alwaysremained keen as death. He had always loved her, loved her withintensity. Within the cage, she was denied nothing, she was given alllicence. 

But she had gone almost mad. Of wild and overweening temper, she couldnot bear the humiliation of her husband's soft, half-appealing kindnessto everybody. He was not deceived by the poor. He knew they came andsponged on him, and whined to him, the worse sort; the majority, luckily for him, were much too proud to ask for anything, much tooindependent to come knocking at his door. But in Beldover, aseverywhere else, there were the whining, parasitic, foul human beingswho come crawling after charity, and feeding on the living body of thepublic like lice. A kind of fire would go over Christiana Crich'sbrain, as she saw two more pale-faced, creeping women in objectionableblack clothes, cringing lugubriously up the drive to the door. Shewanted 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 theservants, 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 nobusiness on the drive at all. Simpson, drive them away and let no moreof them through the gate. '

The servants had to obey her. And she would stand watching with an eyelike the eagle's, whilst the groom in clumsy confusion drove thelugubrious 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 wasaway, 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 aftereleven o'clock in the morning. '

'Why do you get up from dinner?--send them off, ' his wife would sayabruptly. 

'Oh, I can't do that. It's no trouble just to hear what they have tosay. '

'How many more have been here today? Why don't you establish open housefor them? They would soon oust me and the children. '

'You know dear, it doesn't hurt me to hear what they have to say. Andif they really are in trouble--well, it is my duty to help them out ofit. '

'It's your duty to invite all the rats in the world to gnaw at yourbones. '

'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 satthe 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 heis your property, that you can come whenever you like? You must goaway, there is nothing for you here. '

The poor people rose in confusion. But Mr Crich, pale and black-beardedand deprecating, came behind her, saying:

'Yes, I don't like you coming as late as this. I'll hear any of you inthe 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 subtlefuneral bird, feeding on the miseries of the people. It seemed to herhe was never satisfied unless there was some sordid tale being pouredout to him, which he drank in with a sort of mournful, sympatheticsatisfaction. He would have no RAISON D'ETRE if there were nolugubrious miseries in the world, as an undertaker would have nomeaning if there were no funerals. 

Mrs Crich recoiled back upon herself, she recoiled away from this worldof creeping democracy. A band of tight, baleful exclusion fastenedround her heart, her isolation was fierce and hard, her antagonism waspassive but terribly pure, like that of a hawk in a cage. As the yearswent on, she lost more and more count of the world, she seemed rapt insome glittering abstraction, almost purely unconscious. She wouldwander about the house and about the surrounding country, staringkeenly and seeing nothing. She rarely spoke, she had no connection withthe world. And she did not even think. She was consumed in a fiercetension of opposition, like the negative pole of a magnet. 

And she bore many children. For, as time went on, she never opposed herhusband in word or deed. She took no notice of him, externally. Shesubmitted to him, let him take what he wanted and do as he wanted withher. She was like a hawk that sullenly submits to everything. Therelation between her and her husband was wordless and unknown, but itwas deep, awful, a relation of utter inter-destruction. And he, whotriumphed in the world, he became more and more hollow in his vitality, the vitality was bled from within him, as by some haemorrhage. She washulked like a hawk in a cage, but her heart was fierce and undiminishedwithin 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 lightthat burned in her eyes only excited and roused him. Till he was bledto death, and then he dreaded her more than anything. But he alwayssaid to himself, how happy he had been, how he had loved her with apure and consuming love ever since he had known her. And he thought ofher as pure, chaste; the white flame which was known to him alone, theflame of her sex, was a white flower of snow to his mind. She was awonderful white snow-flower, which he had desired infinitely. And nowhe was dying with all his ideas and interpretations intact. They wouldonly collapse when the breath left his body. Till then they would bepure truths for him. Only death would show the perfect completeness ofthe 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 virginitywhich 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 andunimpaired. She only sat in her room like a moping, dishevelled hawk, motionless, mindless. Her children, for whom she had been so fierce inher youth, now meant scarcely anything to her. She had lost all that, she was quite by herself. Only Gerald, the gleaming, had some existencefor 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 forcompassion to Gerald. There had always been opposition between the twoof them. Gerald had feared and despised his father, and to a greatextent had avoided him all through boyhood and young manhood. And thefather had felt very often a real dislike of his eldest son, which, never wanting to give way to, he had refused to acknowledge. He hadignored Gerald as much as possible, leaving him alone. 

Since, however, Gerald had come home and assumed responsibility in thefirm, and had proved such a wonderful director, the father, tired andweary of all outside concerns, had put all his trust of these things inhis son, implicitly, leaving everything to him, and assuming a rathertouching dependence on the young enemy. This immediately roused apoignant pity and allegiance in Gerald's heart, always shadowed bycontempt and by unadmitted enmity. For Gerald was in reaction againstCharity; and yet he was dominated by it, it assumed supremacy in theinner life, and he could not confute it. So he was partly subject tothat which his father stood for, but he was in reaction against it. Nowhe could not save himself. A certain pity and grief and tenderness forhis father overcame him, in spite of the deeper, more sullen hostility. 

The father won shelter from Gerald through compassion. But for love hehad Winifred. She was his youngest child, she was the only one of hischildren whom he had ever closely loved. And her he loved with all thegreat, overweening, sheltering love of a dying man. He wanted toshelter her infinitely, infinitely, to wrap her in warmth and love andshelter, perfectly. If he could save her she should never know onepain, one grief, one hurt. He had been so right all his life, soconstant in his kindness and his goodness. And this was his lastpassionate righteousness, his love for the child Winifred. Some thingstroubled him yet. The world had passed away from him, as his strengthebbed. There were no more poor and injured and humble to protect andsuccour. These were all lost to him. There were no more sons anddaughters to trouble him, and to weigh on him as an unnaturalresponsibility. These too had faded out of reality All these things hadfallen out of his hands, and left him free. 

There remained the covert fear and horror of his wife, as she satmindless and strange in her room, or as she came forth with slow, prowling step, her head bent forward. But this he put away. Even hislife-long righteousness, however, would not quite deliver him from theinner horror. Still, he could keep it sufficiently at bay. It wouldnever break forth openly. Death would come first. 

Then there was Winifred! If only he could be sure about her, if only hecould be sure. Since the death of Diana, and the development of hisillness, his craving for surety with regard to Winifred amounted almostto obsession. It was as if, even dying, he must have some anxiety, someresponsibility of love, of Charity, upon his heart. 

She was an odd, sensitive, inflammable child, having her father's darkhair and quiet bearing, but being quite detached, momentaneous. She waslike a changeling indeed, as if her feelings did not matter to her, really. She often seemed to be talking and playing like the gayest andmost childish of children, she was full of the warmest, most delightfulaffection for a few things--for her father, and for her animals inparticular. But if she heard that her beloved kitten Leo had been runover by the motor-car she put her head on one side, and replied, with afaint contraction like resentment on her face: 'Has he?' Then she tookno more notice. She only disliked the servant who would force bad newson her, and wanted her to be sorry. She wished not to know, and thatseemed her chief motive. She avoided her mother, and most of themembers of her family. She LOVED her Daddy, because he wanted heralways to be happy, and because he seemed to become young again, andirresponsible in her presence. She liked Gerald, because he was soself-contained. She loved people who would make life a game for her. She had an amazing instinctive critical faculty, and was a pureanarchist, a pure aristocrat at once. For she accepted her equalswherever she found them, and she ignored with blithe indifference herinferiors, whether they were her brothers and sisters, or whether theywere wealthy guests of the house, or whether they were the commonpeople or the servants. She was quite single and by herself, derivingfrom nobody. It was as if she were cut off from all purpose orcontinuity, and existed simply moment by moment. 

The father, as by some strange final illusion, felt as if all his fatedepended on his ensuring to Winifred her happiness. She who could neversuffer, because she never formed vital connections, she who could losethe dearest things of her life and be just the same the next day, thewhole memory dropped out, as if deliberately, she whose will was sostrangely and easily free, anarchistic, almost nihilistic, who like asoulless bird flits on its own will, without attachment orresponsibility beyond the moment, who in her every motion snapped thethreads of serious relationship with blithe, free hands, reallynihilistic, because never troubled, she must be the object of herfather's final passionate solicitude. 

When Mr Crich heard that Gudrun Brangwen might come to help Winifredwith her drawing and modelling he saw a road to salvation for hischild. He believed that Winifred had talent, he had seen Gudrun, heknew that she was an exceptional person. He could give Winifred intoher hands as into the hands of a right being. Here was a direction anda positive force to be lent to his child, he need not leave herdirectionless and defenceless. If he could but graft the girl on tosome tree of utterance before he died, he would have fulfilled hisresponsibility. And here it could be done. He did not hesitate toappeal to Gudrun. 

Meanwhile, as the father drifted more and more out of life, Geraldexperienced more and more a sense of exposure. His father after all hadstood for the living world to him. Whilst his father lived Gerald wasnot responsible for the world. But now his father was passing away, Gerald found himself left exposed and unready before the storm ofliving, like the mutinous first mate of a ship that has lost hiscaptain, and who sees only a terrible chaos in front of him. He did notinherit an established order and a living idea. The whole unifying ideaof mankind seemed to be dying with his father, the centralising forcethat had held the whole together seemed to collapse with his father, the parts were ready to go asunder in terrible disintegration. Geraldwas as if left on board of a ship that was going asunder beneath hisfeet, 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 tobreak it apart. And now, with something of the terror of a destructivechild, he saw himself on the point of inheriting his own destruction. And during the last months, under the influence of death, and ofBirkin's talk, and of Gudrun's penetrating being, he had lost entirelythat mechanical certainty that had been his triumph. Sometimes spasmsof 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 ofconventional people. He wanted to revert to the strictest Toryism. Butthe 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 ofheroes, or spent his years in wonderful Odyssey. He hated remorselesslythe circumstances of his own life, so much that he never really sawBeldover and the colliery valley. He turned his face entirely away fromthe blackened mining region that stretched away on the right hand ofShortlands, he turned entirely to the country and the woods beyondWilley Water. It was true that the panting and rattling of the coalmines could always be heard at Shortlands. But from his earliestchildhood, Gerald had paid no heed to this. He had ignored the whole ofthe industrial sea which surged in coal-blackened tides against thegrounds of the house. The world was really a wilderness where onehunted and swam and rode. He rebelled against all authority. Life was acondition 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 spenta certain time at Bonn, at Berlin, and at Frankfurt. There, a curiosityhad been aroused in his mind. He wanted to see and to know, in acurious objective fashion, as if it were an amusement to him. Then hemust try war. Then he must travel into the savage regions that had soattracted him. 

The result was, he found humanity very much alike everywhere, and to amind like his, curious and cold, the savage was duller, less excitingthan 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 werenever more than a mental amusement. Their interest lay chiefly in thereaction against the positive order, the destructive reaction. 

He discovered at last a real adventure in the coal-mines. His fatherasked him to help in the firm. Gerald had been educated in the scienceof mining, and it had never interested him. Now, suddenly, with a sortof exultation, he laid hold of the world. 

There was impressed photographically on his consciousness the greatindustry. Suddenly, it was real, he was part of it. Down the valley ranthe colliery railway, linking mine with mine. Down the railway ran thetrains, short trains of heavily laden trucks, long trains of emptywagons, each one bearing in big white letters the initials:

'C. B. &Co. '

These white letters on all the wagons he had seen since his firstchildhood, and it was as if he had never seen them, they were sofamiliar, and so ignored. Now at last he saw his own name written onthe wall. Now he had a vision of power. 

So many wagons, bearing his initial, running all over the country. Hesaw them as he entered London in the train, he saw them at Dover. Sofar his power ramified. He looked at Beldover, at Selby, at Whatmore, at Lethley Bank, the great colliery villages which depended entirely onhis mines. They were hideous and sordid, during his childhood they hadbeen sores in his consciousness. And now he saw them with pride. Fourraw new towns, and many ugly industrial hamlets were crowded under hisdependence. He saw the stream of miners flowing along the causewaysfrom the mines at the end of the afternoon, thousands of blackened, slightly distorted human beings with red mouths, all moving subjugateto his will. He pushed slowly in his motor-car through the littlemarket-top on Friday nights in Beldover, through a solid mass of humanbeings that were making their purchases and doing their weeklyspending. They were all subordinate to him. They were ugly and uncouth, but they were his instruments. He was the God of the machine. They madeway for his motor-car automatically, slowly. 

He did not care whether they made way with alacrity, or grudgingly. Hedid not care what they thought of him. His vision had suddenlycrystallised. Suddenly he had conceived the pure instrumentality ofmankind. There had been so much humanitarianism, so much talk ofsufferings and feelings. It was ridiculous. The sufferings and feelingsof individuals did not matter in the least. They were mere conditions, like the weather. What mattered was the pure instrumentality of theindividual. As a man as of a knife: does it cut well? Nothing elsemattered. 

Everything in the world has its function, and is good or not good in sofar as it fulfils this function more or less perfectly. Was a miner agood miner? Then he was complete. Was a manager a good manager? Thatwas enough. Gerald himself, who was responsible for all this industry, was he a good director? If he were, he had fulfilled his life. The restwas by-play. 

The mines were there, they were old. They were giving out, it did notpay to work the seams. There was talk of closing down two of them. Itwas at this point that Gerald arrived on the scene. 

He looked around. There lay the mines. They were old, obsolete. Theywere like old lions, no more good. He looked again. Pah! the mines werenothing 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 underearth. How much was there?

There was plenty of coal. The old workings could not get at it, thatwas all. Then break the neck of the old workings. The coal lay there inits 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 willof man. The will of man was the determining factor. Man was the archgodof earth. His mind was obedient to serve his will. Man's will was theabsolute, the only absolute. 

And it was his will to subjugate Matter to his own ends. Thesubjugation itself was the point, the fight was the be-all, the fruitsof victory were mere results. It was not for the sake of money thatGerald took over the mines. He did not care about money, fundamentally. He was neither ostentatious nor luxurious, neither did he care aboutsocial position, not finally. What he wanted was the pure fulfilment ofhis own will in the struggle with the natural conditions. His will wasnow, to take the coal out of the earth, profitably. The profit wasmerely the condition of victory, but the victory itself lay in the featachieved. He vibrated with zest before the challenge. Every day he wasin the mines, examining, testing, he consulted experts, he graduallygathered the whole situation into his mind, as a general grasps theplan of his campaign. 

Then there was need for a complete break. The mines were run on an oldsystem, an obsolete idea. The initial idea had been, to obtain as muchmoney from the earth as would make the owners comfortably rich, wouldallow the workmen sufficient wages and good conditions, and wouldincrease the wealth of the country altogether. Gerald's father, following in the second generation, having a sufficient fortune, hadthought only of the men. The mines, for him, were primarily greatfields to produce bread and plenty for all the hundreds of human beingsgathered about them. He had lived and striven with his fellow owners tobenefit the men every time. And the men had been benefited in theirfashion. There were few poor, and few needy. All was plenty, becausethe mines were good and easy to work. And the miners, in those days, finding themselves richer than they might have expected, felt glad andtriumphant. They thought themselves well-off, they congratulatedthemselves on their good-fortune, they remembered how their fathers hadstarved and suffered, and they felt that better times had come. Theywere grateful to those others, the pioneers, the new owners, who hadopened out the pits, and let forth this stream of plenty. 

But man is never satisfied, and so the miners, from gratitude to theirowners, passed on to murmuring. Their sufficiency decreased withknowledge, they wanted more. Why should the master be soout-of-all-proportion rich?

There was a crisis when Gerald was a boy, when the Masters' Federationclosed 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 toclose the pits against his men. He, the father, the Patriarch, wasforced to deny the means of life to his sons, his people. He, the richman who would hardly enter heaven because of his possessions, must nowturn upon the poor, upon those who were nearer Christ than himself, those who were humble and despised and closer to perfection, those whowere manly and noble in their labours, and must say to them: 'Ye shallneither labour nor eat bread. '

It was this recognition of the state of war which really broke hisheart. He wanted his industry to be run on love. Oh, he wanted love tobe the directing power even of the mines. And now, from under the cloakof love, the sword was cynically drawn, the sword of mechanicalnecessity. 

This really broke his heart. He must have the illusion and now theillusion was destroyed. The men were not against HIM, but they wereagainst the masters. It was war, and willy nilly he found himself onthe wrong side, in his own conscience. Seething masses of miners metdaily, carried away by a new religious impulse. The idea flew throughthem: 'All men are equal on earth, ' and they would carry the idea toits 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 thenthis obvious DISQUALITY?' It was a religious creed pushed to itsmaterial conclusion. Thomas Crich at least had no answer. He could butadmit, 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 lastreligious passion left on earth, the passion for equality, inspiredthem. 

Seething mobs of men marched about, their faces lighted up as for holywar, with a smoke of cupidity. How disentangle the passion for equalityfrom the passion of cupidity, when begins the fight for equality ofpossessions? But the God was the machine. Each man claimed equality inthe Godhead of the great productive machine. Every man equally was partof this Godhead. But somehow, somewhere, Thomas Crich knew this wasfalse. When the machine is the Godhead, and production or work isworship, then the most mechanical mind is purest and highest, therepresentative of God on earth. And the rest are subordinate, eachaccording to his degree. 

Riots broke out, Whatmore pit-head was in flames. This was the pitfurthest in the country, near the woods. Soldiers came. From thewindows of Shortlands, on that fatal day, could be seen the flare offire in the sky not far off, and now the little colliery train, withthe workmen's carriages which were used to convey the miners to thedistant Whatmore, was crossing the valley full of soldiers, full ofredcoats. Then there was the far-off sound of firing, then the laternews that the mob was dispersed, one man was shot dead, the fire wasput out. 

Gerald, who was a boy, was filled with the wildest excitement anddelight. He longed to go with the soldiers to shoot the men. But he wasnot allowed to go out of the lodge gates. At the gates were stationedsentries with guns. Gerald stood near them in delight, whilst gangs ofderisive 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 awayhundreds of pounds in charity. Everywhere there was free food, asurfeit of free food. Anybody could have bread for asking, and a loafcost only three-ha'pence. Every day there was a free tea somewhere, thechildren had never had so many treats in their lives. On Fridayafternoon great basketfuls of buns and cakes were taken into theschools, and great pitchers of milk, the school children had what theywanted. 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 wasnever the same as before. There was a new situation created, a new ideareigned. Even in the machine, there should be equality. No part shouldbe subordinate to any other part: all should be equal. The instinct forchaos had entered. Mystic equality lies in abstraction, not in havingor in doing, which are processes. In function and process, one man, onepart, must of necessity be subordinate to another. It is a condition ofbeing. But the desire for chaos had risen, and the idea of mechanicalequality was the weapon of disruption which should execute the will ofman, 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 twohalftruths, and broken. He wanted to be a pure Christian, one and equalwith all men. He even wanted to give away all he had, to the poor. Yethe was a great promoter of industry, and he knew perfectly that he mustkeep his goods and keep his authority. This was as divine a necessityin 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 acton the other ideal, it dominated him, he was dying of chagrin becausehe must forfeit it. He wanted to be a father of loving kindness andsacrificial benevolence. The colliers shouted to him about histhousands 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 oflove and self-sacrifice was old hat. He knew that position andauthority were the right thing in the world, and it was useless to cantabout it. They were the right thing, for the simple reason that theywere 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 acontrolling, central part, the masses of men were the parts variouslycontrolled. This was merely as it happened. As well get excited becausea central hub drives a hundred outer wheels or because the wholeuniverse wheels round the sun. After all, it would be mere silliness tosay that the moon and the earth and Saturn and Jupiter and Venus havejust as much right to be the centre of the universe, each of themseparately, as the sun. Such an assertion is made merely in the desireof chaos. 

Without bothering to THINK to a conclusion, Gerald jumped to aconclusion. He abandoned the whole democratic-equality problem as aproblem of silliness. What mattered was the great social productivemachine. Let that work perfectly, let it produce a sufficiency ofeverything, let every man be given a rational portion, greater or lessaccording to his functional degree or magnitude, and then, provisionmade, let the devil supervene, let every man look after his ownamusements and appetites, so long as he interfered with nobody. 

So Gerald set himself to work, to put the great industry in order. Inhis travels, and in his accompanying readings, he had come to theconclusion that the essential secret of life was harmony. He did notdefine to himself at all clearly what harmony was. The word pleasedhim, he felt he had come to his own conclusions. And he proceeded toput his philosophy into practice by forcing order into the establishedworld, translating the mystic word harmony into the practical wordorganisation. 

Immediately he SAW the firm, he realised what he could do. He had afight to fight with Matter, with the earth and the coal it enclosed. This was the sole idea, to turn upon the inanimate matter of theunderground, and reduce it to his will. And for this fight with matter, one must have perfect instruments in perfect organisation, a mechanismso subtle and harmonious in its workings that it represents the singlemind of man, and by its relentless repetition of given movement, willaccomplish a purpose irresistibly, inhumanly. It was this inhumanprinciple in the mechanism he wanted to construct that inspired Geraldwith an almost religious exaltation. He, the man, could interpose aperfect, changeless, godlike medium between himself and the Matter hehad to subjugate. There were two opposites, his will and the resistantMatter of the earth. And between these he could establish the veryexpression of his will, the incarnation of his power, a great andperfect machine, a system, an activity of pure order, pure mechanicalrepetition, repetition ad infinitum, hence eternal and infinite. Hefound his eternal and his infinite in the pure machine-principle ofperfect co-ordination into one pure, complex, infinitely repeatedmotion, like the spinning of a wheel; but a productive spinning, as therevolving of the universe may be called a productive spinning, aproductive repetition through eternity, to infinity. And this is theGodmotion, this productive repetition ad infinitum. And Gerald was theGod of the machine, Deus ex Machina. And the whole productive will ofman was the Godhead. 

He had his life-work now, to extend over the earth a great and perfectsystem in which the will of man ran smooth and unthwarted, timeless, aGodhead in process. He had to begin with the mines. The terms weregiven: first the resistant Matter of the underground; then theinstruments of its subjugation, instruments human and metallic; andfinally his own pure will, his own mind. It would need a marvellousadjustment of myriad instruments, human, animal, metallic, kinetic, dynamic, a marvellous casting of myriad tiny wholes into one greatperfect entirety. And then, in this case there was perfection attained, the will of the highest was perfectly fulfilled, the will of mankindwas perfectly enacted; for was not mankind mysticallycontra-distinguished against inanimate Matter, was not the history ofmankind just the history of the conquest of the one by the other?

The miners were overreached. While they were still in the toils ofdivine equality of man, Gerald had passed on, granted essentially theircase, and proceeded in his quality of human being to fulfil the will ofmankind as a whole. He merely represented the miners in a higher sensewhen he perceived that the only way to fulfil perfectly the will of manwas to establish the perfect, inhuman machine. But he represented themvery essentially, they were far behind, out of date, squabbling fortheir material equality. The desire had already transmuted into thisnew and greater desire, for a perfect intervening mechanism between manand Matter, the desire to translate the Godhead into pure mechanism. 

As soon as Gerald entered the firm, the convulsion of death ran throughthe old system. He had all his life been tortured by a furious anddestructive demon, which possessed him sometimes like an insanity. Thistemper now entered like a virus into the firm, and there were crueleruptions. Terrible and inhuman were his examinations into everydetail; there was no privacy he would spare, no old sentiment but hewould turn it over. The old grey managers, the old grey clerks, thedoddering old pensioners, he looked at them, and removed them as somuch lumber. The whole concern seemed like a hospital of invalidemployees. He had no emotional qualms. He arranged what pensions werenecessary, he looked for efficient substitutes, and when these werefound, 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 fellowmight 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 verymuch, that he is superannuated. Says he thought he had twenty moreyears 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 pitswould have to be overhauled if they were to go on working. And afterall, it would be worst in the long run for everybody, if they mustclose down. So he could make no answer to the appeals of his old andtrusty servants, he could only repeat 'Gerald says. '

So the father drew more and more out of the light. The whole frame ofthe real life was broken for him. He had been right according to hislights. And his lights had been those of the great religion. Yet theyseemed to have become obsolete, to be superseded in the world. He couldnot understand. He only withdrew with his lights into an inner room, into the silence. The beautiful candles of belief, that would not do tolight the world any more, they would still burn sweetly andsufficiently in the inner room of his soul, and in the silence of hisretirement. 

Gerald rushed into the reform of the firm, beginning with the office. It was needful to economise severely, to make possible the greatalterations he must introduce. 

'What are these widows' coals?' he asked. 

'We have always allowed all widows of men who worked for the firm aload of coals every three months. '

'They must pay cost price henceforward. The firm is not a charityinstitution, as everybody seems to think. '

Widows, these stock figures of sentimental humanitarianism, he felt adislike at the thought of them. They were almost repulsive. Why werethey 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 tobe hardly noticeable to the men. The miners must pay for the cartage oftheir coals, heavy cartage too; they must pay for their tools, for thesharpening, for the care of lamps, for the many trifling things thatmade the bill of charges against every man mount up to a shilling or soin the week. It was not grasped very definitely by the miners, thoughthey were sore enough. But it saved hundreds of pounds every week forthe firm. 

Gradually Gerald got hold of everything. And then began the greatreform. Expert engineers were introduced in every department. Anenormous electric plant was installed, both for lighting and forhaulage underground, and for power. The electricity was carried intoevery mine. New machinery was brought from America, such as the minershad never seen before, great iron men, as the cutting machines werecalled, and unusual appliances. The working of the pits was thoroughlychanged, all the control was taken out of the hands of the miners, thebutty system was abolished. Everything was run on the most accurate anddelicate scientific method, educated and expert men were in controleverywhere, the miners were reduced to mere mechanical instruments. They had to work hard, much harder than before, the work was terribleand heart-breaking in its mechanicalness. 

But they submitted to it all. The joy went out of their lives, the hopeseemed to perish as they became more and more mechanised. And yet theyaccepted the new conditions. They even got a further satisfaction outof them. At first they hated Gerald Crich, they swore to do somethingto him, to murder him. But as time went on, they accepted everythingwith some fatal satisfaction. Gerald was their high priest, herepresented the religion they really felt. His father was forgottenalready. There was a new world, a new order, strict, terrible, inhuman, but satisfying in its very destructiveness. The men were satisfied tobelong to the great and wonderful machine, even whilst it destroyedthem. It was what they wanted. It was the highest that man hadproduced, the most wonderful and superhuman. They were exalted bybelonging to this great and superhuman system which was beyond feelingor reason, something really godlike. Their hearts died within them, buttheir souls were satisfied. It was what they wanted. Otherwise Geraldcould never have done what he did. He was just ahead of them in givingthem what they wanted, this participation in a great and perfect systemthat subjected life to pure mathematical principles. This was a sort offreedom, the sort they really wanted. It was the first great step inundoing, the first great phase of chaos, the substitution of themechanical principle for the organic, the destruction of the organicpurpose, the organic unity, and the subordination of every organic unitto the great mechanical purpose. It was pure organic disintegration andpure mechanical organisation. This is the first and finest state ofchaos. 

Gerald was satisfied. He knew the colliers said they hated him. But hehad long ceased to hate them. When they streamed past him at evening, their heavy boots slurring on the pavement wearily, their shouldersslightly distorted, they took no notice of him, they gave him nogreeting whatever, they passed in a grey-black stream of unemotionalacceptance. They were not important to him, save as instruments, nor heto them, save as a supreme instrument of control. As miners they hadtheir being, he had his being as director. He admired their qualities. But as men, personalities, they were just accidents, sporadic littleunimportant phenomena. And tacitly, the men agreed to this. For Geraldagreed to it in himself. 

He had succeeded. He had converted the industry into a new and terriblepurity. There was a greater output of coal than ever, the wonderful anddelicate system ran almost perfectly. He had a set of really cleverengineers, both mining and electrical, and they did not cost much. Ahighly educated man cost very little more than a workman. His managers, who were all rare men, were no more expensive than the old bunglingfools of his father's days, who were merely colliers promoted. Hischief manager, who had twelve hundred a year, saved the firm at leastfive thousand. The whole system was now so perfect that Gerald washardly necessary any more. 

It was so perfect that sometimes a strange fear came over him, and hedid not know what to do. He went on for some years in a sort of tranceof activity. What he was doing seemed supreme, he was almost like adivinity. He was a pure and exalted activity. 

But now he had succeeded--he had finally succeeded. And once or twicelately, when he was alone in the evening and had nothing to do, he hadsuddenly stood up in terror, not knowing what he was. And he went tothe mirror and looked long and closely at his own face, at his owneyes, seeking for something. He was afraid, in mortal dry fear, but heknew not what of. He looked at his own face. There it was, shapely andhealthy and the same as ever, yet somehow, it was not real, it was amask. He dared not touch it, for fear it should prove to be only acomposition mask. His eyes were blue and keen as ever, and as firm intheir sockets. Yet he was not sure that they were not blue falsebubbles that would burst in a moment and leave clear annihilation. Hecould see the darkness in them, as if they were only bubbles ofdarkness. He was afraid that one day he would break down and be apurely meaningless babble lapping round a darkness. 

But his will yet held good, he was able to go away and read, and thinkabout things. He liked to read books about the primitive man, books ofanthropology, and also works of speculative philosophy. His mind wasvery active. But it was like a bubble floating in the darkness. At anymoment it might burst and leave him in chaos. He would not die. He knewthat. He would go on living, but the meaning would have collapsed outof him, his divine reason would be gone. In a strangely indifferent, sterile way, he was frightened. But he could not react even to thefear. It was as if his centres of feeling were drying up. He remainedcalm, calculative and healthy, and quite freely deliberate, even whilsthe felt, with faint, small but final sterile horror, that his mysticreason was breaking, giving way now, at this crisis. 

And it was a strain. He knew there was no equilibrium. He would have togo in some direction, shortly, to find relief. Only Birkin kept thefear definitely off him, saved him his quick sufficiency in life, bythe odd mobility and changeableness which seemed to contain thequintessence of faith. But then Gerald must always come away fromBirkin, as from a Church service, back to the outside real world ofwork and life. There it was, it did not alter, and words werefutilities. He had to keep himself in reckoning with the world of workand material life. And it became more and more difficult, such astrange pressure was upon him, as if the very middle of him were avacuum, and outside were an awful tension. 

He had found his most satisfactory relief in women. After a debauchwith some desperate woman, he went on quite easy and forgetful. Thedevil of it was, it was so hard to keep up his interest in womennowadays. He didn't care about them any more. A Pussum was all right inher way, but she was an exceptional case, and even she matteredextremely little. No, women, in that sense, were useless to him anymore. He felt that his MIND needed acute stimulation, before he couldbe 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. Andthough she hung back, disliking the condition, yet she knew she wouldgo on. She equivocated. She said to herself, in torment recalling theblow and the kiss, 'after all, what is it? What is a kiss? What even isa blow? It is an instant, vanished at once. I can go to Shortlands justfor a time, before I go away, if only to see what it is like. ' For shehad an insatiable curiosity to see and to know everything. 

She also wanted to know what Winifred was really like. Having heard thechild calling from the steamer in the night, she felt some mysteriousconnection with her. 

Gudrun talked with the father in the library. Then he sent for hisdaughter. She came accompanied by Mademoiselle. 

'Winnie, this is Miss Brangwen, who will be so kind as to help you withyour drawing and making models of your animals, ' said the father. 

The child looked at Gudrun for a moment with interest, before she cameforward and with face averted offered her hand. There was a completeSANG FROID and indifference under Winifred's childish reserve, acertain 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 brightmanner. 

'QUITE fine, ' said Gudrun. 

Winifred was watching from her distance. She was as if amused, butrather unsure as yet what this new person was like. She saw so many newpersons, and so few who became real to her. Mademoiselle was of nocount whatever, the child merely put up with her, calmly and easily, accepting her little authority with faint scorn, compliant out ofchildish arrogance of indifference. 

'Well, Winifred, ' said the father, 'aren't you glad Miss Brangwen hascome? She makes animals and birds in wood and in clay, that the peoplein 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 faintchallenge. 

'Yes, ' said Gudrun. 

Winifred readjusted herself a little. She had been ready to acceptGudrun as a sort of servant. Now she saw it was on terms of friendshipthey were intended to meet. She was rather glad. She had so many halfinferiors, whom she tolerated with perfect good-humour. 

Gudrun was very calm. She also did not take these things veryseriously. 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 offwith a certain humiliating clumsiness. Neither Winifred nor herinstructress had any social grace. 

Soon, however, they met in a kind of make-belief world. Winifred didnot notice human beings unless they were like herself, playful andslightly 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 hercompanionship. To the rest of the human scheme she submitted with afaint bored indifference. 

She had a pekinese dog called Looloo, which she loved. 

'Let us draw Looloo, ' said Gudrun, 'and see if we can get hisLooliness, shall we?'

'Darling!' cried Winifred, rushing to the dog, that sat withcontemplative 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 itsmummy draws its beautiful portrait. ' The dog looked up at her withgrievous resignation in its large, prominent eyes. She kissed itfervently, and said: 'I wonder what mine will be like. It's sure to beawful. '

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 ifshe were doing him some subtle injury. He sat all the time with theresignation and fretfulness of ages on his dark velvety face. She drewslowly, 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 someenchantment. Suddenly she had finished. She looked at the dog, and thenat her drawing, and then cried, with real grief for the dog, and at thesame time with a wicked exultation:

'My beautiful, why did they?'

She took her paper to the dog, and held it under his nose. He turnedhis head aside as in chagrin and mortification, and she impulsivelykissed his velvety bulging forehead. 

''s a Loolie, 's a little Loozie! Look at his portrait, darling, lookat his portrait, that his mother has done of him. ' She looked at herpaper and chuckled. Then, kissing the dog once more, she rose and camegravely to Gudrun, offering her the paper. 

It was a grotesque little diagram of a grotesque little animal, sowicked 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 SObeautiful-mmm, Looloo, my sweet darling. ' And she flew off to embracethe chagrined little dog. He looked up at her with reproachful, saturnine eyes, vanquished in his extreme agedness of being. Then sheflew 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 showedit, 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 thefirst morning he came back he watched for her. It was a sunny, softmorning, and he lingered in the garden paths, looking at the flowersthat had come out during his absence. He was clean and fit as ever, shaven, his fair hair scrupulously parted at the side, bright in thesunshine, his short, fair moustache closely clipped, his eyes withtheir humorous kind twinkle, which was so deceptive. He was dressed inblack, his clothes sat well on his well-nourished body. Yet as helingered before the flower-beds in the morning sunshine, there was acertain isolation, a fear about him, as of something wanting. 

Gudrun came up quickly, unseen. She was dressed in blue, with woollenyellow stockings, like the Bluecoat boys. He glanced up in surprise. Her stockings always disconcerted him, the pale-yellow stockings andthe heavy heavy black shoes. Winifred, who had been playing about thegarden with Mademoiselle and the dogs, came flitting towards Gudrun. The child wore a dress of black-and-white stripes. Her hair was rathershort, cut round and hanging level in her neck. 

'We're going to do Bismarck, aren't we?' she said, linking her handthrough 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 SOsplendid this morning, so FIERCE. He's almost as big as a lion. ' Andthe child chuckled sardonically at her own hyperbole. 'He's a realking, he really is. '

'Bon jour, Mademoiselle, ' said the little French governess, wavering upwith a slight bow, a bow of the sort that Gudrun loathed, insolent. 

'Winifred veut tant faire le portrait de Bismarck-! Oh, mais toute lamatinee-"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?' saidGudrun in her good, but rather heavy French. 

'Non, mademoiselle, Winifred n'a jamais voulu me le faire voir. Tant defois 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 thatBismarck is a mystery, ' cried Winifred. 

'Bismarck, is a mystery, Bismarck, c'est un mystere, der Bismarck, erist ein Wunder, ' said Gudrun, in mocking incantation. 

'Ja, er ist ein Wunder, ' repeated Winifred, with odd seriousness, underwhich lay a wicked chuckle. 

'Ist er auch ein Wunder?' came the slightly insolent sneering ofMademoiselle. 

'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 contemptuousindifference. 

'A chancelier is a chancellor, and a chancellor is, I believe, a sortof judge, ' said Gerald coming up and shaking hands with Gudrun. 'You'llhave made a song of Bismarck soon, ' said he. 

Mademoiselle waited, and discreetly made her inclination, and hergreeting. 

'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 purposelyfatuous. 

'Oh no, ' cried Winifred with emphasis, chuckling. 

Gudrun detected the tang of mockery in him, and she looked up andsmiled into his face. He felt his nerves caressed. Their eyes met inknowledge. 

'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, andthe governess lingered in the rear. They stopped before some veinedsalpiglossis flowers. 

'Aren't they wonderful?' she cried, looking at them absorbedly. Strangehow her reverential, almost ecstatic admiration of the flowers caressedhis nerves. She stooped down, and touched the trumpets, with infinitelyfine and delicate-touching finger-tips. It filled him with ease to seeher. 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 wasin love with her. 

She was aware of Mademoiselle standing near, like a little Frenchbeetle, observant and calculating. She moved away with Winifred, sayingthey would go to find Bismarck. 

Gerald watched them go, looking all the while at the soft, full, stillbody of Gudrun, in its silky cashmere. How silky and rich and soft herbody must be. An excess of appreciation came over his mind, she was theall-desirable, the all-beautiful. He wanted only to come to her, nothing more. He was only this, this being that should come to her, andbe given to her. 

At the same time he was finely and acutely aware of Mademoiselle'sneat, brittle finality of form. She was like some elegant beetle withthin ankles, perched on her high heels, her glossy black dressperfectly correct, her dark hair done high and admirably. How repulsiveher completeness and her finality was! He loathed her. 

Yet he did admire her. She was perfectly correct. And it did ratherannoy him, that Gudrun came dressed in startling colours, like a macaw, when the family was in mourning. Like a macaw she was! He watched thelingering way she took her feet from the ground. And her ankles werepale yellow, and her dress a deep blue. Yet it pleased him. It pleasedhim very much. He felt the challenge in her very attire-she challengedthe whole world. And he smiled as to the note of a trumpet. 

Gudrun and Winifred went through the house to the back, where were thestables and the out-buildings. Everywhere was still and deserted. MrCrich had gone out for a short drive, the stableman had just led roundGerald'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 looksilly!' 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 darlingBismarck?'

'Can we take him out?' said Gudrun. 

'He's very strong. He really is extremely strong. ' She looked atGudrun, 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 wildrush 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 thehutch in a hurry. 'Bismarck!' cried the child, in rousing excitement. 'How DREADFUL you are! You are beastly. ' Winifred looked up at Gudrunwith some misgiving in her wild excitement. Gudrun smiled sardonicallywith her mouth. Winifred made a strange crooning noise of unaccountableexcitement. 'Now he's still!' she cried, seeing the rabbit settled downin a far corner of the hutch. 'Shall we take him now?' she whisperedexcitedly, 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 andseized the great, lusty rabbit as it crouched still, she grasped itslong ears. It set its four feet flat, and thrust back. There was a longscraping sound as it was hauled forward, and in another instant it wasin mid-air, lunging wildly, its body flying like a spring coiled andreleased, as it lashed out, suspended from the ears. Gudrun held theblack-and-white tempest at arms' length, averting her face. But therabbit 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 arather frightened voice, 'Oh, do put him down, he's beastly. '

Gudrun stood for a moment astounded by the thunder-storm that hadsprung into being in her grip. Then her colour came up, a heavy ragecame over her like a cloud. She stood shaken as a house in a storm, andutterly overcome. Her heart was arrested with fury at the mindlessnessand the bestial stupidity of this struggle, her wrists were badlyscored 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 underher arm. He saw, with subtle recognition, her sullen passion ofcruelty. 

'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 thecrying a seagull, strange and vindictive. 

The rabbit made itself into a ball in the air, and lashed out, flingingitself into a bow. It really seemed demoniacal. Gudrun saw Gerald'sbody 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 itwere flying, looking something like a dragon, then closing up again, inconceivably powerful and explosive. The man's body, strung to itsefforts, vibrated strongly. Then a sudden sharp, white-edged wrath cameup in him. Swift as lightning he drew back and brought his free handdown like a hawk on the neck of the rabbit. Simultaneously, there camethe unearthly abhorrent scream of a rabbit in the fear of death. Itmade one immense writhe, tore his wrists and his sleeves in a finalconvulsion, all its belly flashed white in a whirlwind of paws, andthen he had slung it round and had it under his arm, fast. It coweredand 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 pallidface, she looked almost unearthly. The scream of the rabbit, after theviolent tussle, seemed to have torn the veil of her consciousness. Helooked 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 himas I do for Loozie. He's hateful really. '

A smile twisted Gudrun's face, as she recovered. She knew she wasrevealed. '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 wassaying, putting out her hand and touching the rabbit tentatively, as itskulked 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. Andshe touched the rabbit with more confidence. 'His heart is beating SOfast. 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 withunderworld knowledge, almost supplicating, like those of a creaturewhich is at his mercy, yet which is his ultimate victor. He did notknow what to say to her. He felt the mutual hellish recognition. And hefelt he ought to say something, to cover it. He had the power oflightning in his nerves, she seemed like a soft recipient of hismagical, 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 inwhose crevices wall-flowers were growing. The grass was soft and fineand 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 whiteface. 

'Isn't it a FOOL!' she cried. 'Isn't it a sickening FOOL?' Thevindictive mockery in her voice made his brain quiver. Glancing up athim, into his eyes, she revealed again the mocking, white-cruelrecognition. 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 isnothing. '

She lifted her arm and showed a deep red score down the silken whiteflesh. 

'What a devil!' he exclaimed. But it was as if he had had knowledge ofher in the long red rent of her forearm, so silken and soft. He did notwant to touch her. He would have to make himself touch her, deliberately. The long, shallow red rip seemed torn across his ownbrain, tearing the surface of his ultimate consciousness, lettingthrough 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 aflower, so still and soft, suddenly burst into life. Round and roundthe court it went, as if shot from a gun, round and round like a furrymeteorite, in a tense hard circle that seemed to bind their brains. They all stood in amazement, smiling uncannily, as if the rabbit wereobeying some unknown incantation. Round and round it flew, on the grassunder the old red walls like a storm. 

And then quite suddenly it settled down, hobbled among the grass, andsat 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, ithobbled calmly forward and began to nibble the grass with that meanmotion 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 israbbit-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 athim 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. '-Allthat, and more. ' Her eyes looked up at him with shocking nonchalance. 

He felt again as if she had torn him across the breast, dully, finally. He turned aside. 

'Eat, eat my darling!' Winifred was softly conjuring the rabbit, andcreeping forward to touch it. It hobbled away from her. 'Let its motherstroke its fur then, darling, because it is so mysterious-'

CHAPTER XIX. 

MOONY

After his illness Birkin went to the south of France for a time. He didnot write, nobody heard anything of him. Ursula, left alone, felt as ifeverything were lapsing out. There seemed to be no hope in the world. One was a tiny little rock with the tide of nothingness rising higherand higher She herself was real, and only herself--just like a rock ina wash of flood-water. The rest was all nothingness. She was hard andindifferent, isolated in herself. 

There was nothing for it now, but contemptuous, resistant indifference. All the world was lapsing into a grey wish-wash of nothingness, she hadno contact and no connection anywhere. She despised and detested thewhole show. From the bottom of her heart, from the bottom of her soul, she despised and detested people, adult people. She loved only childrenand animals: children she loved passionately, but coldly. They made herwant to hug them, to protect them, to give them life. But this verylove, based on pity and despair, was only a bondage and a pain to her. She loved best of all the animals, that were single and unsocial as sheherself was. She loved the horses and cows in the field. Each wassingle and to itself, magical. It was not referred away to somedetestable social principle. It was incapable of soulfulness andtragedy, which she detested so profoundly. 

She could be very pleasant and flattering, almost subservient, topeople she met. But no one was taken in. Instinctively each felt hercontemptuous mockery of the human being in himself, or herself. She hada profound grudge against the human being. That which the word 'human'stood for was despicable and repugnant to her. 

Mostly her heart was closed in this hidden, unconscious strain ofcontemptuous ridicule. She thought she loved, she thought she was fullof love. This was her idea of herself. But the strange brightness ofher presence, a marvellous radiance of intrinsic vitality, was aluminousness of supreme repudiation, nothing but repudiation. 

Yet, at moments, she yielded and softened, she wanted pure love, onlypure love. This other, this state of constant unfailing repudiation, was a strain, a suffering also. A terrible desire for pure loveovercame her again. 

She went out one evening, numbed by this constant essential suffering. Those who are timed for destruction must die now. The knowledge of thisreached a finality, a finishing in her. And the finality released her. If fate would carry off in death or downfall all those who were timedto go, why need she trouble, why repudiate any further. She was free ofit all, she could seek a new union elsewhere. 

Ursula set off to Willey Green, towards the mill. She came to WilleyWater. It was almost full again, after its period of emptiness. Thenshe turned off through the woods. The night had fallen, it was dark. But she forgot to be afraid, she who had such great sources of fear. Among the trees, far from any human beings, there was a sort of magicpeace. The more one could find a pure loneliness, with no taint ofpeople, the better one felt. She was in reality terrified, horrified inher apprehension of people. 

She started, noticing something on her right hand, between the treetrunks. It was like a great presence, watching her, dodging her. Shestarted violently. It was only the moon, risen through the thin trees. But it seemed so mysterious, with its white and deathly smile. Andthere was no avoiding it. Night or day, one could not escape thesinister face, triumphant and radiant like this moon, with a highsmile. She hurried on, cowering from the white planet. She would justsee the pond at the mill before she went home. 

Not wanting to go through the yard, because of the dogs, she turned offalong the hill-side to descend on the pond from above. The moon wastranscendent over the bare, open space, she suffered from being exposedto it. There was a glimmer of nightly rabbits across the ground. Thenight was as clear as crystal, and very still. She could hear a distantcoughing of a sheep. 

So she swerved down to the steep, tree-hidden bank above the pond, where the alders twisted their roots. She was glad to pass into theshade out of the moon. There she stood, at the top of the fallen-awaybank, her hand on the rough trunk of a tree, looking at the water, thatwas perfect in its stillness, floating the moon upon it. But for somereason she disliked it. It did not give her anything. She listened forthe hoarse rustle of the sluice. And she wished for something else outof the night, she wanted another night, not this moon-brillianthardness. She could feel her soul crying out in her, lamentingdesolately. 

She saw a shadow moving by the water. It would be Birkin. He had comeback then, unawares. She accepted it without remark, nothing matteredto her. She sat down among the roots of the alder tree, dim and veiled, hearing the sound of the sluice like dew distilling audibly into thenight. The islands were dark and half revealed, the reeds were darkalso, only some of them had a little frail fire of reflection. A fishleaped secretly, revealing the light in the pond. This fire of thechill night breaking constantly on to the pure darkness, repelled her. She wished it were perfectly dark, perfectly, and noiseless and withoutmotion. Birkin, small and dark also, his hair tinged with moonlight, wandered nearer. He was quite near, and yet he did not exist in her. Hedid not know she was there. Supposing he did something he would notwish to be seen doing, thinking he was quite private? But there, whatdid it matter? What did the small priyacies matter? How could itmatter, what he did? How can there be any secrets, we are all the sameorganisms? How can there be any secrecy, when everything is known toall of us?

He was touching unconsciously the dead husks of flowers as he passedby, and talking disconnectedly to himself. 

'You can't go away, ' he was saying. 'There IS no away. You onlywithdraw upon yourself. '

He threw a dead flower-husk on to the water. 

'An antiphony--they lie, and you sing back to them. There wouldn't haveto be any truth, if there weren't any lies. Then one needn't assertanything--'

He stood still, looking at the water, and throwing upon it the husks ofthe flowers. 

'Cybele--curse her! The accursed Syria Dea! Does one begrudge it her?What else is there--?'

Ursula wanted to laugh loudly and hysterically, hearing his isolatedvoice speaking out. It was so ridiculous. 

He stood staring at the water. Then he stooped and picked up a stone, which he threw sharply at the pond. Ursula was aware of the bright moonleaping and swaying, all distorted, in her eyes. It seemed to shoot outarms of fire like a cuttle-fish, like a luminous polyp, palpitatingstrongly before her. 

And his shadow on the border of the pond, was watching for a fewmoments, then he stooped and groped on the ground. Then again there wasa burst of sound, and a burst of brilliant light, the moon had explodedon the water, and was flying asunder in flakes of white and dangerousfire. Rapidly, like white birds, the fires all broken rose across thepond, fleeing in clamorous confusion, battling with the flock of darkwaves that were forcing their way in. The furthest waves of light, fleeing out, seemed to be clamouring against the shore for escape, thewaves of darkness came in heavily, running under towards the centre. But at the centre, the heart of all, was still a vivid, incandescentquivering of a white moon not quite destroyed, a white body of firewrithing and striving and not even now broken open, not yet violated. It seemed to be drawing itself together with strange, violent pangs, inblind effort. It was getting stronger, it was re-asserting itself, theinviolable moon. And the rays were hastening in in thin lines of light, to return to the strengthened moon, that shook upon the water intriumphant reassumption. 

Birkin stood and watched, motionless, till the pond was almost calm, the moon was almost serene. Then, satisfied of so much, he looked formore stones. She felt his invisible tenacity. And in a moment again, the broken lights scattered in explosion over her face, dazzling her;and then, almost immediately, came the second shot. The moon leapt upwhite and burst through the air. Darts of bright light shot asunder, darkness swept over the centre. There was no moon, only a battlefieldof broken lights and shadows, running close together. Shadows, dark andheavy, struck again and again across the place where the heart of themoon had been, obliterating it altogether. The white fragments pulsedup and down, and could not find where to go, apart and brilliant on thewater like the petals of a rose that a wind has blown far and wide. 

Yet again, they were flickering their way to the centre, finding thepath blindly, enviously. And again, all was still, as Birkin and Ursulawatched. The waters were loud on the shore. He saw the moon regatheringitself insidiously, saw the heart of the rose intertwining vigorouslyand blindly, calling back the scattered fragments, winning home thefragments, in a pulse and in effort of return. 

And he was not satisfied. Like a madness, he must go on. He got largestones, and threw them, one after the other, at the white-burningcentre of the moon, till there was nothing but a rocking of hollownoise, and a pond surged up, no moon any more, only a few broken flakestangled and glittering broadcast in the darkness, without aim ormeaning, a darkened confusion, like a black and white kaleidoscopetossed at random. The hollow night was rocking and crashing with noise, and from the sluice came sharp, regular flashes of sound. Flakes oflight appeared here and there, glittering tormented among the shadows, far off, in strange places; among the dripping shadow of the willow onthe island. Birkin stood and listened and was satisfied. 

Ursula was dazed, her mind was all gone. She felt she had fallen to theground and was spilled out, like water on the earth. Motionless andspent she remained in the gloom. Though even now she was aware, unseeing, that in the darkness was a little tumult of ebbing flakes oflight, a cluster dancing secretly in a round, twining and comingsteadily together. They were gathering a heart again, they were comingonce more into being. Gradually the fragments caught togetherre-united, heaving, rocking, dancing, falling back as in panic, butworking their way home again persistently, making semblance of fleeingaway when they had advanced, but always flickering nearer, a littlecloser to the mark, the cluster growing mysteriously larger andbrighter, as gleam after gleam fell in with the whole, until a raggedrose, a distorted, frayed moon was shaking upon the waters again, re-asserted, renewed, trying to recover from its convulsion, to getover the disfigurement and the agitation, to be whole and composed, atpeace. 

Birkin lingered vaguely by the water. Ursula was afraid that he wouldstone the moon again. She slipped from her seat and went down to him, saying:

'You won't throw stones at it any more, will you?'

'How long have you been there?'

'All the time. You won't throw any more stones, will you?'

'I wanted to see if I could make it be quite gone off the pond, ' hesaid. 

'Yes, it was horrible, really. Why should you hate the moon? It hasn'tdone you any harm, has it?'

'Was it hate?' he said. 

And they were silent for a few minutes. 

'When did you come back?' she said. 

'Today. '

'Why did you never write?'

'I could find nothing to say. '

'Why was there nothing to say?'

'I don't know. Why are there no daffodils now?'

'No. '

Again there was a space of silence. Ursula looked at the moon. It hadgathered itself together, and was quivering slightly. 

'Was it good for you, to be alone?' she asked. 

'Perhaps. Not that I know much. But I got over a good deal. Did you doanything important?'

'No. I looked at England, and thought I'd done with it. '

'Why England?' he asked in surprise. 

'I don't know, it came like that. '

'It isn't a question of nations, ' he said. 'France is far worse. '

'Yes, I know. I felt I'd done with it all. '

They went and sat down on the roots of the trees, in the shadow. Andbeing silent, he remembered the beauty of her eyes, which weresometimes filled with light, like spring, suffused with wonderfulpromise. So he said to her, slowly, with difficulty:

'There is a golden light in you, which I wish you would give me. ' Itwas as if he had been thinking of this for some time. 

She was startled, she seemed to leap clear of him. Yet also she waspleased. 

'What kind of a light, ' she asked. 

But he was shy, and did not say any more. So the moment passed for thistime. And gradually a feeling of sorrow came over her. 

'My life is unfulfilled, ' she said. 

'Yes, ' he answered briefly, not wanting to hear this. 

'And I feel as if nobody could ever really love me, ' she said. 

But he did not answer. 

'You think, don't you, ' she said slowly, 'that I only want physicalthings? It isn't true. I want you to serve my spirit. '

'I know you do. I know you don't want physical things by themselves. But, I want you to give me--to give your spirit to me--that goldenlight which is you--which you don't know--give it me--'

After a moment's silence she replied:

'But how can I, you don't love me! You only want your own ends. Youdon't want to serve ME, and yet you want me to serve you. It is soone-sided!'

It was a great effort to him to maintain this conversation, and topress for the thing he wanted from her, the surrender of her spirit. 

'It is different, ' he said. 'The two kinds of service are so different. I serve you in another way--not through YOURSELF--somewhere else. But Iwant us to be together without bothering about ourselves--to be reallytogether because we ARE together, as if it were a phenomenon, not a nota thing we have to maintain by our own effort. '

'No, ' she said, pondering. 'You are just egocentric. You never have anyenthusiasm, you never come out with any spark towards me. You wantyourself, really, and your own affairs. And you want me just to bethere, to serve you. '

But this only made him shut off from her. 

'Ah well, ' he said, 'words make no matter, any way. The thing ISbetween us, or it isn't. '

'You don't even love me, ' she cried. 

'I do, ' he said angrily. 'But I want--' His mind saw again the lovelygolden light of spring transfused through her eyes, as through somewonderful window. And he wanted her to be with him there, in this worldof proud indifference. But what was the good of telling her he wantedthis company in proud indifference. What was the good of talking, anyway? It must happen beyond the sound of words. It was merely ruinous totry to work her by conviction. This was a paradisal bird that couldnever be netted, it must fly by itself to the heart. 

'I always think I am going to be loved--and then I am let down. YouDON'T love me, you know. You don't want to serve me. You only wantyourself. '

A shiver of rage went over his veins, at this repeated: 'You don't wantto serve me. ' All the paradisal disappeared from him. 

'No, ' he said, irritated, 'I don't want to serve you, because there isnothing there to serve. What you want me to serve, is nothing, merenothing. It isn't even you, it is your mere female quality. And Iwouldn't give a straw for your female ego--it's a rag doll. '

'Ha!' she laughed in mockery. 'That's all you think of me, is it? Andthen you have the impudence to say you love me. '

She rose in anger, to go home. 

You want the paradisal unknowing, ' she said, turning round on him as hestill sat half-visible in the shadow. 'I know what that means, thankyou. You want me to be your thing, never to criticise you or to haveanything to say for myself. You want me to be a mere THING for you! Nothank you! IF you want that, there are plenty of women who will give itto you. There are plenty of women who will lie down for you to walkover them--GO to them then, if that's what you want--go to them. '

'No, ' he said, outspoken with anger. 'I want you to drop your assertiveWILL, your frightened apprehensive self-insistence, that is what Iwant. I want you to trust yourself so implicitly, that you can letyourself go. '

'Let myself go!' she re-echoed in mockery. 'I can let myself go, easilyenough. It is you who can't let yourself go, it is you who hang on toyourself as if it were your only treasure. YOU--YOU are the Sundayschool teacher--YOU--you preacher. '

The amount of truth that was in this made him stiff and unheeding ofher. 

'I don't mean let yourself go in the Dionysic ecstatic way, ' he said. 'I know you can do that. But I hate ecstasy, Dionysic or any other. It's like going round in a squirrel cage. I want you not to care aboutyourself, just to be there and not to care about yourself, not toinsist--be glad and sure and indifferent. '

'Who insists?' she mocked. 'Who is it that keeps on insisting? It isn'tME!'

There was a weary, mocking bitterness in her voice. He was silent forsome time. 

'I know, ' he said. 'While ever either of us insists to the other, weare all wrong. But there we are, the accord doesn't come. '

They sat in stillness under the shadow of the trees by the bank. Thenight was white around them, they were in the darkness, barelyconscious. 

Gradually, the stillness and peace came over them. She put her handtentatively on his. Their hands clasped softly and silently, in peace. 

'Do you really love me?' she said. 

He laughed. 

'I call that your war-cry, ' he replied, amused. 

'Why!' she cried, amused and really wondering. 

'Your insistence--Your war-cry--"A Brangwen, A Brangwen"--an oldbattle-cry. Yours is, "Do you love me? Yield knave, or die. "'

'No, ' she said, pleading, 'not like that. Not like that. But I mustknow that you love me, mustn't I?'

'Well then, know it and have done with it. '

'But do you?'

'Yes, I do. I love you, and I know it's final. It is final, so why sayany more about it. '

She was silent for some moments, in delight and doubt. 

'Are you sure?' she said, nestling happily near to him. 

'Quite sure--so now have done--accept it and have done. '

She was nestled quite close to him. 

'Have done with what?' she murmured, happily. 

'With bothering, ' he said. 

She clung nearer to him. He held her close, and kissed her softly, gently. It was such peace and heavenly freedom, just to fold her andkiss her gently, and not to have any thoughts or any desires or anywill, just to be still with her, to be perfectly still and together, ina peace that was not sleep, but content in bliss. To be content inbliss, without desire or insistence anywhere, this was heaven: to betogether in happy stillness. 

For a long time she nestled to him, and he kissed her softly, her hair, her face, her ears, gently, softly, like dew falling. But this warmbreath on her ears disturbed her again, kindled the old destructivefires. She cleaved to him, and he could feel his blood changing likequicksilver. 

'But we'll be still, shall we?' he said. 

'Yes, ' she said, as if submissively. 

And she continued to nestle against him. 

But in a little while she drew away and looked at him. 

'I must be going home, ' she said. 

'Must you--how sad, ' he replied. 

She leaned forward and put up her mouth to be kissed. 

'Are you really sad?' she murmured, smiling. 

'Yes, ' he said, 'I wish we could stay as we were, always. '

'Always! Do you?' she murmured, as he kissed her. And then, out of afull throat, she crooned 'Kiss me! Kiss me!' And she cleaved close tohim. He kissed her many times. But he too had his idea and his will. Hewanted only gentle communion, no other, no passion now. So that soonshe drew away, put on her hat and went home. 

The next day however, he felt wistful and yearning. He thought he hadbeen wrong, perhaps. Perhaps he had been wrong to go to her with anidea of what he wanted. Was it really only an idea, or was it theinterpretation of a profound yearning? If the latter, how was it he wasalways talking about sensual fulfilment? The two did not agree verywell. 

Suddenly he found himself face to face with a situation. It was assimple as this: fatally simple. On the one hand, he knew he did notwant a further sensual experience--something deeper, darker, thanordinary life could give. He remembered the African fetishes he hadseen at Halliday's so often. There came back to him one, a statuetteabout two feet high, a tall, slim, elegant figure from West Africa, indark wood, glossy and suave. It was a woman, with hair dressed high, like a melon-shaped dome. He remembered her vividly: she was one of hissoul's intimates. Her body was long and elegant, her face was crushedtiny like a beetle's, she had rows of round heavy collars, like acolumn of quoits, on her neck. He remembered her: her astonishingcultured elegance, her diminished, beetle face, the astounding longelegant body, on short, ugly legs, with such protuberant buttocks, soweighty and unexpected below her slim long loins. She knew what hehimself did not know. She had thousands of years of purely sensual, purely unspiritual knowledge behind her. It must have been thousands ofyears since her race had died, mystically: that is, since the relationbetween the senses and the outspoken mind had broken, leaving theexperience all in one sort, mystically sensual. Thousands of years ago, that which was imminent in himself must have taken place in theseAfricans: the goodness, the holiness, the desire for creation andproductive happiness must have lapsed, leaving the single impulse forknowledge in one sort, mindless progressive knowledge through thesenses, knowledge arrested and ending in the senses, mystic knowledgein disintegration and dissolution, knowledge such as the beetles have, which live purely within the world of corruption and cold dissolution. This was why her face looked like a beetle's: this was why theEgyptians worshipped the ball-rolling scarab: because of the principleof knowledge in dissolution and corruption. 

There is a long way we can travel, after the death-break: after thatpoint when the soul in intense suffering breaks, breaks away from itsorganic hold like a leaf that falls. We fall from the connection withlife and hope, we lapse from pure integral being, from creation andliberty, and we fall into the long, long African process of purelysensual understanding, knowledge in the mystery of dissolution. 

He realised now that this is a long process--thousands of years ittakes, after the death of the creative spirit. He realised that therewere great mysteries to be unsealed, sensual, mindless, dreadfulmysteries, far beyond the phallic cult. How far, in their invertedculture, had these West Africans gone beyond phallic knowledge? Very, very far. Birkin recalled again the female figure: the elongated, long, long body, the curious unexpected heavy buttocks, he long, imprisonedneck, the face with tiny features like a beetle's. This was far beyondany phallic knowledge, sensual subtle realities far beyond the scope ofphallic investigation. 

There remained this way, this awful African process, to be fulfilled. It would be done differently by the white races. The white races, having the arctic north behind them, the vast abstraction of ice andsnow, would fulfil a mystery of ice-destructive knowledge, snow-abstract annihilation. Whereas the West Africans, controlled bythe burning death-abstraction of the Sahara, had been fulfilled insun-destruction, the putrescent mystery of sun-rays. 

Was this then all that remained? Was there left now nothing but tobreak off from the happy creative being, was the time up? Is our day ofcreative life finished? Does there remain to us only the strange, awfulafterwards of the knowledge in dissolution, the African knowledge, butdifferent in us, who are blond and blue-eyed from the north?

Birkin thought of Gerald. He was one of these strange white wonderfuldemons from the north, fulfilled in the destructive frost mystery. Andwas he fated to pass away in this knowledge, this one process offrost-knowledge, death by perfect cold? Was he a messenger, an omen ofthe universal dissolution into whiteness and snow?

Birkin was frightened. He was tired too, when he had reached thislength of speculation. Suddenly his strange, strained attention gaveway, he could not attend to these mysteries any more. There was anotherway, the way of freedom. There was the paradisal entry into pure, single being, the individual soul taking precedence over love anddesire for union, stronger than any pangs of emotion, a lovely state offree proud singleness, which accepted the obligation of the permanentconnection with others, and with the other, submits to the yoke andleash of love, but never forfeits its own proud individual singleness, even while it loves and yields. 

There was the other way, the remaining way. And he must run to followit. He thought of Ursula, how sensitive and delicate she really was, her skin so over-fine, as if one skin were wanting. She was really somarvellously gentle and sensitive. Why did he ever forget it? He mustgo to her at once. He must ask her to marry him. They must marry atonce, and so make a definite pledge, enter into a definite communion. He must set out at once and ask her, this moment. There was no momentto spare. 

He drifted on swiftly to Beldover, half-unconscious of his ownmovement. He saw the town on the slope of the hill, not straggling, butas if walled-in with the straight, final streets of miners' dwellings, making a great square, and it looked like Jerusalem to his fancy. Theworld was all strange and transcendent. 

Rosalind opened the door to him. She started slightly, as a young girlwill, and said:

'Oh, I'll tell father. '

With which she disappeared, leaving Birkin in the hall, looking at somereproductions from Picasso, lately introduced by Gudrun. He wasadmiring the almost wizard, sensuous apprehension of the earth, whenWill Brangwen appeared, rolling down his shirt sleeves. 

'Well, ' said Brangwen, 'I'll get a coat. ' And he too disappeared for amoment. Then he returned, and opened the door of the drawing-room, saying:

'You must excuse me, I was just doing a bit of work in the shed. Comeinside, will you. '

Birkin entered and sat down. He looked at the bright, reddish face ofthe other man, at the narrow brow and the very bright eyes, and at therather sensual lips that unrolled wide and expansive under the blackcropped moustache. How curious it was that this was a human being! WhatBrangwen thought himself to be, how meaningless it was, confronted withthe reality of him. Birkin could see only a strange, inexplicable, almost patternless collection of passions and desires and suppressionsand traditions and mechanical ideas, all cast unfused and disunitedinto this slender, bright-faced man of nearly fifty, who was asunresolved now as he was at twenty, and as uncreated. How could he bethe parent of Ursula, when he was not created himself. He was not aparent. A slip of living flesh had been transmitted through him, butthe spirit had not come from him. The spirit had not come from anyancestor, it had come out of the unknown. A child is the child of themystery, or it is uncreated. 

'The weather's not so bad as it has been, ' said Brangwen, after waitinga moment. There was no connection between the two men. 

'No, ' said Birkin. 'It was full moon two days ago. '

'Oh! You believe in the moon then, affecting the weather?'

'No, I don't think I do. I don't really know enough about it. '

'You know what they say? The moon and the weather may change together, but the change of the moon won't change the weather. '

'Is that it?' said Birkin. 'I hadn't heard it. '

There was a pause. Then Birkin said:

'Am I hindering you? I called to see Ursula, really. Is she at home?'

'I don't believe she is. I believe she's gone to the library. I'll justsee. '

Birkin could hear him enquiring in the dining-room. 

'No, ' he said, coming back. 'But she won't be long. You wanted to speakto her?'

Birkin looked across at the other man with curious calm, clear eyes. 

'As a matter of fact, ' he said, 'I wanted to ask her to marry me. '

A point of light came on the golden-brown eyes of the elder man. 

'O-oh?' he said, looking at Birkin, then dropping his eyes before thecalm, steadily watching look of the other: 'Was she expecting youthen?'

'No, ' said Birkin. 

'No? I didn't know anything of this sort was on foot--' Brangwen smiledawkwardly. 

Birkin looked back at him, and said to himself: 'I wonder why it shouldbe "on foot"!' Aloud he said:

'No, it's perhaps rather sudden. ' At which, thinking of hisrelationship with Ursula, he added--'but I don't know--'

'Quite sudden, is it? Oh!' said Brangwen, rather baffled and annoyed. 

'In one way, ' replied Birkin, '--not in another. '

There was a moment's pause, after which Brangwen said:

'Well, she pleases herself--'

'Oh yes!' said Birkin, calmly. 

A vibration came into Brangwen's strong voice, as he replied:

'Though I shouldn't want her to be in too big a hurry, either. It's nogood looking round afterwards, when it's too late. '

'Oh, it need never be too late, ' said Birkin, 'as far as that goes. '

'How do you mean?' asked the father. 

'If one repents being married, the marriage is at an end, ' said Birkin. 

'You think so?'

'Yes. '

'Ay, well that may be your way of looking at it. '

Birkin, in silence, thought to himself: 'So it may. As for YOUR way oflooking at it, William Brangwen, it needs a little explaining. '

'I suppose, ' said Brangwen, 'you know what sort of people we are? Whatsort of a bringing-up she's had?'

'"She", ' thought Birkin to himself, remembering his childhood'scorrections, 'is the cat's mother. '

'Do I know what sort of a bringing-up she's had?' he said aloud. 

He seemed to annoy Brangwen intentionally. 

'Well, ' he said, 'she's had everything that's right for a girl tohave--as far as possible, as far as we could give it her. '

'I'm sure she has, ' said Birkin, which caused a perilous full-stop. Thefather was becoming exasperated. There was something naturally irritantto him in Birkin's mere presence. 

'And I don't want to see her going back on it all, ' he said, in aclanging voice. 

'Why?' said Birkin. 

This monosyllable exploded in Brangwen's brain like a shot. 

'Why! I don't believe in your new-fangled ways and new-fangledideas--in and out like a frog in a gallipot. It would never do for me. '

Birkin watched him with steady emotionless eyes. The radical antagnoismin the two men was rousing. 

'Yes, but are my ways and ideas new-fangled?' asked Birkin. 

'Are they?' Brangwen caught himself up. 'I'm not speaking of you inparticular, ' he said. 'What I mean is that my children have beenbrought up to think and do according to the religion I was brought upin myself, and I don't want to see them going away from THAT. '

There was a dangerous pause. 

'And beyond that--?' asked Birkin. 

The father hesitated, he was in a nasty position. 

'Eh? What do you mean? All I want to say is that my daughter'--hetailed off into silence, overcome by futility. He knew that in some wayhe was off the track. 

'Of course, ' said Birkin, 'I don't want to hurt anybody or influenceanybody. Ursula does exactly as she pleases. '

There was a complete silence, because of the utter failure in mutualunderstanding. Birkin felt bored. Her father was not a coherent humanbeing, he was a roomful of old echoes. The eyes of the younger manrested on the face of the elder. Brangwen looked up, and saw Birkinlooking at him. His face was covered with inarticulate anger andhumiliation and sense of inferiority in strength. 

'And as for beliefs, that's one thing, ' he said. 'But I'd rather see mydaughters dead tomorrow than that they should be at the beck and callof the first man that likes to come and whistle for them. '

A queer painful light came into Birkin's eyes. 

'As to that, ' he said, 'I only know that it's much more likely thatit's I who am at the beck and call of the woman, than she at mine. '

Again there was a pause. The father was somewhat bewildered. 

'I know, ' he said, 'she'll please herself--she always has done. I'vedone my best for them, but that doesn't matter. They've got themselvesto please, and if they can help it they'll please nobody BUTthemselves. But she's a right to consider her mother, and me as well--'

Brangwen was thinking his own thoughts. 

'And I tell you this much, I would rather bury them, than see themgetting into a lot of loose ways such as you see everywhere nowadays. I'd rather bury them--'

'Yes but, you see, ' said Birkin slowly, rather wearily, bored again bythis new turn, 'they won't give either you or me the chance to burythem, because they're not to be buried. '

Brangwen looked at him in a sudden flare of impotent anger. 

'Now, Mr Birkin, ' he said, 'I don't know what you've come here for, andI don't know what you're asking for. But my daughters are mydaughters--and it's my business to look after them while I can. '

Birkin's brows knitted suddenly, his eyes concentrated in mockery. Buthe remained perfectly stiff and still. There was a pause. 

'I've nothing against your marrying Ursula, ' Brangwen began at length. 'It's got nothing to do with me, she'll do as she likes, me or no me. '

Birkin turned away, looking out of the window and letting go hisconsciousness. After all, what good was this? It was hopeless to keepit up. He would sit on till Ursula came home, then speak to her, thengo away. He would not accept trouble at the hands of her father. It wasall unnecessary, and he himself need not have provoked it. 

The two men sat in complete silence, Birkin almost unconscious of hisown whereabouts. He had come to ask her to marry him--well then, hewould wait on, and ask her. As for what she said, whether she acceptedor not, he did not think about it. He would say what he had come tosay, and that was all he was conscious of. He accepted the completeinsignificance of this household, for him. But everything now was as iffated. He could see one thing ahead, and no more. From the rest, he wasabsolved entirely for the time being. It had to be left to fate andchance to resolve the issues. 

At length they heard the gate. They saw her coming up the steps with abundle of books under her arm. Her face was bright and abstracted asusual, with the abstraction, that look of being not quite THERE, notquite present to the facts of reality, that galled her father so much. She had a maddening faculty of assuming a light of her own, whichexcluded the reality, and within which she looked radiant as if insunshine. 

They heard her go into the dining-room, and drop her armful of books onthe table. 

'Did you bring me that Girl's Own?' cried Rosalind. 

'Yes, I brought it. But I forgot which one it was you wanted. '

'You would, ' cried Rosalind angrily. 'It's right for a wonder. '

Then they heard her say something in a lowered tone. 

'Where?' cried Ursula. 

Again her sister's voice was muffled. 

Brangwen opened the door, and called, in his strong, brazen voice:

'Ursula. '

She appeared in a moment, wearing her hat. 

'Oh how do you do!' she cried, seeing Birkin, and all dazzled as iftaken by surprise. He wondered at her, knowing she was aware of hispresence. She had her queer, radiant, breathless manner, as if confusedby the actual world, unreal to it, having a complete bright world ofher self alone. 

'Have I interrupted a conversation?' she asked. 

'No, only a complete silence, ' said Birkin. 

'Oh, ' said Ursula, vaguely, absent. Their presence was not vital toher, she was withheld, she did not take them in. It was a subtle insultthat never failed to exasperate her father. 

'Mr Birkin came to speak to YOU, not to me, ' said her father. 

'Oh, did he!' she exclaimed vaguely, as if it did not concern her. Then, recollecting herself, she turned to him rather radiantly, butstill quite superficially, and said: 'Was it anything special?'

'I hope so, ' he said, ironically. 

'--To propose to you, according to all accounts, ' said her father. 

'Oh, ' said Ursula. 

'Oh, ' mocked her father, imitating her. 'Have you nothing more to say?'

She winced as if violated. 

'Did you really come to propose to me?' she asked of Birkin, as if itwere a joke. 

'Yes, ' he said. 'I suppose I came to propose. ' He seemed to fight shyof the last word. 

'Did you?' she cried, with her vague radiance. He might have beensaying anything whatsoever. She seemed pleased. 

'Yes, ' he answered. 'I wanted to--I wanted you to agree to marry me. '

She looked at him. His eyes were flickering with mixed lights, wantingsomething of her, yet not wanting it. She shrank a little, as if shewere exposed to his eyes, and as if it were a pain to her. Shedarkened, her soul clouded over, she turned aside. She had been drivenout of her own radiant, single world. And she dreaded contact, it wasalmost unnatural to her at these times. 

'Yes, ' she said vaguely, in a doubting, absent voice. 

Birkin's heart contracted swiftly, in a sudden fire of bitterness. Itall meant nothing to her. He had been mistaken again. She was in someself-satisfied world of her own. He and his hopes were accidentals, violations to her. It drove her father to a pitch of mad exasperation. He had had to put up with this all his life, from her. 

'Well, what do you say?' he cried. 

She winced. Then she glanced down at her father, half-frightened, andshe said:

'I didn't speak, did I?' as if she were afraid she might have committedherself. 

'No, ' said her father, exasperated. 'But you needn't look like anidiot. You've got your wits, haven't you?'

She ebbed away in silent hostility. 

'I've got my wits, what does that mean?' she repeated, in a sullenvoice of antagonism. 

'You heard what was asked you, didn't you?' cried her father in anger. 

'Of course I heard. '

'Well then, can't you answer?' thundered her father. 

'Why should I?'

At the impertinence of this retort, he went stiff. But he said nothing. 

'No, ' said Birkin, to help out the occasion, 'there's no need to answerat once. You can say when you like. '

Her eyes flashed with a powerful light. 

'Why should I say anything?' she cried. 'You do this off your OWN bat, it has nothing to do with me. Why do you both want to bully me?'

'Bully you! Bully you!' cried her father, in bitter, rancorous anger. 'Bully you! Why, it's a pity you can't be bullied into some sense anddecency. Bully you! YOU'LL see to that, you self-willed creature. '

She stood suspended in the middle of the room, her face glimmering anddangerous. She was set in satisfied defiance. Birkin looked up at her. He too was angry. 

'But none is bullying you, ' he said, in a very soft dangerous voicealso. 

'Oh yes, ' she cried. 'You both want to force me into something. '

'That is an illusion of yours, ' he said ironically. 

'Illusion!' cried her father. 'A self-opinionated fool, that's what sheis. '

Birkin rose, saying:

'However, we'll leave it for the time being. '

And without another word, he walked out of the house. 

'You fool! You fool!' her father cried to her, with extreme bitterness. She left the room, and went upstairs, singing to herself. But she wasterribly fluttered, as after some dreadful fight. From her window, shecould see Birkin going up the road. He went in such a blithe drift ofrage, that her mind wondered over him. He was ridiculous, but she wasafraid of him. She was as if escaped from some danger. 

Her father sat below, powerless in humiliation and chagrin. It was asif he were possessed with all the devils, after one of theseunaccountable conflicts with Ursula. He hated her as if his onlyreality were in hating her to the last degree. He had all hell in hisheart. But he went away, to escape himself. He knew he must despair, yield, give in to despair, and have done. 

Ursula's face closed, she completed herself against them all. Recoilingupon herself, she became hard and self-completed, like a jewel. She wasbright and invulnerable, quite free and happy, perfectly liberated inher self-possession. Her father had to learn not to see her blitheobliviousness, or it would have sent him mad. She was so radiant withall things, in her possession of perfect hostility. 

She would go on now for days like this, in this bright frank state ofseemingly pure spontaneity, so essentially oblivious of the existenceof anything but herself, but so ready and facile in her interest. Ah itwas a bitter thing for a man to be near her, and her father cursed hisfatherhood. But he must learn not to see her, not to know. 

She was perfectly stable in resistance when she was in this state: sobright and radiant and attractive in her pure opposition, so very pure, and yet mistrusted by everybody, disliked on every hand. It was hervoice, curiously clear and repellent, that gave her away. Only Gudrunwas in accord with her. It was at these times that the intimacy betweenthe two sisters was most complete, as if their intelligence were one. They felt a strong, bright bond of understanding between them, surpassing everything else. And during all these days of blind brightabstraction and intimacy of his two daughters, the father seemed tobreathe an air of death, as if he were destroyed in his very being. Hewas irritable to madness, he could not rest, his daughters seemed to bedestroying him. But he was inarticulate and helpless against them. Hewas forced to breathe the air of his own death. He cursed them in hissoul, and only wanted, that they should be removed from him. 

They continued radiant in their easy female transcendancy, beautiful tolook at. They exchanged confidences, they were intimate in theirrevelations to the last degree, giving each other at last every secret. They withheld nothing, they told everything, till they were over theborder of evil. And they armed each other with knowledge, theyextracted the subtlest flavours from the apple of knowledge. It wascurious how their knowledge was complementary, that of each to that ofthe other. 

Ursula saw her men as sons, pitied their yearning and admired theircourage, and wondered over them as a mother wonders over her child, with a certain delight in their novelty. But to Gudrun, they were theopposite camp. She feared them and despised them, and respected theiractivities even overmuch. 

'Of course, ' she said easily, 'there is a quality of life in Birkinwhich is quite remarkable. There is an extraordinary rich spring oflife in him, really amazing, the way he can give himself to things. Butthere are so many things in life that he simply doesn't know. Either heis not aware of their existence at all, or he dismisses them as merelynegligible--things which are vital to the other person. In a way, he isnot clever enough, he is too intense in spots. '

'Yes, ' cried Ursula, 'too much of a preacher. He is really a priest. '

'Exactly! He can't hear what anybody else has to say--he simply cannothear. His own voice is so loud. '

'Yes. He cries you down. '

'He cries you down, ' repeated Gudrun. 'And by mere force of violence. And of course it is hopeless. Nobody is convinced by violence. It makestalking to him impossible--and living with him I should think would bemore than impossible. '

'You don't think one could live with him' asked Ursula. 

'I think it would be too wearing, too exhausting. One would be shouteddown every time, and rushed into his way without any choice. He wouldwant to control you entirely. He cannot allow that there is any othermind than his own. And then the real clumsiness of his mind is its lackof self-criticism. No, I think it would be perfectly intolerable. '

'Yes, ' assented Ursula vaguely. She only half agreed with Gudrun. 'Thenuisance is, ' she said, 'that one would find almost any man intolerableafter a fortnight. '

'It's perfectly dreadful, ' said Gudrun. 'But Birkin--he is toopositive. He couldn't bear it if you called your soul your own. Of himthat is strictly true. '

'Yes, ' said Ursula. 'You must have HIS soul. '

'Exactly! And what can you conceive more deadly?' This was all so true, that Ursula felt jarred to the bottom of her soul with ugly distaste. 

She went on, with the discord jarring and jolting through her, in themost barren of misery. 

Then there started a revulsion from Gudrun. She finished life off sothoroughly, she made things so ugly and so final. As a matter of fact, even if it were as Gudrun said, about Birkin, other things were true aswell. But Gudrun would draw two lines under him and cross him out likean account that is settled. There he was, summed up, paid for, settled, done with. And it was such a lie. This finality of Gudrun's, thisdispatching of people and things in a sentence, it was all such a lie. Ursula began to revolt from her sister. 

One day as they were walking along the lane, they saw a robin sittingon the top twig of a bush, singing shrilly. The sisters stood to lookat him. An ironical smile flickered on Gudrun's face. 

'Doesn't he feel important?' smiled Gudrun. 

'Doesn't he!' exclaimed Ursula, with a little ironical grimace. 'Isn'the a little Lloyd George of the air!'

'Isn't he! Little Lloyd George of the air! That's just what they are, 'cried Gudrun in delight. Then for days, Ursula saw the persistent, obtrusive birds as stout, short politicians lifting up their voicesfrom the platform, little men who must make themselves heard at anycost. 

But even from this there came the revulsion. Some yellowhammerssuddenly shot along the road in front of her. And they looked to her souncanny and inhuman, like flaring yellow barbs shooting through the airon some weird, living errand, that she said to herself: 'After all, itis impudence to call them little Lloyd Georges. They are really unknownto us, they are the unknown forces. It is impudence to look at them asif they were the same as human beings. They are of another world. Howstupid anthropomorphism is! Gudrun is really impudent, insolent, makingherself the measure of everything, making everything come down to humanstandards. Rupert is quite right, human beings are boring, painting theuniverse with their own image. The universe is non-human, thank God. 'It seemed to her irreverence, destructive of all true life, to makelittle Lloyd Georges of the birds. It was such a lie towards therobins, and such a defamation. Yet she had done it herself. But underGudrun's influence: so she exonerated herself. 

So she withdrew away from Gudrun and from that which she stood for, sheturned in spirit towards Birkin again. She had not seen him since thefiasco of his proposal. She did not want to, because she did not wantthe question of her acceptance thrust upon her. She knew what Birkinmeant when he asked her to marry him; vaguely, without putting it intospeech, she knew. She knew what kind of love, what kind of surrender hewanted. And she was not at all sure that this was the kind of love thatshe herself wanted. She was not at all sure that it was this mutualunison in separateness that she wanted. She wanted unspeakableintimacies. She wanted to have him, utterly, finally to have him as herown, oh, so unspeakably, in intimacy. To drink him down--ah, like alife-draught. She made great professions, to herself, of herwillingness to warm his foot-soles between her breasts, after thefashion of the nauseous Meredith poem. But only on condition that he, her lover, loved her absolutely, with complete self-abandon. And subtlyenough, she knew he would never abandon himself FINALLY to her. He didnot believe in final self-abandonment. He said it openly. It was hischallenge. She was prepared to fight him for it. For she believed in anabsolute surrender to love. She believed that love far surpassed theindividual. He said the individual was MORE than love, or than anyrelationship. For him, the bright, single soul accepted love as one ofits conditions, a condition of its own equilibrium. She believed thatlove was EVERYTHING. Man must render himself up to her. He must bequaffed to the dregs by her. Let him be HER MAN utterly, and she inreturn would be his humble slave--whether she wanted it or not. 

CHAPTER XX. 

GLADIATORIAL

After the fiasco of the proposal, Birkin had hurried blindly away fromBeldover, in a whirl of fury. He felt he had been a complete fool, thatthe whole scene had been a farce of the first water. But that did nottrouble him at all. He was deeply, mockingly angry that Ursulapersisted always in this old cry: 'Why do you want to bully me?' and inher bright, insolent abstraction. 

He went straight to Shortlands. There he found Gerald standing with hisback to the fire, in the library, as motionless as a man is, who iscompletely and emptily restless, utterly hollow. He had done all thework he wanted to do--and now there was nothing. He could go out in thecar, he could run to town. But he did not want to go out in the car, hedid not want to run to town, he did not want to call on the Thirlbys. He was suspended motionless, in an agony of inertia, like a machinethat is without power. 

This was very bitter to Gerald, who had never known what boredom was, who had gone from activity to activity, never at a loss. Now, gradually, everything seemed to be stopping in him. He did not want anymore to do the things that offered. Something dead within him justrefused to respond to any suggestion. He cast over in his mind, what itwould be possible to do, to save himself from this misery ofnothingness, relieve the stress of this hollowness. And there were onlythree things left, that would rouse him, make him live. One was todrink or smoke hashish, the other was to be soothed by Birkin, and thethird was women. And there was no-one for the moment to drink with. Norwas there a woman. And he knew Birkin was out. So there was nothing todo but to bear the stress of his own emptiness. 

When he saw Birkin his face lit up in a sudden, wonderful smile. 

'By God, Rupert, ' he said, 'I'd just come to the conclusion thatnothing in the world mattered except somebody to take the edge offone's being alone: the right somebody. '

The smile in his eyes was very astonishing, as he looked at the otherman. It was the pure gleam of relief. His face was pallid and evenhaggard. 

'The right woman, I suppose you mean, ' said Birkin spitefully. 

'Of course, for choice. Failing that, an amusing man. '

He laughed as he said it. Birkin sat down near the fire. 

'What were you doing?' he asked. 

'I? Nothing. I'm in a bad way just now, everything's on edge, and I canneither work nor play. I don't know whether it's a sign of old age, I'msure. '

'You mean you are bored?'

'Bored, I don't know. I can't apply myself. And I feel the devil iseither very present inside me, or dead. '

Birkin glanced up and looked in his eyes. 

'You should try hitting something, ' he said. 

Gerald smiled. 

'Perhaps, ' he said. 'So long as it was something worth hitting. '

'Quite!' said Birkin, in his soft voice. There was a long pause duringwhich each could feel the presence of the other. 

'One has to wait, ' said Birkin. 

'Ah God! Waiting! What are we waiting for?'

'Some old Johnny says there are three cures for ENNUI, sleep, drink, and travel, ' said Birkin. 

'All cold eggs, ' said Gerald. 'In sleep, you dream, in drink you curse, and in travel you yell at a porter. No, work and love are the two. Whenyou're not at work you should be in love. '

'Be it then, ' said Birkin. 

'Give me the object, ' said Gerald. 'The possibilities of love exhaustthemselves. '

'Do they? And then what?'

'Then you die, ' said Gerald. 

'So you ought, ' said Birkin. 

'I don't see it, ' replied Gerald. He took his hands out of his trouserspockets, and reached for a cigarette. He was tense and nervous. He litthe cigarette over a lamp, reaching forward and drawing steadily. Hewas dressed for dinner, as usual in the evening, although he was alone. 

'There's a third one even to your two, ' said Birkin. 'Work, love, andfighting. You forget the fight. '

'I suppose I do, ' said Gerald. 'Did you ever do any boxing--?'

'No, I don't think I did, ' said Birkin. 

'Ay--' Gerald lifted his head and blew the smoke slowly into the air. 

'Why?' said Birkin. 

'Nothing. I thought we might have a round. It is perhaps true, that Iwant something to hit. It's a suggestion. '

'So you think you might as well hit me?' said Birkin. 

'You? Well! Perhaps--! In a friendly kind of way, of course. '

'Quite!' said Birkin, bitingly. 

Gerald stood leaning back against the mantel-piece. He looked down atBirkin, and his eyes flashed with a sort of terror like the eyes of astallion, that are bloodshot and overwrought, turned glancing backwardsin a stiff terror. 

'I fell that if I don't watch myself, I shall find myself doingsomething silly, ' he said. 

'Why not do it?' said Birkin coldly. 

Gerald listened with quick impatience. He kept glancing down at Birkin, as if looking for something from the other man. 

'I used to do some Japanese wrestling, ' said Birkin. 'A Jap lived inthe same house with me in Heidelberg, and he taught me a little. But Iwas never much good at it. '

'You did!' exclaimed Gerald. 'That's one of the things I've never everseen done. You mean jiu-jitsu, I suppose?'

'Yes. But I am no good at those things--they don't interest me. '

'They don't? They do me. What's the start?'

'I'll show you what I can, if you like, ' said Birkin. 

'You will?' A queer, smiling look tightened Gerald's face for a moment, as he said, 'Well, I'd like it very much. '

'Then we'll try jiu-jitsu. Only you can't do much in a starched shirt. '

'Then let us strip, and do it properly. Hold a minute--' He rang thebell, and waited for the butler. 

'Bring a couple of sandwiches and a syphon, ' he said to the man, 'andthen don't trouble me any more tonight--or let anybody else. '

The man went. Gerald turned to Birkin with his eyes lighted. 

'And you used to wrestle with a Jap?' he said. 'Did you strip?'

'Sometimes. '

'You did! What was he like then, as a wrestler?'

'Good, I believe. I am no judge. He was very quick and slippery andfull of electric fire. It is a remarkable thing, what a curious sort offluid force they seem to have in them, those people not like a humangrip--like a polyp--'

Gerald nodded. 

'I should imagine so, ' he said, 'to look at them. They repel me, rather. '

'Repel and attract, both. They are very repulsive when they are cold, and they look grey. But when they are hot and roused, there is adefinite attraction--a curious kind of full electric fluid--like eels. '

'Well--yes--probably. '

The man brought in the tray and set it down. 

'Don't come in any more, ' said Gerald. 

The door closed. 

'Well then, ' said Gerald; 'shall we strip and begin? Will you have adrink first?'

'No, I don't want one. '

'Neither do I. '

Gerald fastened the door and pushed the furniture aside. The room waslarge, there was plenty of space, it was thickly carpeted. Then hequickly threw off his clothes, and waited for Birkin. The latter, whiteand thin, came over to him. Birkin was more a presence than a visibleobject, Gerald was aware of him completely, but not really visually. Whereas Gerald himself was concrete and noticeable, a piece of purefinal substance. 

'Now, ' said Birkin, 'I will show you what I learned, and what Iremember. You let me take you so--' And his hands closed on the nakedbody of the other man. In another moment, he had Gerald swung overlightly and balanced against his knee, head downwards. Relaxed, Geraldsprang to his feet with eyes glittering. 

'That's smart, ' he said. 'Now try again. '

So the two men began to struggle together. They were very dissimilar. Birkin was tall and narrow, his bones were very thin and fine. Geraldwas much heavier and more plastic. His bones were strong and round, hislimbs were rounded, all his contours were beautifully and fullymoulded. He seemed to stand with a proper, rich weight on the face ofthe earth, whilst Birkin seemed to have the centre of gravitation inhis own middle. And Gerald had a rich, frictional kind of strength, rather mechanical, but sudden and invincible, whereas Birkin wasabstract as to be almost intangible. He impinged invisibly upon theother man, scarcely seeming to touch him, like a garment, and thensuddenly piercing in a tense fine grip that seemed to penetrate intothe very quick of Gerald's being. 

They stopped, they discussed methods, they practised grips and throws, they became accustomed to each other, to each other's rhythm, they gota kind of mutual physical understanding. And then again they had a realstruggle. They seemed to drive their white flesh deeper and deeperagainst each other, as if they would break into a oneness. Birkin had agreat subtle energy, that would press upon the other man with anuncanny force, weigh him like a spell put upon him. Then it would pass, and Gerald would heave free, with white, heaving, dazzling movements. 

So the two men entwined and wrestled with each other, working nearerand nearer. Both were white and clear, but Gerald flushed smart redwhere he was touched, and Birkin remained white and tense. He seemed topenetrate into Gerald's more solid, more diffuse bulk, to interfuse hisbody through the body of the other, as if to bring it subtly intosubjection, always seizing with some rapid necromantic fore-knowledgeevery motion of the other flesh, converting and counteracting it, playing upon the limbs and trunk of Gerald like some hard wind. It wasas if Birkin's whole physical intelligence interpenetrated intoGerald's body, as if his fine, sublimated energy entered into the fleshof the fuller man, like some potency, casting a fine net, a prison, through the muscles into the very depths of Gerald's physical being. 

So they wrestled swiftly, rapturously, intent and mindless at last, twoessential white figures working into a tighter closer oneness ofstruggle, with a strange, octopus-like knotting and flashing of limbsin the subdued light of the room; a tense white knot of flesh grippedin silence between the walls of old brown books. Now and again came asharp gasp of breath, or a sound like a sigh, then the rapid thuddingof movement on the thickly-carpeted floor, then the strange sound offlesh escaping under flesh. Often, in the white interlaced knot ofviolent living being that swayed silently, there was no head to beseen, only the swift, tight limbs, the solid white backs, the physicaljunction of two bodies clinched into oneness. Then would appear thegleaming, ruffled head of Gerald, as the struggle changed, then for amoment the dun-coloured, shadow-like head of the other man would liftup from the conflict, the eyes wide and dreadful and sightless. 

At length Gerald lay back inert on the carpet, his breast rising ingreat slow panting, whilst Birkin kneeled over him, almost unconscious. Birkin was much more exhausted. He caught little, short breaths, hecould scarcely breathe any more. The earth seemed to tilt and sway, anda complete darkness was coming over his mind. He did not know whathappened. He slid forward quite unconscious, over Gerald, and Geralddid not notice. Then he was half-conscious again, aware only of thestrange tilting and sliding of the world. The world was sliding, everything was sliding off into the darkness. And he was sliding, endlessly, endlessly away. 

He came to consciousness again, hearing an immense knocking outside. What could be happening, what was it, the great hammer-strokeresounding through the house? He did not know. And then it came to himthat it was his own heart beating. But that seemed impossible, thenoise was outside. No, it was inside himself, it was his own heart. Andthe beating was painful, so strained, surcharged. He wondered if Geraldheard it. He did not know whether he were standing or lying or falling. 

When he realised that he had fallen prostrate upon Gerald's body hewondered, he was surprised. But he sat up, steadying himself with hishand and waiting for his heart to become stiller and less painful. Ithurt very much, and took away his consciousness. 

Gerald however was still less conscious than Birkin. They waited dimly, in a sort of not-being, for many uncounted, unknown minutes. 

'Of course--' panted Gerald, 'I didn't have to be rough--with you--Ihad to keep back--my force--'

Birkin heard the sound as if his own spirit stood behind him, outsidehim, and listened to it. His body was in a trance of exhaustion, hisspirit heard thinly. His body could not answer. Only he knew his heartwas getting quieter. He was divided entirely between his spirit, whichstood outside, and knew, and his body, that was a plunging, unconsciousstroke of blood. 

'I could have thrown you--using violence--' panted Gerald. 'But youbeat me right enough. '

'Yes, ' said Birkin, hardening his throat and producing the words in thetension there, 'you're much stronger than I--you could beatme--easily. '

Then he relaxed again to the terrible plunging of his heart and hisblood. 

'It surprised me, ' panted Gerald, 'what strength you've got. Almostsupernatural. '

'For a moment, ' said Birkin. 

He still heard as if it were his own disembodied spirit hearing, standing at some distance behind him. It drew nearer however, hisspirit. And the violent striking of blood in his chest was sinkingquieter, allowing his mind to come back. He realised that he wasleaning with all his weight on the soft body of the other man. Itstartled him, because he thought he had withdrawn. He recoveredhimself, and sat up. But he was still vague and unestablished. He putout his hand to steady himself. It touched the hand of Gerald, that waslying out on the floor. And Gerald's hand closed warm and sudden overBirkin's, they remained exhausted and breathless, the one hand claspedclosely over the other. It was Birkin whose hand, in swift response, had closed in a strong, warm clasp over the hand of the other. Gerald'sclasp had been sudden and momentaneous. 

The normal consciousness however was returning, ebbing back. Birkincould breathe almost naturally again. Gerald's hand slowly withdrew, Birkin slowly, dazedly rose to his feet and went towards the table. Hepoured out a whiskey and soda. Gerald also came for a drink. 

'It was a real set-to, wasn't it?' said Birkin, looking at Gerald withdarkened eyes. 

'God, yes, ' said Gerald. He looked at the delicate body of the otherman, and added: 'It wasn't too much for you, was it?'

'No. One ought to wrestle and strive and be physically close. It makesone sane. '

'You do think so?'

'I do. Don't you?'

'Yes, ' said Gerald. 

There were long spaces of silence between their words. The wrestlinghad some deep meaning to them--an unfinished meaning. 

'We are mentally, spiritually intimate, therefore we should be more orless physically intimate too--it is more whole. '

'Certainly it is, ' said Gerald. Then he laughed pleasantly, adding:'It's rather wonderful to me. ' He stretched out his arms handsomely. 

'Yes, ' said Birkin. 'I don't know why one should have to justifyoneself. '

'No. '

The two men began to dress. 

'I think also that you are beautiful, ' said Birkin to Gerald, 'and thatis enjoyable too. One should enjoy what is given. '

'You think I am beautiful--how do you mean, physically?' asked Gerald, his eyes glistening. 

'Yes. You have a northern kind of beauty, like light refracted fromsnow--and a beautiful, plastic form. Yes, that is there to enjoy aswell. We should enjoy everything. '

Gerald laughed in his throat, and said:

'That's certainly one way of looking at it. I can say this much, I feelbetter. It has certainly helped me. Is this the Bruderschaft youwanted?'

'Perhaps. Do you think this pledges anything?'

'I don't know, ' laughed Gerald. 

'At any rate, one feels freer and more open now--and that is what wewant. '

'Certainly, ' said Gerald. 

They drew to the fire, with the decanters and the glasses and the food. 

'I always eat a little before I go to bed, ' said Gerald. 'I sleepbetter. '

'I should not sleep so well, ' said Birkin. 

'No? There you are, we are not alike. I'll put a dressing-gown on. 'Birkin remained alone, looking at the fire. His mind had reverted toUrsula. She seemed to return again into his consciousness. Gerald camedown wearing a gown of broad-barred, thick black-and-green silk, brilliant and striking. 

'You are very fine, ' said Birkin, looking at the full robe. 

'It was a caftan in Bokhara, ' said Gerald. 'I like it. '

'I like it too. '

Birkin was silent, thinking how scrupulous Gerald was in his attire, how expensive too. He wore silk socks, and studs of fine workmanship, and silk underclothing, and silk braces. Curious! This was another ofthe differences between them. Birkin was careless and unimaginativeabout his own appearance. 

'Of course you, ' said Gerald, as if he had been thinking; 'there'ssomething curious about you. You're curiously strong. One doesn'texpect it, it is rather surprising. '

Birkin laughed. He was looking at the handsome figure of the other man, blond and comely in the rich robe, and he was half thinking of thedifference between it and himself--so different; as far, perhaps, apartas man from woman, yet in another direction. But really it was Ursula, it was the woman who was gaining ascendance over Birkin's being, atthis moment. Gerald was becoming dim again, lapsing out of him. 

'Do you know, ' he said suddenly, 'I went and proposed to UrsulaBrangwen tonight, that she should marry me. '

He saw the blank shining wonder come over Gerald's face. 

'You did?'

'Yes. Almost formally--speaking first to her father, as it should be, in the world--though that was accident--or mischief. '

Gerald only stared in wonder, as if he did not grasp. 

'You don't mean to say that you seriously went and asked her father tolet you marry her?'

'Yes, ' said Birkin, 'I did. '

'What, had you spoken to her before about it, then?'

'No, not a word. I suddenly thought I would go there and ask her--andher father happened to come instead of her--so I asked him first. '

'If you could have her?' concluded Gerald. 

'Ye-es, that. '

'And you didn't speak to her?'

'Yes. She came in afterwards. So it was put to her as well. '

'It was! And what did she say then? You're an engaged man?'

'No, --she only said she didn't want to be bullied into answering. '

'She what?'

'Said she didn't want to be bullied into answering. '

'"Said she didn't want to be bullied into answering!" Why, what did shemean by that?'

Birkin raised his shoulders. 'Can't say, ' he answered. 'Didn't want tobe bothered just then, I suppose. '

'But is this really so? And what did you do then?'

'I walked out of the house and came here. '

'You came straight here?'

'Yes. '

Gerald stared in amazement and amusement. He could not take it in. 

'But is this really true, as you say it now?'

'Word for word. '

'It is?'

He leaned back in his chair, filled with delight and amusement. 

'Well, that's good, ' he said. 'And so you came here to wrestle withyour good angel, did you?'

'Did I?' said Birkin. 

'Well, it looks like it. Isn't that what you did?'

Now Birkin could not follow Gerald's meaning. 

'And what's going to happen?' said Gerald. 'You're going to keep openthe proposition, so to speak?'

'I suppose so. I vowed to myself I would see them all to the devil. ButI suppose I shall ask her again, in a little while. '

Gerald watched him steadily. 

'So you're fond of her then?' he asked. 

'I think--I love her, ' said Birkin, his face going very still andfixed. 

Gerald glistened for a moment with pleasure, as if it were somethingdone specially to please him. Then his face assumed a fitting gravity, and he nodded his head slowly. 

'You know, ' he said, 'I always believed in love--true love. But wheredoes one find it nowadays?'

'I don't know, ' said Birkin. 

'Very rarely, ' said Gerald. Then, after a pause, 'I've never felt itmyself--not what I should call love. I've gone after women--and beenkeen enough over some of them. But I've never felt LOVE. I don'tbelieve I've ever felt as much LOVE for a woman, as I have for you--notLOVE. You understand what I mean?'

'Yes. I'm sure you've never loved a woman. '

'You feel that, do you? And do you think I ever shall? You understandwhat I mean?' He put his hand to his breast, closing his fist there, asif he would draw something out. 'I mean that--that I can't express whatit is, but I know it. '

'What is it, then?' asked Birkin. 

'You see, I can't put it into words. I mean, at any rate, somethingabiding, something that can't change--'

His eyes were bright and puzzled. 

'Now do you think I shall ever feel that for a woman?' he said, anxiously. 

Birkin looked at him, and shook his head. 

'I don't know, ' he said. 'I could not say. '

Gerald had been on the QUI VIVE, as awaiting his fate. Now he drew backin his chair. 

'No, ' he said, 'and neither do I, and neither do I. '

'We are different, you and I, ' said Birkin. 'I can't tell your life. '

'No, ' said Gerald, 'no more can I. But I tell you--I begin to doubtit!'

'That you will ever love a woman?'

'Well--yes--what you would truly call love--'

'You doubt it?'

'Well--I begin to. '

There was a long pause. 

'Life has all kinds of things, ' said Birkin. 'There isn't only oneroad. '

'Yes, I believe that too. I believe it. And mind you, I don't care howit is with me--I don't care how it is--so long as I don't feel--' hepaused, and a blank, barren look passed over his face, to express hisfeeling--'so long as I feel I've LIVED, somehow--and I don't care howit is--but I want to feel that--'

'Fulfilled, ' said Birkin. 

'We-ell, perhaps it is fulfilled; I don't use the same words as you. '

'It is the same. '

CHAPTER XXI. 

THRESHOLD

Gudrun was away in London, having a little show of her work, with afriend, and looking round, preparing for flight from Beldover. Comewhat might she would be on the wing in a very short time. She receiveda letter from Winifred Crich, ornamented with drawings. 

'Father also has been to London, to be examined by the doctors. It madehim very tired. They say he must rest a very great deal, so he ismostly in bed. He brought me a lovely tropical parrot in faience, ofDresden ware, also a man ploughing, and two mice climbing up a stalk, also in faience. The mice were Copenhagen ware. They are the best, butmice don't shine so much, otherwise they are very good, their tails areslim and long. They all shine nearly like glass. Of course it is theglaze, but I don't like it. Gerald likes the man ploughing the best, his trousers are torn, he is ploughing with an ox, being I suppose aGerman peasant. It is all grey and white, white shirt and greytrousers, but very shiny and clean. Mr Birkin likes the girl best, under the hawthorn blossom, with a lamb, and with daffodils painted onher skirts, in the drawing room. But that is silly, because the lamb isnot a real lamb, and she is silly too. 

'Dear Miss Brangwen, are you coming back soon, you are very much missedhere. I enclose a drawing of father sitting up in bed. He says he hopesyou are not going to forsake us. Oh dear Miss Brangwen, I am sure youwon't. Do come back and draw the ferrets, they are the most lovelynoble darlings in the world. We might carve them in holly-wood, playingagainst a background of green leaves. Oh do let us, for they are mostbeautiful. 

'Father says we might have a studio. Gerald says we could easily have abeautiful one over the stables, it would only need windows to be put inthe slant of the roof, which is a simple matter. Then you could stayhere all day and work, and we could live in the studio, like two realartists, like the man in the picture in the hall, with the frying-panand the walls all covered with drawings. I long to be free, to live thefree life of an artist. Even Gerald told father that only an artist isfree, because he lives in a creative world of his own--'

Gudrun caught the drift of the family intentions, in this letter. Gerald wanted her to be attached to the household at Shortlands, he wasusing Winifred as his stalking-horse. The father thought only of hischild, he saw a rock of salvation in Gudrun. And Gudrun admired him forhis perspicacity. The child, moreover, was really exceptional. Gudrunwas quite content. She was quite willing, given a studio, to spend herdays at Shortlands. She disliked the Grammar School already thoroughly, she wanted to be free. If a studio were provided, she would be free togo on with her work, she would await the turn of events with completeserenity. And she was really interested in Winifred, she would be quiteglad to understand the girl. 

So there was quite a little festivity on Winifred's account, the dayGudrun returned to Shortlands. 

'You should make a bunch of flowers to give to Miss Brangwen when shearrives, ' Gerald said smiling to his sister. 

'Oh no, ' cried Winifred, 'it's silly. '

'Not at all. It is a very charming and ordinary attention. '

'Oh, it is silly, ' protested Winifred, with all the extreme MAUVAISEHONTE of her years. Nevertheless, the idea appealed to her. She wantedvery much to carry it out. She flitted round the green-houses and theconservatory looking wistfully at the flowers on their stems. And themore she looked, the more she LONGED to have a bunch of the blossomsshe saw, the more fascinated she became with her little vision ofceremony, and the more consumedly shy and self-conscious she grew, tillshe was almost beside herself. She could not get the idea out of hermind. It was as if some haunting challenge prompted her, and she hadnot enough courage to take it up. So again she drifted into thegreen-houses, looking at the lovely roses in their pots, and at thevirginal cyclamens, and at the mystic white clusters of a creeper. Thebeauty, oh the beauty of them, and oh the paradisal bliss, if sheshould have a perfect bouquet and could give it to Gudrun the next day. Her passion and her complete indecision almost made her ill. 

At last she slid to her father's side. 

'Daddie--' she said. 

'What, my precious?'

But she hung back, the tears almost coming to her eyes, in hersensitive confusion. Her father looked at her, and his heart ran hotwith tenderness, an anguish of poignant love. 

'What do you want to say to me, my love?'

'Daddie--!' her eyes smiled laconically--'isn't it silly if I give MissBrangwen some flowers when she comes?'

The sick man looked at the bright, knowing eyes of his child, and hisheart burned with love. 

'No, darling, that's not silly. It's what they do to queens. '

This was not very reassuring to Winifred. She half suspected thatqueens in themselves were a silliness. Yet she so wanted her littleromantic occasion. 

'Shall I then?' she asked. 

'Give Miss Brangwen some flowers? Do, Birdie. Tell Wilson I say you areto have what you want. '

The child smiled a small, subtle, unconscious smile to herself, inanticipation of her way. 

'But I won't get them till tomorrow, ' she said. 

'Not till tomorrow, Birdie. Give me a kiss then--'

Winifred silently kissed the sick man, and drifted out of the room. Sheagain went the round of the green-houses and the conservatory, informing the gardener, in her high, peremptory, simple fashion, ofwhat she wanted, telling him all the blooms she had selected. 

'What do you want these for?' Wilson asked. 

'I want them, ' she said. She wished servants did not ask questions. 

'Ay, you've said as much. But what do you want them for, fordecoration, or to send away, or what?'

'I want them for a presentation bouquet. '

'A presentation bouquet! Who's coming then?--the Duchess of Portland?'

'No. '

'Oh, not her? Well you'll have a rare poppy-show if you put all thethings you've mentioned into your bouquet. '

'Yes, I want a rare poppy-show. '

'You do! Then there's no more to be said. '

The next day Winifred, in a dress of silvery velvet, and holding agaudy bunch of flowers in her hand, waited with keen impatience in theschoolroom, looking down the drive for Gudrun's arrival. It was a wetmorning. Under her nose was the strange fragrance of hot-house flowers, the bunch was like a little fire to her, she seemed to have a strangenew fire in her heart. This slight sense of romance stirred her like anintoxicant. 

At last she saw Gudrun coming, and she ran downstairs to warn herfather and Gerald. They, laughing at her anxiety and gravity, came withher into the hall. The man-servant came hastening to the door, andthere he was, relieving Gudrun of her umbrella, and then of herraincoat. The welcoming party hung back till their visitor entered thehall. 

Gudrun was flushed with the rain, her hair was blown in loose littlecurls, she was like a flower just opened in the rain, the heart of theblossom just newly visible, seeming to emit a warmth of retainedsunshine. Gerald winced in spirit, seeing her so beautiful and unknown. She was wearing a soft blue dress, and her stockings were of dark red. 

Winifred advanced with odd, stately formality. 

'We are so glad you've come back, ' she said. 'These are your flowers. 'She presented the bouquet. 

'Mine!' cried Gudrun. She was suspended for a moment, then a vividflush went over her, she was as if blinded for a moment with a flame ofpleasure. Then her eyes, strange and flaming, lifted and looked at thefather, and at Gerald. And again Gerald shrank in spirit, as if itwould be more than he could bear, as her hot, exposed eyes rested onhim. There was something so revealed, she was revealed beyond bearing, to his eyes. He turned his face aside. And he felt he would not be ableto avert her. And he writhed under the imprisonment. 

Gudrun put her face into the flowers. 

'But how beautiful they are!' she said, in a muffled voice. Then, witha strange, suddenly revealed passion, she stooped and kissed Winifred. 

Mr Crich went forward with his hand held out to her. 

'I was afraid you were going to run away from us, ' he said, playfully. 

Gudrun looked up at him with a luminous, roguish, unknown face. 

'Really!' she replied. 'No, I didn't want to stay in London. ' Her voiceseemed to imply that she was glad to get back to Shortlands, her tonewas warm and subtly caressing. 

'That is a good thing, ' smiled the father. 'You see you are verywelcome here among us. '

Gudrun only looked into his face with dark-blue, warm, shy eyes. Shewas unconsciously carried away by her own power. 

'And you look as if you came home in every possible triumph, ' Mr Crichcontinued, holding her hand. 

'No, ' she said, glowing strangely. 'I haven't had any triumph till Icame here. '

'Ah, come, come! We're not going to hear any of those tales. Haven't weread notices in the newspaper, Gerald?'

'You came off pretty well, ' said Gerald to her, shaking hands. 'Did yousell anything?'

'No, ' she said, 'not much. '

'Just as well, ' he said. 

She wondered what he meant. But she was all aglow with her reception, carried away by this little flattering ceremonial on her behalf. 

'Winifred, ' said the father, 'have you a pair of shoes for MissBrangwen? You had better change at once--'

Gudrun went out with her bouquet in her hand. 

'Quite a remarkable young woman, ' said the father to Gerald, when shehad gone. 

'Yes, ' replied Gerald briefly, as if he did not like the observation. 

Mr Crich liked Gudrun to sit with him for half an hour. Usually he wasashy and wretched, with all the life gnawed out of him. But as soon ashe rallied, he liked to make believe that he was just as before, quitewell and in the midst of life--not of the outer world, but in the midstof a strong essential life. And to this belief, Gudrun contributedperfectly. With her, he could get by stimulation those precioushalf-hours of strength and exaltation and pure freedom, when he seemedto live more than he had ever lived. 

She came to him as he lay propped up in the library. His face was likeyellow wax, his eyes darkened, as it were sightless. His black beard, now streaked with grey, seemed to spring out of the waxy flesh of acorpse. Yet the atmosphere about him was energetic and playful. Gudrunsubscribed to this, perfectly. To her fancy, he was just an ordinaryman. Only his rather terrible appearance was photographed upon hersoul, away beneath her consciousness. She knew that, in spite of hisplayfulness, his eyes could not change from their darkened vacancy, they were the eyes of a man who is dead. 

'Ah, this is Miss Brangwen, ' he said, suddenly rousing as she entered, announced by the man-servant. 'Thomas, put Miss Brangwen a chairhere--that's right. ' He looked at her soft, fresh face with pleasure. It gave him the illusion of life. 'Now, you will have a glass of sherryand a little piece of cake. Thomas--'

'No thank you, ' said Gudrun. And as soon as she had said it, her heartsank horribly. The sick man seemed to fall into a gap of death, at hercontradiction. She ought to play up to him, not to contravene him. Inan instant she was smiling her rather roguish smile. 

'I don't like sherry very much, ' she said. 'But I like almost anythingelse. '

The sick man caught at this straw instantly. 

'Not sherry! No! Something else! What then? What is there, Thomas?'

'Port wine--curacao--'

'I would love some curacao--' said Gudrun, looking at the sick manconfidingly. 

'You would. Well then Thomas, curacao--and a little cake, or abiscuit?'

'A biscuit, ' said Gudrun. She did not want anything, but she was wise. 

'Yes. '

He waited till she was settled with her little glass and her biscuit. Then he was satisfied. 

'You have heard the plan, ' he said with some excitement, 'for a studiofor Winifred, over the stables?'

'No!' exclaimed Gudrun, in mock wonder. 

'Oh!--I thought Winnie wrote it to you, in her letter!'

'Oh--yes--of course. But I thought perhaps it was only her own littleidea--' Gudrun smiled subtly, indulgently. The sick man smiled also, elated. 

'Oh no. It is a real project. There is a good room under the roof ofthe stables--with sloping rafters. We had thought of converting it intoa studio. '

'How VERY nice that would be!' cried Gudrun, with excited warmth. Thethought of the rafters stirred her. 

'You think it would? Well, it can be done. '

'But how perfectly splendid for Winifred! Of course, it is just what isneeded, if she is to work at all seriously. One must have one'sworkshop, otherwise one never ceases to be an amateur. '

'Is that so? Yes. Of course, I should like you to share it withWinifred. '

'Thank you SO much. '

Gudrun knew all these things already, but she must look shy and verygrateful, as if overcome. 

'Of course, what I should like best, would be if you could give up yourwork at the Grammar School, and just avail yourself of the studio, andwork there--well, as much or as little as you liked--'

He looked at Gudrun with dark, vacant eyes. She looked back at him asif full of gratitude. These phrases of a dying man were so complete andnatural, coming like echoes through his dead mouth. 

'And as to your earnings--you don't mind taking from me what you havetaken from the Education Committee, do you? I don't want you to be aloser. '

'Oh, ' said Gudrun, 'if I can have the studio and work there, I can earnmoney enough, really I can. '

'Well, ' he said, pleased to be the benefactor, 'we can see about allthat. You wouldn't mind spending your days here?'

'If there were a studio to work in, ' said Gudrun, 'I could ask fornothing better. '

'Is that so?'

He was really very pleased. But already he was getting tired. She couldsee the grey, awful semi-consciousness of mere pain and dissolutioncoming over him again, the torture coming into the vacancy of hisdarkened eyes. It was not over yet, this process of death. She rosesoftly saying:

'Perhaps you will sleep. I must look for Winifred. '

She went out, telling the nurse that she had left him. Day by day thetissue of the sick man was further and further reduced, nearer andnearer the process came, towards the last knot which held the humanbeing in its unity. But this knot was hard and unrelaxed, the will ofthe dying man never gave way. He might be dead in nine-tenths, yet theremaining tenth remained unchanged, till it too was torn apart. Withhis will he held the unit of himself firm, but the circle of his powerwas ever and ever reduced, it would be reduced to a point at last, thenswept away. 

To adhere to life, he must adhere to human relationships, and he caughtat every straw. Winifred, the butler, the nurse, Gudrun, these were thepeople who meant all to him, in these last resources. Gerald, in hisfather's presence, stiffened with repulsion. It was so, to a lessdegree, with all the other children except Winifred. They could not seeanything but the death, when they looked at their father. It was as ifsome subterranean dislike overcame them. They could not see thefamiliar face, hear the familiar voice. They were overwhelmed by theantipathy of visible and audible death. Gerald could not breathe in hisfather's presence. He must get out at once. And so, in the same way, the father could not bear the presence of his son. It sent a finalirritation through the soul of the dying man. 

The studio was made ready, Gudrun and Winifred moved in. They enjoyedso much the ordering and the appointing of it. And now they need hardlybe in the house at all. They had their meals in the studio, they livedthere safely. For the house was becoming dreadful. There were twonurses in white, flitting silently about, like heralds of death. Thefather was confined to his bed, there was a come and go of SOTTO-VOCEsisters and brothers and children. 

Winifred was her father's constant visitor. Every morning, afterbreakfast, she went into his room when he was washed and propped up inbed, to spend half an hour with him. 

'Are you better, Daddie?' she asked him invariably. 

And invariably he answered:

'Yes, I think I'm a little better, pet. '

She held his hand in both her own, lovingly and protectively. And thiswas very dear to him. 

She ran in again as a rule at lunch time, to tell him the course ofevents, and every evening, when the curtains were drawn, and his roomwas cosy, she spent a long time with him. Gudrun was gone home, Winifred was alone in the house: she liked best to be with her father. They talked and prattled at random, he always as if he were well, justthe same as when he was going about. So that Winifred, with a child'ssubtle instinct for avoiding the painful things, behaved as if nothingserious was the matter. Instinctively, she withheld her attention, andwas happy. Yet in her remoter soul, she knew as well as the adultsknew: perhaps better. 

Her father was quite well in his make-belief with her. But when shewent away, he relapsed under the misery of his dissolution. But stillthere were these bright moments, though as his strength waned, hisfaculty for attention grew weaker, and the nurse had to send Winifredaway, to save him from exhaustion. 

He never admitted that he was going to die. He knew it was so, he knewit was the end. Yet even to himself he did not admit it. He hated thefact, mortally. His will was rigid. He could not bear being overcome bydeath. For him, there was no death. And yet, at times, he felt a greatneed to cry out and to wail and complain. He would have liked to cryaloud to Gerald, so that his son should be horrified out of hiscomposure. Gerald was instinctively aware of this, and he recoiled, toavoid any such thing. This uncleanness of death repelled him too much. One should die quickly, like the Romans, one should be master of one'sfate in dying as in living. He was convulsed in the clasp of this deathof his father's, as in the coils of the great serpent of Laocoon. Thegreat serpent had got the father, and the son was dragged into theembrace of horrifying death along with him. He resisted always. And insome strange way, he was a tower of strength to his father. 

The last time the dying man asked to see Gudrun he was grey with neardeath. Yet he must see someone, he must, in the intervals ofconsciousness, catch into connection with the living world, lest heshould have to accept his own situation. Fortunately he was most of histime dazed and half gone. And he spent many hours dimly thinking of thepast, as it were, dimly re-living his old experiences. But there weretimes even to the end when he was capable of realising what washappening to him in the present, the death that was on him. And thesewere the times when he called in outside help, no matter whose. For torealise this death that he was dying was a death beyond death, never tobe borne. It was an admission never to be made. 

Gudrun was shocked by his appearance, and by the darkened, almostdisintegrated eyes, that still were unconquered and firm. 

'Well, ' he said in his weakened voice, 'and how are you and Winifredgetting on?'

'Oh, very well indeed, ' replied Gudrun. 

There were slight dead gaps in the conversation, as if the ideas calledup were only elusive straws floating on the dark chaos of the sickman's dying. 

'The studio answers all right?' he said. 

'Splendid. It couldn't be more beautiful and perfect, ' said Gudrun. 

She waited for what he would say next. 

'And you think Winifred has the makings of a sculptor?'

It was strange how hollow the words were, meaningless. 

'I'm sure she has. She will do good things one day. '

'Ah! Then her life won't be altogether wasted, you think?'

Gudrun was rather surprised. 

'Sure it won't!' she exclaimed softly. 

'That's right. '

Again Gudrun waited for what he would say. 

'You find life pleasant, it is good to live, isn't it?' he asked, witha pitiful faint smile that was almost too much for Gudrun. 

'Yes, ' she smiled--she would lie at random--'I get a pretty good time Ibelieve. '

'That's right. A happy nature is a great asset. '

Again Gudrun smiled, though her soul was dry with repulsion. Did onehave to die like this--having the life extracted forcibly from one, whilst one smiled and made conversation to the end? Was there no otherway? Must one go through all the horror of this victory over death, thetriumph of the integral will, that would not be broken till itdisappeared utterly? One must, it was the only way. She admired theself-possession and the control of the dying man exceedingly. But sheloathed the death itself. She was glad the everyday world held good, and she need not recognise anything beyond. 

'You are quite all right here?--nothing we can do for you?--nothing youfind wrong in your position?'

'Except that you are too good to me, ' said Gudrun. 

'Ah, well, the fault of that lies with yourself, ' he said, and he felta little exultation, that he had made this speech. 

He was still so strong and living! But the nausea of death began tocreep back on him, in reaction. 

Gudrun went away, back to Winifred. Mademoiselle had left, Gudrunstayed a good deal at Shortlands, and a tutor came in to carry onWinifred's education. But he did not live in the house, he wasconnected with the Grammar School. 

One day, Gudrun was to drive with Winifred and Gerald and Birkin totown, in the car. It was a dark, showery day. Winifred and Gudrun wereready and waiting at the door. Winifred was very quiet, but Gudrun hadnot noticed. Suddenly the child asked, in a voice of unconcern:

'Do you think my father's going to die, Miss Brangwen?'

Gudrun started. 

'I don't know, ' she replied. 

'Don't you truly?'

'Nobody knows for certain. He MAY die, of course. '

The child pondered a few moments, then she asked:

'But do you THINK he will die?'

It was put almost like a question in geography or science, insistent, as if she would force an admission from the adult. The watchful, slightly triumphant child was almost diabolical. 

'Do I think he will die?' repeated Gudrun. 'Yes, I do. '

But Winifred's large eyes were fixed on her, and the girl did not move. 

'He is very ill, ' said Gudrun. 

A small smile came over Winifred's face, subtle and sceptical. 

'I don't believe he will, ' the child asserted, mockingly, and she movedaway into the drive. Gudrun watched the isolated figure, and her heartstood still. Winifred was playing with a little rivulet of water, absorbedly as if nothing had been said. 

'I've made a proper dam, ' she said, out of the moist distance. 

Gerald came to the door from out of the hall behind. 

'It is just as well she doesn't choose to believe it, ' he said. 

Gudrun looked at him. Their eyes met; and they exchanged a sardonicunderstanding. 

'Just as well, ' said Gudrun. 

He looked at her again, and a fire flickered up in his eyes. 

'Best to dance while Rome burns, since it must burn, don't you think?'he said. 

She was rather taken aback. But, gathering herself together, shereplied:

'Oh--better dance than wail, certainly. '

'So I think. '

And they both felt the subterranean desire to let go, to fling awayeverything, and lapse into a sheer unrestraint, brutal and licentious. A strange black passion surged up pure in Gudrun. She felt strong. Shefelt her hands so strong, as if she could tear the world asunder withthem. She remembered the abandonments of Roman licence, and her heartgrew hot. She knew she wanted this herself also--or something, something equivalent. Ah, if that which was unknown and suppressed inher were once let loose, what an orgiastic and satisfying event itwould be. And she wanted it, she trembled slightly from the proximityof the man, who stood just behind her, suggestive of the same blacklicentiousness that rose in herself. She wanted it with him, thisunacknowledged frenzy. For a moment the clear perception of thispreoccupied her, distinct and perfect in its final reality. Then sheshut it off completely, saying:

'We might as well go down to the lodge after Winifred--we can get inthe care there. '

'So we can, ' he answered, going with her. 

They found Winifred at the lodge admiring the litter of purebred whitepuppies. The girl looked up, and there was a rather ugly, unseeing castin her eyes as she turned to Gerald and Gudrun. She did not want to seethem. 

'Look!' she cried. 'Three new puppies! Marshall says this one seemsperfect. Isn't it a sweetling? But it isn't so nice as its mother. ' Sheturned to caress the fine white bull-terrier bitch that stood uneasilynear her. 

'My dearest Lady Crich, ' she said, 'you are beautiful as an angel onearth. Angel--angel--don't you think she's good enough and beautifulenough to go to heaven, Gudrun? They will be in heaven, won't they--andESPECIALLY my darling Lady Crich! Mrs Marshall, I say!'

'Yes, Miss Winifred?' said the woman, appearing at the door. 

'Oh do call this one Lady Winifred, if she turns out perfect, will you?Do tell Marshall to call it Lady Winifred. '

'I'll tell him--but I'm afraid that's a gentleman puppy, MissWinifred. '

'Oh NO!' There was the sound of a car. 'There's Rupert!' cried thechild, and she ran to the gate. 

Birkin, driving his car, pulled up outside the lodge gate. 

'We're ready!' cried Winifred. 'I want to sit in front with you, Rupert. May I?'

'I'm afraid you'll fidget about and fall out, ' he said. 

'No I won't. I do want to sit in front next to you. It makes my feet solovely and warm, from the engines. '

Birkin helped her up, amused at sending Gerald to sit by Gudrun in thebody of the car. 

'Have you any news, Rupert?' Gerald called, as they rushed along thelanes. 

'News?' exclaimed Birkin. 

'Yes, ' Gerald looked at Gudrun, who sat by his side, and he said, hiseyes narrowly laughing, 'I want to know whether I ought to congratulatehim, but I can't get anything definite out of him. '

Gudrun flushed deeply. 

'Congratulate him on what?' she asked. 

'There was some mention of an engagement--at least, he said somethingto me about it. '

Gudrun flushed darkly. 

'You mean with Ursula?' she said, in challenge. 

'Yes. That is so, isn't it?'

'I don't think there's any engagement, ' said Gudrun, coldly. 

'That so? Still no developments, Rupert?' he called. 

'Where? Matrimonial? No. '

'How's that?' called Gudrun. 

Birkin glanced quickly round. There was irritation in his eyes also. 

'Why?' he replied. 'What do you think of it, Gudrun?'

'Oh, ' she cried, determined to fling her stone also into the pool, since they had begun, 'I don't think she wants an engagement. Naturally, she's a bird that prefers the bush. ' Gudrun's voice wasclear and gong-like. It reminded Rupert of her father's, so strong andvibrant. 

'And I, ' said Birkin, his face playful but yet determined, 'I want abinding contract, and am not keen on love, particularly free love. '

They were both amused. WHY this public avowal? Gerald seemed suspendeda moment, in amusement. 

'Love isn't good enough for you?' he called. 

'No!' shouted Birkin. 

'Ha, well that's being over-refined, ' said Gerald, and the car ranthrough the mud. 

'What's the matter, really?' said Gerald, turning to Gudrun. 

This was an assumption of a sort of intimacy that irritated Gudrunalmost like an affront. It seemed to her that Gerald was deliberatelyinsulting her, and infringing on the decent privacy of them all. 

'What is it?' she said, in her high, repellent voice. 'Don't ask me!--Iknow nothing about ULTIMATE marriage, I assure you: or evenpenultimate. '

'Only the ordinary unwarrantable brand!' replied Gerald. 'Just so--samehere. I am no expert on marriage, and degrees of ultimateness. It seemsto be a bee that buzzes loudly in Rupert's bonnet. '

'Exactly! But that is his trouble, exactly! Instead of wanting a womanfor herself, he wants his IDEAS fulfilled. Which, when it comes toactual practice, is not good enough. '

'Oh no. Best go slap for what's womanly in woman, like a bull at agate. ' Then he seemed to glimmer in himself. 'You think love is theticket, do you?' he asked. 

'Certainly, while it lasts--you only can't insist on permanency, ' cameGudrun's voice, strident above the noise. 

'Marriage or no marriage, ultimate or penultimate or just so-so?--takethe love as you find it. '

'As you please, or as you don't please, ' she echoed. 'Marriage is asocial arrangement, I take it, and has nothing to do with the questionof love. '

His eyes were flickering on her all the time. She felt as is he werekissing her freely and malevolently. It made the colour burn in hercheeks, but her heart was quite firm and unfailing. 

'You think Rupert is off his head a bit?' Gerald asked. 

Her eyes flashed with acknowledgment. 

'As regards a woman, yes, ' she said, 'I do. There IS such a thing astwo people being in love for the whole of their lives--perhaps. Butmarriage is neither here nor there, even then. If they are in love, well and good. If not--why break eggs about it!'

'Yes, ' said Gerald. 'That's how it strikes me. But what about Rupert?'

'I can't make out--neither can he nor anybody. He seems to think thatif you marry you can get through marriage into a third heaven, orsomething--all very vague. '

'Very! And who wants a third heaven? As a matter of fact, Rupert has agreat yearning to be SAFE--to tie himself to the mast. '

'Yes. It seems to me he's mistaken there too, ' said Gudrun. 'I'm sure amistress is more likely to be faithful than a wife--just because she isher OWN mistress. No--he says he believes that a man and wife can gofurther than any other two beings--but WHERE, is not explained. Theycan know each other, heavenly and hellish, but particularly hellish, soperfectly that they go beyond heaven and hell--into--there it allbreaks down--into nowhere. '

'Into Paradise, he says, ' laughed Gerald. 

Gudrun shrugged her shoulders. 'FE M'EN FICHE of your Paradise!' shesaid. 

'Not being a Mohammedan, ' said Gerald. Birkin sat motionless, drivingthe car, quite unconscious of what they said. And Gudrun, sittingimmediately behind him, felt a sort of ironic pleasure in thus exposinghim. 

'He says, ' she added, with a grimace of irony, 'that you can find aneternal equilibrium in marriage, if you accept the unison, and stillleave yourself separate, don't try to fuse. '

'Doesn't inspire me, ' said Gerald. 

'That's just it, ' said Gudrun. 

'I believe in love, in a real ABANDON, if you're capable of it, ' saidGerald. 

'So do I, ' said she. 

'And so does Rupert, too--though he is always shouting. '

'No, ' said Gudrun. 'He won't abandon himself to the other person. Youcan't be sure of him. That's the trouble I think. '

'Yet he wants marriage! Marriage--ET PUIS?'

'Le paradis!' mocked Gudrun. 

Birkin, as he drove, felt a creeping of the spine, as if somebody wasthreatening his neck. But he shrugged with indifference. It began torain. Here was a change. He stopped the car and got down to put up thehood. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

WOMAN TO WOMAN

They came to the town, and left Gerald at the railway station. Gudrunand Winifred were to come to tea with Birkin, who expected Ursula also. In the afternoon, however, the first person to turn up was Hermione. Birkin was out, so she went in the drawing-room, looking at his booksand papers, and playing on the piano. Then Ursula arrived. She wassurprised, unpleasantly so, to see Hermione, of whom she had heardnothing for some time. 

'It is a surprise to see you, ' she said. 

'Yes, ' said Hermione--'I've been away at Aix--'

'Oh, for your health?'

'Yes. '

The two women looked at each other. Ursula resented Hermione's long, grave, downward-looking face. There was something of the stupidity andthe unenlightened self-esteem of a horse in it. 'She's got ahorse-face, ' Ursula said to herself, 'she runs between blinkers. ' Itdid seem as if Hermione, like the moon, had only one side to her penny. There was no obverse. She stared out all the time on the narrow, but toher, complete world of the extant consciousness. In the darkness, shedid not exist. Like the moon, one half of her was lost to life. Herself was all in her head, she did not know what it was spontaneously torun or move, like a fish in the water, or a weasel on the grass. Shemust always KNOW. 

But Ursula only suffered from Hermione's one-sidedness. She only feltHermione's cool evidence, which seemed to put her down as nothing. Hermione, who brooded and brooded till she was exhausted with the acheof her effort at consciousness, spent and ashen in her body, who gainedso slowly and with such effort her final and barren conclusions ofknowledge, was apt, in the presence of other women, whom she thoughtsimply female, to wear the conclusions of her bitter assurance likejewels which conferred on her an unquestionable distinction, established her in a higher order of life. She was apt, mentally, tocondescend to women such as Ursula, whom she regarded as purelyemotional. Poor Hermione, it was her one possession, this achingcertainty of hers, it was her only justification. She must be confidenthere, for God knows, she felt rejected and deficient enough elsewhere. In the life of thought, of the spirit, she was one of the elect. Andshe wanted to be universal. But there was a devastating cynicism at thebottom of her. She did not believe in her own universals--they weresham. She did not believe in the inner life--it was a trick, not areality. She did not believe in the spiritual world--it was anaffectation. In the last resort, she believed in Mammon, the flesh, andthe devil--these at least were not sham. She was a priestess withoutbelief, without conviction, suckled in a creed outworn, and condemnedto the reiteration of mysteries that were not divine to her. Yet therewas no escape. She was a leaf upon a dying tree. What help was therethen, but to fight still for the old, withered truths, to die for theold, outworn belief, to be a sacred and inviolate priestess ofdesecrated mysteries? The old great truths BAD been true. And she was aleaf of the old great tree of knowledge that was withering now. To theold and last truth then she must be faithful even though cynicism andmockery took place at the bottom of her soul. 

'I am so glad to see you, ' she said to Ursula, in her slow voice, thatwas like an incantation. 'You and Rupert have become quite friends?'

'Oh yes, ' said Ursula. 'He is always somewhere in the background. '

Hermione paused before she answered. She saw perfectly well the otherwoman's vaunt: it seemed truly vulgar. 

'Is he?' she said slowly, and with perfect equanimity. 'And do youthink you will marry?'

The question was so calm and mild, so simple and bare and dispassionatethat Ursula was somewhat taken aback, rather attracted. It pleased heralmost like a wickedness. There was some delightful naked irony inHermione. 

'Well, ' replied Ursula, 'HE wants to, awfully, but I'm not so sure. '

Hermione watched her with slow calm eyes. She noted this new expressionof vaunting. How she envied Ursula a certain unconscious positivity!even her vulgarity!

'Why aren't you sure?' she asked, in her easy sing song. She wasperfectly at her ease, perhaps even rather happy in this conversation. 'You don't really love him?'

Ursula flushed a little at the mild impertinence of this question. Andyet she could not definitely take offence. Hermione seemed so calmlyand sanely candid. After all, it was rather great to be able to be sosane. 

'He says it isn't love he wants, ' she replied. 

'What is it then?' Hermione was slow and level. 

'He wants me really to accept him in marriage. '

Hermione was silent for some time, watching Ursula with slow, pensiveeyes. 

'Does he?' she said at length, without expression. Then, rousing, 'Andwhat is it you don't want? You don't want marriage?'

'No--I don't--not really. I don't want to give the sort of SUBMISSIONhe insists on. He wants me to give myself up--and I simply don't feelthat I CAN do it. '

Again there was a long pause, before Hermione replied:

'Not if you don't want to. ' Then again there was silence. Hermioneshuddered with a strange desire. Ah, if only he had asked HER tosubserve him, to be his slave! She shuddered with desire. 

'You see I can't--'

'But exactly in what does--'

They had both begun at once, they both stopped. Then, Hermione, assuming priority of speech, resumed as if wearily:

'To what does he want you to submit?'

'He says he wants me to accept him non-emotionally, and finally--Ireally don't know what he means. He says he wants the demon part ofhimself to be mated--physically--not the human being. You see he saysone thing one day, and another the next--and he always contradictshimself--'

'And always thinks about himself, and his own dissatisfaction, ' saidHermione slowly. 

'Yes, ' cried Ursula. 'As if there were no-one but himself concerned. That makes it so impossible. '

But immediately she began to retract. 

'He insists on my accepting God knows what in HIM, ' she resumed. 'Hewants me to accept HIM as--as an absolute--But it seems to me hedoesn't want to GIVE anything. He doesn't want real warm intimacy--hewon't have it--he rejects it. He won't let me think, really, and hewon't let me FEEL--he hates feelings. '

There was a long pause, bitter for Hermione. Ah, if only he would havemade this demand of her? Her he DROVE into thought, drove inexorablyinto knowledge--and then execrated her for it. 

'He wants me to sink myself, ' Ursula resumed, 'not to have any being ofmy own--'

'Then why doesn't he marry an odalisk?' said Hermione in her mildsing-song, 'if it is that he wants. ' Her long face looked sardonic andamused. 

'Yes, ' said Ursula vaguely. After all, the tiresome thing was, he didnot want an odalisk, he did not want a slave. Hermione would have beenhis slave--there was in her a horrible desire to prostrate herselfbefore a man--a man who worshipped her, however, and admitted her asthe supreme thing. He did not want an odalisk. He wanted a woman toTAKE something from him, to give herself up so much that she could takethe last realities of him, the last facts, the last physical facts, physical and unbearable. 

And if she did, would he acknowledge her? Would he be able toacknowledge her through everything, or would he use her just as hisinstrument, use her for his own private satisfaction, not admittingher? That was what the other men had done. They had wanted their ownshow, and they would not admit her, they turned all she was intonothingness. Just as Hermione now betrayed herself as a woman. Hermionewas like a man, she believed only in men's things. She betrayed thewoman in herself. And Birkin, would he acknowledge, or would he denyher?

'Yes, ' said Hermione, as each woman came out of her own separatereverie. 'It would be a mistake--I think it would be a mistake--'

'To marry him?' asked Ursula. 

'Yes, ' said Hermione slowly--'I think you need a man--soldierly, strong-willed--' Hermione held out her hand and clenched it withrhapsodic intensity. 'You should have a man like the old heroes--youneed to stand behind him as he goes into battle, you need to SEE hisstrength, and to HEAR his shout--. You need a man physically strong, and virile in his will, NOT a sensitive man--. ' There was a break, asif the pythoness had uttered the oracle, and now the woman went on, ina rhapsody-wearied voice: 'And you see, Rupert isn't this, he isn't. Heis frail in health and body, he needs great, great care. Then he is sochangeable and unsure of himself--it requires the greatest patience andunderstanding to help him. And I don't think you are patient. You wouldhave to be prepared to suffer--dreadfully. I can't TELL you how muchsuffering it would take to make him happy. He lives an INTENSELYspiritual life, at times--too, too wonderful. And then come thereactions. I can't speak of what I have been through with him. We havebeen together so long, I really do know him, I DO know what he is. AndI feel I must say it; I feel it would be perfectly DISASTROUS for youto marry him--for you even more than for him. ' Hermione lapsed intobitter reverie. 'He is so uncertain, so unstable--he wearies, and thenreacts. I couldn't TELL you what his re-actions are. I couldn't TELLyou the agony of them. That which he affirms and loves one day--alittle latter he turns on it in a fury of destruction. He is neverconstant, always this awful, dreadful reaction. Always the quick changefrom good to bad, bad to good. And nothing is so devastating, nothing--'

'Yes, ' said Ursula humbly, 'you must have suffered. '

An unearthly light came on Hermione's face. She clenched her hand likeone inspired. 

'And one must be willing to suffer--willing to suffer for him hourly, daily--if you are going to help him, if he is to keep true to anythingat all--'

'And I don't WANT to suffer hourly and daily, ' said Ursula. 'I don't, Ishould be ashamed. I think it is degrading not to be happy. '

Hermione stopped and looked at her a long time. 

'Do you?' she said at last. And this utterance seemed to her a mark ofUrsula's far distance from herself. For to Hermione suffering was thegreatest reality, come what might. Yet she too had a creed ofhappiness. 

'Yes, ' she said. 'One SHOULD be happy--' But it was a matter of will. 

'Yes, ' said Hermione, listlessly now, 'I can only feel that it would bedisastrous, disastrous--at least, to marry in a hurry. Can't you betogether without marriage? Can't you go away and live somewhere withoutmarriage? I do feel that marriage would be fatal, for both of you. Ithink for you even more than for him--and I think of his health--'

'Of course, ' said Ursula, 'I don't care about marriage--it isn't reallyimportant to me--it's he who wants it. '

'It is his idea for the moment, ' said Hermione, with that wearyfinality, and a sort of SI JEUNESSE SAVAIT infallibility. 

There was a pause. Then Ursula broke into faltering challenge. 

'You think I'm merely a physical woman, don't you?'

'No indeed, ' said Hermione. 'No, indeed! But I think you are vital andyoung--it isn't a question of years, or even of experience--it isalmost a question of race. Rupert is race-old, he comes of an oldrace--and you seem to me so young, you come of a young, inexperiencedrace. '

'Do I!' said Ursula. 'But I think he is awfully young, on one side. '

'Yes, perhaps childish in many respects. Nevertheless--'

They both lapsed into silence. Ursula was filled with deep resentmentand a touch of hopelessness. 'It isn't true, ' she said to herself, silently addressing her adversary. 'It isn't true. And it is YOU whowant a physically strong, bullying man, not I. It is you who want anunsensitive man, not I. You DON'T know anything about Rupert, notreally, in spite of the years you have had with him. You don't give hima woman's love, you give him an ideal love, and that is why he reactsaway from you. You don't know. You only know the dead things. Anykitchen maid would know something about him, you don't know. What doyou think your knowledge is but dead understanding, that doesn't mean athing. You are so false, and untrue, how could you know anything? Whatis the good of your talking about love--you untrue spectre of a woman!How can you know anything, when you don't believe? You don't believe inyourself and your own womanhood, so what good is your conceited, shallow cleverness--!'

The two women sat on in antagonistic silence. Hermione felt injured, that all her good intention, all her offering, only left the otherwoman in vulgar antagonism. But then, Ursula could not understand, never would understand, could never be more than the usual jealous andunreasonable female, with a good deal of powerful female emotion, female attraction, and a fair amount of female understanding, but nomind. Hermione had decided long ago that where there was no mind, itwas useless to appeal for reason--one had merely to ignore theignorant. And Rupert--he had now reacted towards the strongly female, healthy, selfish woman--it was his reaction for the time being--therewas no helping it all. It was all a foolish backward and forward, aviolent oscillation that would at length be too violent for hiscoherency, and he would smash and be dead. There was no saving him. This violent and directionless reaction between animalism and spiritualtruth would go on in him till he tore himself in two between theopposite directions, and disappeared meaninglessly out of life. It wasno good--he too was without unity, without MIND, in the ultimate stagesof living; not quite man enough to make a destiny for a woman. 

They sat on till Birkin came in and found them together. He felt atonce the antagonism in the atmosphere, something radical andinsuperable, and he bit his lip. But he affected a bluff manner. 

'Hello, Hermione, are you back again? How do you feel?'

'Oh, better. And how are you--you don't look well--'

'Oh!--I believe Gudrun and Winnie Crich are coming in to tea. At leastthey said they were. We shall be a tea-party. What train did you comeby, Ursula?'

It was rather annoying to see him trying to placate both women at once. Both women watched him, Hermione with deep resentment and pity for him, Ursula very impatient. He was nervous and apparently in quite goodspirits, chattering the conventional commonplaces. Ursula was amazedand indignant at the way he made small-talk; he was adept as any FAT inChristendom. She became quite stiff, she would not answer. It allseemed to her so false and so belittling. And still Gudrun did notappear. 

'I think I shall go to Florence for the winter, ' said Hermione atlength. 

'Will you?' he answered. 'But it is so cold there. '

'Yes, but I shall stay with Palestra. It is quite comfortable. '

'What takes you to Florence?'

'I don't know, ' said Hermione slowly. Then she looked at him with herslow, heavy gaze. 'Barnes is starting his school of aesthetics, andOlandese is going to give a set of discourses on the Italian nationalpolicy-'

'Both rubbish, ' he said. 

'No, I don't think so, ' said Hermione. 

'Which do you admire, then?'

'I admire both. Barnes is a pioneer. And then I am interested in Italy, in her coming to national consciousness. '

'I wish she'd come to something different from national consciousness, then, ' said Birkin; 'especially as it only means a sort ofcommercial-industrial consciousness. I hate Italy and her nationalrant. And I think Barnes is an amateur. '

Hermione was silent for some moments, in a state of hostility. But yet, she had got Birkin back again into her world! How subtle her influencewas, she seemed to start his irritable attention into her directionexclusively, in one minute. He was her creature. 

'No, ' she said, 'you are wrong. ' Then a sort of tension came over her, she raised her face like the pythoness inspired with oracles, and wenton, in rhapsodic manner: 'Il Sandro mi scrive che ha accolto il piugrande entusiasmo, tutti i giovani, e fanciulle e ragazzi, sonotutti--' She went on in Italian, as if, in thinking of the Italians shethought in their language. 

He listened with a shade of distaste to her rhapsody, then he said:

'For all that, I don't like it. Their nationalism is justindustrialism--that and a shallow jealousy I detest so much. '

'I think you are wrong--I think you are wrong--' said Hermione. 'Itseems to me purely spontaneous and beautiful, the modern Italian'sPASSION, for it is a passion, for Italy, L'Italia--'

'Do you know Italy well?' Ursula asked of Hermione. Hermione hated tobe broken in upon in this manner. Yet she answered mildly:

'Yes, pretty well. I spent several years of my girlhood there, with mymother. My mother died in Florence. '

'Oh. '

There was a pause, painful to Ursula and to Birkin. Hermione howeverseemed abstracted and calm. Birkin was white, his eyes glowed as if hewere in a fever, he was far too over-wrought. How Ursula suffered inthis tense atmosphere of strained wills! Her head seemed bound round byiron bands. 

Birkin rang the bell for tea. They could not wait for Gudrun anylonger. When the door was opened, the cat walked in. 

'Micio! Micio!' called Hermione, in her slow, deliberate sing-song. Theyoung cat turned to look at her, then, with his slow and stately walkhe advanced to her side. 

'Vieni--vieni qua, ' Hermione was saying, in her strange caressive, protective voice, as if she were always the elder, the mother superior. 'Vieni dire Buon' Giorno alla zia. Mi ricorde, mi ricorde bene--non hevero, piccolo? E vero che mi ricordi? E vero?' And slowly she rubbedhis head, slowly and with ironic indifference. 

'Does he understand Italian?' said Ursula, who knew nothing of thelanguage. 

'Yes, ' said Hermione at length. 'His mother was Italian. She was bornin my waste-paper basket in Florence, on the morning of Rupert'sbirthday. She was his birthday present. '

Tea was brought in. Birkin poured out for them. It was strange howinviolable was the intimacy which existed between him and Hermione. Ursula felt that she was an outsider. The very tea-cups and the oldsilver was a bond between Hermione and Birkin. It seemed to belong toan old, past world which they had inhabited together, and in whichUrsula was a foreigner. She was almost a parvenue in their old culturedmilieu. Her convention was not their convention, their standards werenot her standards. But theirs were established, they had the sanctionand the grace of age. He and she together, Hermione and Birkin, werepeople of the same old tradition, the same withered deadening culture. And she, Ursula, was an intruder. So they always made her feel. 

Hermione poured a little cream into a saucer. The simple way sheassumed her rights in Birkin's room maddened and discouraged Ursula. There was a fatality about it, as if it were bound to be. Hermionelifted the cat and put the cream before him. He planted his two paws onthe edge of the table and bent his gracious young head to drink. 

'Siccuro che capisce italiano, ' sang Hermione, 'non l'avra dimenticato, la lingua della Mamma. '

She lifted the cat's head with her long, slow, white fingers, notletting him drink, holding him in her power. It was always the same, this joy in power she manifested, peculiarly in power over any malebeing. He blinked forbearingly, with a male, bored expression, lickinghis whiskers. Hermione laughed in her short, grunting fashion. 

'Ecco, il bravo ragazzo, come e superbo, questo!'

She made a vivid picture, so calm and strange with the cat. She had atrue static impressiveness, she was a social artist in some ways. 

The cat refused to look at her, indifferently avoided her fingers, andbegan to drink again, his nose down to the cream, perfectly balanced, as he lapped with his odd little click. 

'It's bad for him, teaching him to eat at table, ' said Birkin. 

'Yes, ' said Hermione, easily assenting. 

Then, looking down at the cat, she resumed her old, mocking, humoroussing-song. 

'Ti imparano fare brutte cose, brutte cose--'

She lifted the Mino's white chin on her forefinger, slowly. The youngcat looked round with a supremely forbearing air, avoided seeinganything, withdrew his chin, and began to wash his face with his paw. Hermione grunted her laughter, pleased. 

'Bel giovanotto--' she said. 

The cat reached forward again and put his fine white paw on the edge ofthe saucer. Hermione lifted it down with delicate slowness. Thisdeliberate, delicate carefulness of movement reminded Ursula of Gudrun. 

'No! Non e permesso di mettere il zampino nel tondinetto. Non piace albabbo. Un signor gatto cosi selvatico--!'

And she kept her finger on the softly planted paw of the cat, and hervoice had the same whimsical, humorous note of bullying. 

Ursula had her nose out of joint. She wanted to go away now. It allseemed no good. Hermione was established for ever, she herself wasephemeral and had not yet even arrived. 

'I will go now, ' she said suddenly. 

Birkin looked at her almost in fear--he so dreaded her anger. 'Butthere is no need for such hurry, ' he said. 

'Yes, ' she answered. 'I will go. ' And turning to Hermione, before therewas time to say any more, she held out her hand and said 'Good-bye. '

'Good-bye--' sang Hermione, detaining the band. 'Must you really gonow?'

'Yes, I think I'll go, ' said Ursula, her face set, and averted fromHermione's eyes. 

'You think you will--'

But Ursula had got her hand free. She turned to Birkin with a quick, almost jeering: 'Good-bye, ' and she was opening the door before he hadtime to do it for her. 

When she got outside the house she ran down the road in fury andagitation. It was strange, the unreasoning rage and violence Hermioneroused in her, by her very presence. Ursula knew she gave herself awayto the other woman, she knew she looked ill-bred, uncouth, exaggerated. But she did not care. She only ran up the road, lest she should go backand jeer in the faces of the two she had left behind. For they outragedher. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

EXCURSE

Next day Birkin sought Ursula out. It happened to be the half-day atthe Grammar School. He appeared towards the end of the morning, andasked her, would she drive with him in the afternoon. She consented. But her face was closed and unresponding, and his heart sank. 

The afternoon was fine and dim. He was driving the motor-car, and shesat beside him. But still her face was closed against him, unresponding. When she became like this, like a wall against him, hisheart contracted. 

His life now seemed so reduced, that he hardly cared any more. Atmoments it seemed to him he did not care a straw whether Ursula orHermione or anybody else existed or did not exist. Why bother! Whystrive for a coherent, satisfied life? Why not drift on in a series ofaccidents-like a picaresque novel? Why not? Why bother about humanrelationships? Why take them seriously-male or female? Why form anyserious connections at all? Why not be casual, drifting along, takingall for what it was worth?

And yet, still, he was damned and doomed to the old effort at seriousliving. 

'Look, ' he said, 'what I bought. ' The car was running along a broadwhite road, between autumn trees. 

He gave her a little bit of screwed-up paper. She took it and openedit. 

'How lovely, ' she cried. 

She examined the gift. 

'How perfectly lovely!' she cried again. 'But why do you give them me?'She put the question offensively. 

His face flickered with bored irritation. He shrugged his shouldersslightly. 

'I wanted to, ' he said, coolly. 

'But why? Why should you?'

'Am I called on to find reasons?' he asked. 

There was a silence, whilst she examined the rings that had beenscrewed up in the paper. 

'I think they are BEAUTIFUL, ' she said, 'especially this. This iswonderful-'

It was a round opal, red and fiery, set in a circle of tiny rubies. 

'You like that best?' he said. 

'I think I do. '

'I like the sapphire, ' he said. 

'This?'

It was a rose-shaped, beautiful sapphire, with small brilliants. 

'Yes, ' she said, 'it is lovely. ' She held it in the light. 'Yes, perhaps it IS the best-'

'The blue-' he said. 

'Yes, wonderful-'

He suddenly swung the car out of the way of a farm-cart. It tilted onthe bank. He was a careless driver, yet very quick. But Ursula wasfrightened. There was always that something regardless in him whichterrified her. She suddenly felt he might kill her, by making somedreadful accident with the motor-car. For a moment she was stony withfear. 

'Isn't it rather dangerous, the way you drive?' she asked him. 

'No, it isn't dangerous, ' he said. And then, after a pause: 'Don't youlike the yellow ring at all?'

It was a squarish topaz set in a frame of steel, or some other similarmineral, finely wrought. 

'Yes, ' she said, 'I do like it. But why did you buy these rings?'

'I wanted them. They are second-hand. '

'You bought them for yourself?'

'No. Rings look wrong on my hands. '

'Why did you buy them then?'

'I bought them to give to you. '

'But why? Surely you ought to give them to Hermione! You belong toher. '

He did not answer. She remained with the jewels shut in her hand. Shewanted to try them on her fingers, but something in her would not lether. And moreover, she was afraid her hands were too large, she shrankfrom the mortification of a failure to put them on any but her littlefinger. They travelled in silence through the empty lanes. 

Driving in a motor-car excited her, she forgot his presence even. 

'Where are we?' she asked suddenly. 

'Not far from Worksop. '

'And where are we going?'

'Anywhere. '

It was the answer she liked. 

She opened her hand to look at the rings. They gave her SUCH pleasure, as they lay, the three circles, with their knotted jewels, entangled inher palm. She would have to try them on. She did so secretly, unwillingto let him see, so that he should not know her finger was too large forthem. But he saw nevertheless. He always saw, if she wanted him not to. It was another of his hateful, watchful characteristics. 

Only the opal, with its thin wire loop, would go on her ring finger. And she was superstitious. No, there was ill-portent enough, she wouldnot accept this ring from him in pledge. 

'Look, ' she said, putting forward her hand, that was half-closed andshrinking. 'The others don't fit me. '

He looked at the red-glinting, soft stone, on her over-sensitive skin. 

'Yes, ' he said. 

'But opals are unlucky, aren't they?' she said wistfully. 

'No. I prefer unlucky things. Luck is vulgar. Who wants what LUCK wouldbring? I don't. '

'But why?' she laughed. 

And, consumed with a desire to see how the other rings would look onher hand, she put them on her little finger. 

'They can be made a little bigger, ' he said. 

'Yes, ' she replied, doubtfully. And she sighed. She knew that, inaccepting the rings, she was accepting a pledge. Yet fate seemed morethan herself. She looked again at the jewels. They were very beautifulto her eyes-not as ornament, or wealth, but as tiny fragments ofloveliness. 

'I'm glad you bought them, ' she said, putting her hand, halfunwillingly, gently on his arm. 

He smiled, slightly. He wanted her to come to him. But he was angry atthe bottom of his soul, and indifferent. He knew she had a passion forhim, really. But it was not finally interesting. There were depths ofpassion when one became impersonal and indifferent, unemotional. Whereas Ursula was still at the emotional personal level-always soabominably personal. He had taken her as he had never been takenhimself. He had taken her at the roots of her darkness and shame-like ademon, laughing over the fountain of mystic corruption which was one ofthe sources of her being, laughing, shrugging, accepting, acceptingfinally. As for her, when would she so much go beyond herself as toaccept him at the quick of death?

She now became quite happy. The motor-car ran on, the afternoon wassoft and dim. She talked with lively interest, analysing people andtheir motives-Gudrun, Gerald. He answered vaguely. He was not very muchinterested any more in personalities and in people-people were alldifferent, but they were all enclosed nowadays in a definitelimitation, he said; there were only about two great ideas, two greatstreams of activity remaining, with various forms of reactiontherefrom. The reactions were all varied in various people, but theyfollowed a few great laws, and intrinsically there was no difference. They acted and reacted involuntarily according to a few great laws, andonce the laws, the great principles, were known, people were no longermystically interesting. They were all essentially alike, thedifferences were only variations on a theme. None of them transcendedthe given terms. 

Ursula did not agree-people were still an adventure to her-but-perhapsnot as much as she tried to persuade herself. Perhaps there wassomething mechanical, now, in her interest. Perhaps also her interestwas destructive, her analysing was a real tearing to pieces. There wasan under-space in her where she did not care for people and theiridiosyncracies, even to destroy them. She seemed to touch for a momentthis undersilence in herself, she became still, and she turned for amoment purely to Birkin. 

'Won't it be lovely to go home in the dark?' she said. 'We might havetea rather late-shall we?-and have high tea? Wouldn't that be rathernice?'

'I promised to be at Shortlands for dinner, ' he said. 

'But-it doesn't matter-you can go tomorrow-'

'Hermione is there, ' he said, in rather an uneasy voice. 'She is goingaway in two days. I suppose I ought to say good-bye to her. I shallnever see her again. '

Ursula drew away, closed in a violent silence. He knitted his brows, and his eyes began to sparkle again in anger. 

'You don't mind, do you?' he asked irritably. 

'No, I don't care. Why should I? Why should I mind?' Her tone wasjeering and offensive. 

'That's what I ask myself, ' he said; 'why SHOULD you mind! But you seemto. ' His brows were tense with violent irritation. 

'I ASSURE you I don't, I don't mind in the least. Go where youbelong-it's what I want you to do. '

'Ah you fool!' he cried, 'with your "go where you belong. " It'sfinished between Hermione and me. She means much more to YOU, if itcomes to that, than she does to me. For you can only revolt in purereaction from her-and to be her opposite is to be her counterpart. '

'Ah, opposite!' cried Ursula. 'I know your dodges. I am not taken in byyour word-twisting. You belong to Hermione and her dead show. Well, ifyou do, you do. I don't blame you. But then you've nothing to do withme. 

In his inflamed, overwrought exasperation, he stopped the car, and theysat there, in the middle of the country lane, to have it out. It was acrisis of war between them, so they did not see the ridiculousness oftheir situation. 

'If you weren't a fool, if only you weren't a fool, ' he cried in bitterdespair, 'you'd see that one could be decent, even when one has beenwrong. I WAS wrong to go on all those years with Hermione--it was adeathly process. But after all, one can have a little human decency. But no, you would tear my soul out with your jealousy at the verymention of Hermione's name. '

'I jealous! I--jealous! You ARE mistaken if you think that. I'm notjealous in the least of Hermione, she is nothing to me, not THAT!' AndUrsula snapped her fingers. 'No, it's you who are a liar. It's you whomust return, like a dog to his vomit. It is what Hermione STANDS FORthat I HATE. I HATE it. It is lies, it is false, it is death. But youwant it, you can't help it, you can't help yourself. You belong to thatold, deathly way of living--then go back to it. But don't come to me, for I've nothing to do with it. '

And in the stress of her violent emotion, she got down from the car andwent to the hedgerow, picking unconsciously some flesh-pinkspindleberries, some of which were burst, showing their orange seeds. 

'Ah, you are a fool, ' he cried, bitterly, with some contempt. 

'Yes, I am. I AM a fool. And thank God for it. I'm too big a fool toswallow your cleverness. God be praised. You go to your women--go tothem--they are your sort--you've always had a string of them trailingafter you--and you always will. Go to your spiritual brides--but don'tcome to me as well, because I'm not having any, thank you. You're notsatisfied, are you? Your spiritual brides can't give you what you want, they aren't common and fleshy enough for you, aren't they? So you cometo me, and keep them in the background! You will marry me for dailyuse. But you'll keep yourself well provided with spiritual brides inthe background. I know your dirty little game. ' Suddenly a flame ranover her, and she stamped her foot madly on the road, and he winced, afraid that she would strike him. 'And I, I'M not spiritual enough, I'Mnot as spiritual as that Hermione--!' Her brows knitted, her eyesblazed like a tiger's. 'Then go to her, that's all I say, GO to her, GO. Ha, she spiritual--SPIRITUAL, she! A dirty materialist as she is. SHEspiritual? What does she care for, what is her spirituality? What ISit?' Her fury seemed to blaze out and burn his face. He shrank alittle. 'I tell you it's DIRT, DIRT, and nothing BUT dirt. And it'sdirt you want, you crave for it. Spiritual! Is THAT spiritual, herbullying, her conceit, her sordid materialism? She's a fishwife, afishwife, she is such a materialist. And all so sordid. What does shework out to, in the end, with all her social passion, as you call it. Social passion--what social passion has she?--show it me!--where is it?She wants petty, immediate POWER, she wants the illusion that she is agreat woman, that is all. In her soul she's a devilish unbeliever, common as dirt. That's what she is at the bottom. And all the rest ispretence--but you love it. You love the sham spirituality, it's yourfood. And why? Because of the dirt underneath. Do you think I don'tknow the foulness of your sex life--and her's?--I do. And it's thatfoulness you want, you liar. Then have it, have it. You're such aliar. '

She turned away, spasmodically tearing the twigs of spindleberry fromthe hedge, and fastening them, with vibrating fingers, in the bosom ofher coat. 

He stood watching in silence. A wonderful tenderness burned in him, atthe sight of her quivering, so sensitive fingers: and at the same timehe was full of rage and callousness. 

'This is a degrading exhibition, ' he said coolly. 

'Yes, degrading indeed, ' she said. 'But more to me than to you. '

'Since you choose to degrade yourself, ' he said. Again the flash cameover her face, the yellow lights concentrated in her eyes. 

'YOU!' she cried. 'You! You truth-lover! You purity-monger! It STINKS, your truth and your purity. It stinks of the offal you feed on, youscavenger dog, you eater of corpses. You are foul, FOUL and you mustknow it. Your purity, your candour, your goodness--yes, thank you, we've had some. What you are is a foul, deathly thing, obscene, that'swhat you are, obscene and perverse. You, and love! You may well say, you don't want love. No, you want YOURSELF, and dirt, and death--that'swhat you want. You are so PERVERSE, so death-eating. And then--'

'There's a bicycle coming, ' he said, writhing under her louddenunciation. 

She glanced down the road. 

'I don't care, ' she cried. 

Nevertheless she was silent. The cyclist, having heard the voicesraised in altercation, glanced curiously at the man, and the woman, andat the standing motor-car as he passed. 

'--Afternoon, ' he said, cheerfully. 

'Good-afternoon, ' replied Birkin coldly. 

They were silent as the man passed into the distance. 

A clearer look had come over Birkin's face. He knew she was in the mainright. He knew he was perverse, so spiritual on the one hand, and insome strange way, degraded, on the other. But was she herself anybetter? Was anybody any better?

'It may all be true, lies and stink and all, ' he said. 'But Hermione'sspiritual intimacy is no rottener than your emotional-jealous intimacy. One can preserve the decencies, even to one's enemies: for one's ownsake. Hermione is my enemy--to her last breath! That's why I must bowher off the field. '

'You! You and your enemies and your bows! A pretty picture you make ofyourself. But it takes nobody in but yourself. I JEALOUS! I! What Isay, ' her voice sprang into flame, 'I say because it is TRUE, do yousee, because you are YOU, a foul and false liar, a whited sepulchre. That's why I say it. And YOU hear it. '

'And be grateful, ' he added, with a satirical grimace. 

'Yes, ' she cried, 'and if you have a spark of decency in you, begrateful. '

'Not having a spark of decency, however--' he retorted. 

'No, ' she cried, 'you haven't a SPARK. And so you can go your way, andI'll go mine. It's no good, not the slightest. So you can leave me now, I don't want to go any further with you--leave me--'

'You don't even know where you are, ' he said. 

'Oh, don't bother, I assure you I shall be all right. I've got tenshillings in my purse, and that will take me back from anywhere YOUhave brought me to. ' She hesitated. The rings were still on herfingers, two on her little finger, one on her ring finger. Still shehesitated. 

'Very good, ' he said. 'The only hopeless thing is a fool. '

'You are quite right, ' she said. 

Still she hesitated. Then an ugly, malevolent look came over her face, she pulled the rings from her fingers, and tossed them at him. Onetouched his face, the others hit his coat, and they scattered into themud. 

'And take your rings, ' she said, 'and go and buy yourself a femaleelsewhere--there are plenty to be had, who will be quite glad to shareyour spiritual mess, --or to have your physical mess, and leave yourspiritual mess to Hermione. '

With which she walked away, desultorily, up the road. He stoodmotionless, watching her sullen, rather ugly walk. She was sullenlypicking and pulling at the twigs of the hedge as she passed. She grewsmaller, she seemed to pass out of his sight. A darkness came over hismind. Only a small, mechanical speck of consciousness hovered near him. 

He felt tired and weak. Yet also he was relieved. He gave up his oldposition. He went and sat on the bank. No doubt Ursula was right. Itwas true, really, what she said. He knew that his spirituality wasconcomitant of a process of depravity, a sort of pleasure inself-destruction. There really WAS a certain stimulant inself-destruction, for him--especially when it was translatedspiritually. But then he knew it--he knew it, and had done. And was notUrsula's way of emotional intimacy, emotional and physical, was it notjust as dangerous as Hermione's abstract spiritual intimacy? Fusion, fusion, this horrible fusion of two beings, which every woman and mostmen insisted on, was it not nauseous and horrible anyhow, whether itwas a fusion of the spirit or of the emotional body? Hermione sawherself as the perfect Idea, to which all men must come: And Ursula wasthe perfect Womb, the bath of birth, to which all men must come! Andboth were horrible. Why could they not remain individuals, limited bytheir own limits? Why this dreadful all-comprehensiveness, this hatefultyranny? Why not leave the other being, free, why try to absorb, ormelt, or merge? One might abandon oneself utterly to the MOMENTS, butnot to any other being. 

He could not bear to see the rings lying in the pale mud of the road. He picked them up, and wiped them unconsciously on his hands. They werethe little tokens of the reality of beauty, the reality of happiness inwarm creation. But he had made his hands all dirty and gritty. 

There was a darkness over his mind. The terrible knot of consciousnessthat had persisted there like an obsession was broken, gone, his lifewas dissolved in darkness over his limbs and his body. But there was apoint of anxiety in his heart now. He wanted her to come back. Hebreathed lightly and regularly like an infant, that breathesinnocently, beyond the touch of responsibility. 

She was coming back. He saw her drifting desultorily under the highhedge, advancing towards him slowly. He did not move, he did not lookagain. He was as if asleep, at peace, slumbering and utterly relaxed. 

She came up and stood before him, hanging her head. 

'See what a flower I found you, ' she said, wistfully holding a piece ofpurple-red bell-heather under his face. He saw the clump of colouredbells, and the tree-like, tiny branch: also her hands, with theirover-fine, over-sensitive skin. 

'Pretty!' he said, looking up at her with a smile, taking the flower. Everything had become simple again, quite simple, the complexity goneinto nowhere. But he badly wanted to cry: except that he was weary andbored by emotion. 

Then a hot passion of tenderness for her filled his heart. He stood upand looked into her face. It was new and oh, so delicate in itsluminous wonder and fear. He put his arms round her, and she hid herface on his shoulder. 

It was peace, just simple peace, as he stood folding her quietly thereon the open lane. It was peace at last. The old, detestable world oftension had passed away at last, his soul was strong and at ease. 

She looked up at him. The wonderful yellow light in her eyes now wassoft and yielded, they were at peace with each other. He kissed her, softly, many, many times. A laugh came into her eyes. 

'Did I abuse you?' she asked. 

He smiled too, and took her hand, that was so soft and given. 

'Never mind, ' she said, 'it is all for the good. ' He kissed her again, softly, many times. 

'Isn't it?' she said. 

'Certainly, ' he replied. 'Wait! I shall have my own back. '

She laughed suddenly, with a wild catch in her voice, and flung herarms around him. 

'You are mine, my love, aren't you?' she cried straining him close. 

'Yes, ' he said, softly. 

His voice was so soft and final, she went very still, as if under afate which had taken her. Yes, she acquiesced--but it was accomplishedwithout her acquiescence. He was kissing her quietly, repeatedly, witha soft, still happiness that almost made her heart stop beating. 

'My love!' she cried, lifting her face and looking with frightened, gentle wonder of bliss. Was it all real? But his eyes were beautifuland soft and immune from stress or excitement, beautiful and smilinglightly to her, smiling with her. She hid her face on his shoulder, hiding before him, because he could see her so completely. She knew heloved her, and she was afraid, she was in a strange element, a newheaven round about her. She wished he were passionate, because inpassion she was at home. But this was so still and frail, as space ismore frightening than force. 

Again, quickly, she lifted her head. 

'Do you love me?' she said, quickly, impulsively. 

'Yes, ' he replied, not heeding her motion, only her stillness. 

She knew it was true. She broke away. 

'So you ought, ' she said, turning round to look at the road. 'Did youfind the rings?'

'Yes. '

'Where are they?'

'In my pocket. '

She put her hand into his pocket and took them out. 

She was restless. 

'Shall we go?' she said. 

'Yes, ' he answered. And they mounted to the car once more, and leftbehind them this memorable battle-field. 

They drifted through the wild, late afternoon, in a beautiful motionthat was smiling and transcendent. His mind was sweetly at ease, thelife flowed through him as from some new fountain, he was as if bornout of the cramp of a womb. 

'Are you happy?' she asked him, in her strange, delighted way. 

'Yes, ' he said. 

'So am I, ' she cried in sudden ecstacy, putting her arm round him andclutching him violently against her, as he steered the motor-car. 

'Don't drive much more, ' she said. 'I don't want you to be always doingsomething. '

'No, ' he said. 'We'll finish this little trip, and then we'll be free. '

'We will, my love, we will, ' she cried in delight, kissing him as heturned to her. 

He drove on in a strange new wakefulness, the tension of hisconsciousness broken. He seemed to be conscious all over, all his bodyawake with a simple, glimmering awareness, as if he had just comeawake, like a thing that is born, like a bird when it comes out of anegg, into a new universe. 

They dropped down a long hill in the dusk, and suddenly Ursularecognised on her right hand, below in the hollow, the form ofSouthwell Minster. 

'Are we here!' she cried with pleasure. 

The rigid, sombre, ugly cathedral was settling under the gloom of thecoming night, as they entered the narrow town, the golden lights showedlike slabs of revelation, in the shop-windows. 

'Father came here with mother, ' she said, 'when they first knew eachother. He loves it--he loves the Minster. Do you?'

'Yes. It looks like quartz crystals sticking up out of the dark hollow. We'll have our high tea at the Saracen's Head. '

As they descended, they heard the Minster bells playing a hymn, whenthe hour had struck six. 

 Glory to thee my God this night For all the blessings of the light--

So, to Ursula's ear, the tune fell out, drop by drop, from the unseensky on to the dusky town. It was like dim, bygone centuries sounding. It was all so far off. She stood in the old yard of the inn, smellingof straw and stables and petrol. Above, she could see the first stars. What was it all? This was no actual world, it was the dream-world ofone's childhood--a great circumscribed reminiscence. The world hadbecome unreal. She herself was a strange, transcendent reality. 

They sat together in a little parlour by the fire. 

'Is it true?' she said, wondering. 

'What?'

'Everything--is everything true?'

'The best is true, ' he said, grimacing at her. 

'Is it?' she replied, laughing, but unassured. 

She looked at him. He seemed still so separate. New eyes were opened inher soul. She saw a strange creature from another world, in him. It wasas if she were enchanted, and everything were metamorphosed. Sherecalled again the old magic of the Book of Genesis, where the sons ofGod saw the daughters of men, that they were fair. And he was one ofthese, one of these strange creatures from the beyond, looking down ather, and seeing she was fair. 

He stood on the hearth-rug looking at her, at her face that wasupturned exactly like a flower, a fresh, luminous flower, glintingfaintly golden with the dew of the first light. And he was smilingfaintly as if there were no speech in the world, save the silentdelight of flowers in each other. Smilingly they delighted in eachother's presence, pure presence, not to be thought of, even known. Buthis eyes had a faintly ironical contraction. 

And she was drawn to him strangely, as in a spell. Kneeling on thehearth-rug before him, she put her arms round his loins, and put herface against his thigh. Riches! Riches! She was overwhelmed with asense of a heavenful of riches. 

'We love each other, ' she said in delight. 

'More than that, ' he answered, looking down at her with his glimmering, easy face. 

Unconsciously, with her sensitive fingertips, she was tracing the backof his thighs, following some mysterious life-flow there. She haddiscovered something, something more than wonderful, more wonderfulthan life itself. It was the strange mystery of his life-motion, there, at the back of the thighs, down the flanks. It was a strange reality ofhis being, the very stuff of being, there in the straight downflow ofthe thighs. It was here she discovered him one of the sons of God suchas were in the beginning of the world, not a man, something other, something more. 

This was release at last. She had had lovers, she had known passion. But this was neither love nor passion. It was the daughters of mencoming back to the sons of God, the strange inhuman sons of God who arein the beginning. 

Her face was now one dazzle of released, golden light, as she looked upat him, and laid her hands full on his thighs, behind, as he stoodbefore her. He looked down at her with a rich bright brow like a diademabove his eyes. She was beautiful as a new marvellous flower opened athis knees, a paradisal flower she was, beyond womanhood, such a flowerof luminousness. Yet something was tight and unfree in him. He did notlike this crouching, this radiance--not altogether. 

It was all achieved, for her. She had found one of the sons of God fromthe Beginning, and he had found one of the first most luminousdaughters of men. 

She traced with her hands the line of his loins and thighs, at theback, and a living fire ran through her, from him, darkly. It was adark flood of electric passion she released from him, drew intoherself. She had established a rich new circuit, a new current ofpassional electric energy, between the two of them, released from thedarkest poles of the body and established in perfect circuit. It was adark fire of electricity that rushed from him to her, and flooded themboth with rich peace, satisfaction. 

'My love, ' she cried, lifting her face to him, her eyes, her mouth openin transport. 

'My love, ' he answered, bending and kissing her, always kissing her. 

She closed her hands over the full, rounded body of his loins, as hestooped over her, she seemed to touch the quick of the mystery ofdarkness that was bodily him. She seemed to faint beneath, and heseemed to faint, stooping over her. It was a perfect passing away forboth of them, and at the same time the most intolerable accession intobeing, the marvellous fullness of immediate gratification, overwhelming, out-flooding from the source of the deepest life-force, the darkest, deepest, strangest life-source of the human body, at theback and base of the loins. 

After a lapse of stillness, after the rivers of strange dark fluidrichness had passed over her, flooding, carrying away her mind andflooding down her spine and down her knees, past her feet, a strangeflood, sweeping away everything and leaving her an essential new being, she was left quite free, she was free in complete ease, her completeself. So she rose, stilly and blithe, smiling at him. He stood beforeher, glimmering, so awfully real, that her heart almost stoppedbeating. He stood there in his strange, whole body, that had itsmarvellous fountains, like the bodies of the sons of God who were inthe beginning. There were strange fountains of his body, moremysterious and potent than any she had imagined or known, moresatisfying, ah, finally, mystically-physically satisfying. She hadthought there was no source deeper than the phallic source. And now, behold, from the smitten rock of the man's body, from the strangemarvellous flanks and thighs, deeper, further in mystery than thephallic source, came the floods of ineffable darkness and ineffableriches. 

They were glad, and they could forget perfectly. They laughed, and wentto the meal provided. There was a venison pasty, of all things, a largebroad-faced cut ham, eggs and cresses and red beet-root, and medlarsand apple-tart, and tea. 

'What GOOD things!' she cried with pleasure. 'How noble itlooks!--shall I pour out the tea?--'

She was usually nervous and uncertain at performing these publicduties, such as giving tea. But today she forgot, she was at her ease, entirely forgetting to have misgivings. The tea-pot poured beautifullyfrom a proud slender spout. Her eyes were warm with smiles as she gavehim his tea. She had learned at last to be still and perfect. 

'Everything is ours, ' she said to him. 

'Everything, ' he answered. 

She gave a queer little crowing sound of triumph. 

'I'm so glad!' she cried, with unspeakable relief. 

'So am I, ' he said. 'But I'm thinking we'd better get out of ourresponsibilities as quick as we can. '

'What responsibilities?' she asked, wondering. 

'We must drop our jobs, like a shot. '

A new understanding dawned into her face. 

'Of course, ' she said, 'there's that. '

'We must get out, ' he said. 'There's nothing for it but to get out, quick. '

She looked at him doubtfully across the table. 

'But where?' she said. 

'I don't know, ' he said. 'We'll just wander about for a bit. '

Again she looked at him quizzically. 

'I should be perfectly happy at the Mill, ' she said. 

'It's very near the old thing, ' he said. 'Let us wander a bit. '

His voice could be so soft and happy-go-lucky, it went through herveins like an exhilaration. Nevertheless she dreamed of a valley, andwild gardens, and peace. She had a desire too for splendour--anaristocratic extravagant splendour. Wandering seemed to her likerestlessness, dissatisfaction. 

'Where will you wander to?' she asked. 

'I don't know. I feel as if I would just meet you and we'd setoff--just towards the distance. '

'But where can one go?' she asked anxiously. 'After all, there is onlythe world, and none of it is very distant. '

'Still, ' he said, 'I should like to go with you--nowhere. It would berather wandering just to nowhere. That's the place to get to--nowhere. One wants to wander away from the world's somewheres, into our ownnowhere. '

Still she meditated. 

'You see, my love, ' she said, 'I'm so afraid that while we are onlypeople, we've got to take the world that's given--because there isn'tany other. '

'Yes there is, ' he said. 'There's somewhere where we can befree--somewhere where one needn't wear much clothes--none even--whereone meets a few people who have gone through enough, and can takethings for granted--where you be yourself, without bothering. There issomewhere--there are one or two people--'

'But where--?' she sighed. 

'Somewhere--anywhere. Let's wander off. That's the thing to do--let'swander off. '

'Yes--' she said, thrilled at the thought of travel. But to her it wasonly travel. 

'To be free, ' he said. 'To be free, in a free place, with a few otherpeople!'

'Yes, ' she said wistfully. Those 'few other people' depressed her. 

'It isn't really a locality, though, ' he said. 'It's a perfectedrelation between you and me, and others--the perfect relation--so thatwe are free together. '

'It is, my love, isn't it, ' she said. 'It's you and me. It's you andme, isn't it?' She stretched out her arms to him. He went across andstooped to kiss her face. Her arms closed round him again, her handsspread upon his shoulders, moving slowly there, moving slowly on hisback, down his back slowly, with a strange recurrent, rhythmic motion, yet moving slowly down, pressing mysteriously over his loins, over hisflanks. The sense of the awfulness of riches that could never beimpaired flooded her mind like a swoon, a death in most marvellouspossession, mystic-sure. She possessed him so utterly and intolerably, that she herself lapsed out. And yet she was only sitting still in thechair, with her hands pressed upon him, and lost. 

Again he softly kissed her. 

'We shall never go apart again, ' he murmured quietly. And she did notspeak, but only pressed her hands firmer down upon the source ofdarkness in him. 

They decided, when they woke again from the pure swoon, to write theirresignations from the world of work there and then. She wanted this. 

He rang the bell, and ordered note-paper without a printed address. Thewaiter cleared the table. 

'Now then, ' he said, 'yours first. Put your home address, and thedate--then "Director of Education, Town Hall--Sir--" Now then!--I don'tknow how one really stands--I suppose one could get out of it in lessthan month--Anyhow "Sir--I beg to resign my post as classmistress inthe Willey Green Grammar School. I should be very grateful if you wouldliberate me as soon as possible, without waiting for the expiration ofthe month's notice. " That'll do. Have you got it? Let me look. "UrsulaBrangwen. " Good! Now I'll write mine. I ought to give them threemonths, but I can plead health. I can arrange it all right. '

He sat and wrote out his formal resignation. 

'Now, ' he said, when the envelopes were sealed and addressed, 'shall wepost them here, both together? I know Jackie will say, "Here's acoincidence!" when he receives them in all their identity. Shall we lethim say it, or not?'

'I don't care, ' she said. 

'No--?' he said, pondering. 

'It doesn't matter, does it?' she said. 

'Yes, ' he replied. 'Their imaginations shall not work on us. I'll postyours here, mine after. I cannot be implicated in their imaginings. '

He looked at her with his strange, non-human singleness. 

'Yes, you are right, ' she said. 

She lifted her face to him, all shining and open. It was as if he mightenter straight into the source of her radiance. His face became alittle distracted. 

'Shall we go?' he said. 

'As you like, ' she replied. 

They were soon out of the little town, and running through the unevenlanes of the country. Ursula nestled near him, into his constantwarmth, and watched the pale-lit revelation racing ahead, the visiblenight. Sometimes it was a wide old road, with grass-spaces on eitherside, flying magic and elfin in the greenish illumination, sometimes itwas trees looming overhead, sometimes it was bramble bushes, sometimesthe walls of a crew-yard and the butt of a barn. 

'Are you going to Shortlands to dinner?' Ursula asked him suddenly. Hestarted. 

'Good God!' he said. 'Shortlands! Never again. Not that. Besides weshould be too late. '

'Where are we going then--to the Mill?'

'If you like. Pity to go anywhere on this good dark night. Pity to comeout of it, really. Pity we can't stop in the good darkness. It isbetter than anything ever would be--this good immediate darkness. '

She sat wondering. The car lurched and swayed. She knew there was noleaving him, the darkness held them both and contained them, it was notto be surpassed Besides she had a full mystic knowledge of his suaveloins of darkness, dark-clad and suave, and in this knowledge there wassome of the inevitability and the beauty of fate, fate which one asksfor, which one accepts in full. 

He sat still like an Egyptian Pharoah, driving the car. He felt as ifhe were seated in immemorial potency, like the great carven statues ofreal Egypt, as real and as fulfilled with subtle strength, as theseare, with a vague inscrutable smile on the lips. He knew what it was tohave the strange and magical current of force in his back and loins, and down his legs, force so perfect that it stayed him immobile, andleft his face subtly, mindlessly smiling. He knew what it was to beawake and potent in that other basic mind, the deepest physical mind. And from this source he had a pure and magic control, magical, mystical, a force in darkness, like electricity. 

It was very difficult to speak, it was so perfect to sit in this pureliving silence, subtle, full of unthinkable knowledge and unthinkableforce, upheld immemorially in timeless force, like the immobile, supremely potent Egyptians, seated forever in their living, subtlesilence. 

'We need not go home, ' he said. 'This car has seats that let down andmake a bed, and we can lift the hood. '

She was glad and frightened. She cowered near to him. 

'But what about them at home?' she said. 

'Send a telegram. '

Nothing more was said. They ran on in silence. But with a sort ofsecond consciousness he steered the car towards a destination. For hehad the free intelligence to direct his own ends. His arms and hisbreast and his head were rounded and living like those of the Greek, hehad not the unawakened straight arms of the Egyptian, nor the sealed, slumbering head. A lambent intelligence played secondarily above hispure Egyptian concentration in darkness. 

They came to a village that lined along the road. The car crept slowlyalong, until he saw the post-office. Then he pulled up. 

'I will send a telegram to your father, ' he said. 'I will merely say"spending the night in town, " shall I?'

'Yes, ' she answered. She did not want to be disturbed into takingthought. 

She watched him move into the post-office. It was also a shop, she saw. Strange, he was. Even as he went into the lighted, public place heremained dark and magic, the living silence seemed the body of realityin him, subtle, potent, indiscoverable. There he was! In a strangeuplift of elation she saw him, the being never to be revealed, awful inits potency, mystic and real. This dark, subtle reality of him, neverto be translated, liberated her into perfection, her own perfectedbeing. She too was dark and fulfilled in silence. 

He came out, throwing some packages into the car. 

'There is some bread, and cheese, and raisins, and apples, and hardchocolate, ' he said, in his voice that was as if laughing, because ofthe unblemished stillness and force which was the reality in him. Shewould have to touch him. To speak, to see, was nothing. It was atravesty to look and to comprehend the man there. Darkness and silencemust fall perfectly on her, then she could know mystically, inunrevealed touch. She must lightly, mindlessly connect with him, havethe knowledge which is death of knowledge, the reality of surety innot-knowing. 

Soon they had run on again into the darkness. She did not ask wherethey were going, she did not care. She sat in a fullness and a purepotency that was like apathy, mindless and immobile. She was next tohim, and hung in a pure rest, as a star is hung, balanced unthinkably. Still there remained a dark lambency of anticipation. She would touchhim. With perfect fine finger-tips of reality she would touch thereality in him, the suave, pure, untranslatable reality of his loins ofdarkness. To touch, mindlessly in darkness to come in pure touchingupon the living reality of him, his suave perfect loins and thighs ofdarkness, this was her sustaining anticipation. 

And he too waited in the magical steadfastness of suspense, for her totake this knowledge of him as he had taken it of her. He knew herdarkly, with the fullness of dark knowledge. Now she would know him, and he too would be liberated. He would be night-free, like anEgyptian, steadfast in perfectly suspended equilibrium, pure mysticnodality of physical being. They would give each other thisstar-equilibrium which alone is freedom. 

She saw that they were running among trees--great old trees with dyingbracken undergrowth. The palish, gnarled trunks showed ghostly, andlike old priests in the hovering distance, the fern rose magical andmysterious. It was a night all darkness, with low cloud. The motor-caradvanced slowly. 

'Where are we?' she whispered. 

'In Sherwood Forest. '

It was evident he knew the place. He drove softly, watching. Then theycame to a green road between the trees. They turned cautiously round, and were advancing between the oaks of the forest, down a green lane. The green lane widened into a little circle of grass, where there was asmall trickle of water at the bottom of a sloping bank. The carstopped. 

'We will stay here, ' he said, 'and put out the lights. '

He extinguished the lamps at once, and it was pure night, with shadowsof trees like realities of other, nightly being. He threw a rug on tothe bracken, and they sat in stillness and mindless silence. There werefaint sounds from the wood, but no disturbance, no possibledisturbance, the world was under a strange ban, a new mystery hadsupervened. They threw off their clothes, and he gathered her to him, and found her, found the pure lambent reality of her forever invisibleflesh. Quenched, inhuman, his fingers upon her unrevealed nudity werethe fingers of silence upon silence, the body of mysterious night uponthe body of mysterious night, the night masculine and feminine, neverto be seen with the eye, or known with the mind, only known as apalpable revelation of living otherness. 

She had her desire of him, she touched, she received the maximum ofunspeakable communication in touch, dark, subtle, positively silent, amagnificent gift and give again, a perfect acceptance and yielding, amystery, the reality of that which can never be known, vital, sensualreality that can never be transmuted into mind content, but remainsoutside, living body of darkness and silence and subtlety, the mysticbody of reality. She had her desire fulfilled. He had his desirefulfilled. For she was to him what he was to her, the immemorialmagnificence of mystic, palpable, real otherness. 

They slept the chilly night through under the hood of the car, a nightof unbroken sleep. It was already high day when he awoke. They lookedat each other and laughed, then looked away, filled with darkness andsecrecy. Then they kissed and remembered the magnificence of the night. It was so magnificent, such an inheritance of a universe of darkreality, that they were afraid to seem to remember. They hid away theremembrance and the knowledge. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

DEATH AND LOVE

Thomas Crich died slowly, terribly slowly. It seemed impossible toeverybody that the thread of life could be drawn out so thin, and yetnot break. The sick man lay unutterably weak and spent, kept alive bymorphia and by drinks, which he sipped slowly. He was only halfconscious--a thin strand of consciousness linking the darkness of deathwith the light of day. Yet his will was unbroken, he was integral, complete. Only he must have perfect stillness about him. 

Any presence but that of the nurses was a strain and an effort to himnow. Every morning Gerald went into the room, hoping to find his fatherpassed away at last. Yet always he saw the same transparent face, thesame dread dark hair on the waxen forehead, and the awful, inchoatedark eyes, which seemed to be decomposing into formless darkness, having only a tiny grain of vision within them. 

And always, as the dark, inchoate eyes turned to him, there passedthrough Gerald's bowels a burning stroke of revolt, that seemed toresound through his whole being, threatening to break his mind with itsclangour, and making him mad. 

Every morning, the son stood there, erect and taut with life, gleamingin his blondness. The gleaming blondness of his strange, imminent beingput the father into a fever of fretful irritation. He could not bear tomeet the uncanny, downward look of Gerald's blue eyes. But it was onlyfor a moment. Each on the brink of departure, the father and son lookedat each other, then parted. 

For a long time Gerald preserved a perfect sang froid, he remainedquite collected. But at last, fear undermined him. He was afraid ofsome horrible collapse in himself. He had to stay and see this thingthrough. Some perverse will made him watch his father drawn over theborders of life. And yet, now, every day, the great red-hot stroke ofhorrified fear through the bowels of the son struck a furtherinflammation. Gerald went about all day with a tendency to cringe, asif there were the point of a sword of Damocles pricking the nape of hisneck. 

There was no escape--he was bound up with his father, he had to see himthrough. And the father's will never relaxed or yielded to death. Itwould have to snap when death at last snapped it, --if it did notpersist after a physical death. In the same way, the will of the sonnever yielded. He stood firm and immune, he was outside this death andthis dying. 

It was a trial by ordeal. Could he stand and see his father slowlydissolve and disappear in death, without once yielding his will, without once relenting before the omnipotence of death. Like a RedIndian undergoing torture, Gerald would experience the whole process ofslow death without wincing or flinching. He even triumphed in it. Hesomehow WANTED this death, even forced it. It was as if he himself weredealing the death, even when he most recoiled in horror. Still, hewould deal it, he would triumph through death. 

But in the stress of this ordeal, Gerald too lost his hold on theouter, daily life. That which was much to him, came to mean nothing. Work, pleasure--it was all left behind. He went on more or lessmechanically with his business, but this activity was all extraneous. The real activity was this ghastly wrestling for death in his own soul. And his own will should triumph. Come what might, he would not bow downor submit or acknowledge a master. He had no master in death. 

But as the fight went on, and all that he had been and was continued tobe destroyed, so that life was a hollow shell all round him, roaringand clattering like the sound of the sea, a noise in which heparticipated externally, and inside this hollow shell was all thedarkness and fearful space of death, he knew he would have to findreinforcements, otherwise he would collapse inwards upon the great darkvoid which circled at the centre of his soul. His will held his outerlife, his outer mind, his outer being unbroken and unchanged. But thepressure was too great. He would have to find something to make goodthe equilibrium. Something must come with him into the hollow void ofdeath in his soul, fill it up, and so equalise the pressure within tothe pressure without. For day by day he felt more and more like abubble filled with darkness, round which whirled the iridescence of hisconsciousness, and upon which the pressure of the outer world, theouter life, roared vastly. 

In this extremity his instinct led him to Gudrun. He threw awayeverything now--he only wanted the relation established with her. Hewould follow her to the studio, to be near her, to talk to her. Hewould stand about the room, aimlessly picking up the implements, thelumps of clay, the little figures she had cast--they were whimsical andgrotesque--looking at them without perceiving them. And she felt himfollowing her, dogging her heels like a doom. She held away from him, and yet she knew he drew always a little nearer, a little nearer. 

'I say, ' he said to her one evening, in an odd, unthinking, uncertainway, 'won't you stay to dinner tonight? I wish you would. '

She started slightly. He spoke to her like a man making a request ofanother man. 

'They'll be expecting me at home, ' she said. 

'Oh, they won't mind, will they?' he said. 'I should be awfully glad ifyou'd stay. '

Her long silence gave consent at last. 

'I'll tell Thomas, shall I?' he said. 

'I must go almost immediately after dinner, ' she said. 

It was a dark, cold evening. There was no fire in the drawing-room, they sat in the library. He was mostly silent, absent, and Winifredtalked little. But when Gerald did rouse himself, he smiled and waspleasant and ordinary with her. Then there came over him again the longblanks, of which he was not aware. 

She was very much attracted by him. He looked so preoccupied, and hisstrange, blank silences, which she could not read, moved her and madeher wonder over him, made her feel reverential towards him. 

But he was very kind. He gave her the best things at the table, he hada bottle of slightly sweet, delicious golden wine brought out fordinner, knowing she would prefer it to the burgundy. She felt herselfesteemed, needed almost. 

As they took coffee in the library, there was a soft, very softknocking at the door. He started, and called 'Come in. ' The timbre ofhis voice, like something vibrating at high pitch, unnerved Gudrun. Anurse in white entered, half hovering in the doorway like a shadow. Shewas very good-looking, but strangely enough, shy and self-mistrusting. 

'The doctor would like to speak to you, Mr Crich, ' she said, in herlow, discreet voice. 

'The doctor!' he said, starting up. 'Where is he?'

'He is in the dining-room. '

'Tell him I'm coming. '

He drank up his coffee, and followed the nurse, who had dissolved likea shadow. 

'Which nurse was that?' asked Gudrun. 

'Miss Inglis--I like her best, ' replied Winifred. 

After a while Gerald came back, looking absorbed by his own thoughts, and having some of that tension and abstraction which is seen in aslightly drunken man. He did not say what the doctor had wanted himfor, but stood before the fire, with his hands behind his back, and hisface open and as if rapt. Not that he was really thinking--he was onlyarrested in pure suspense inside himself, and thoughts wafted throughhis mind without order. 

'I must go now and see Mama, ' said Winifred, 'and see Dadda before hegoes to sleep. '

She bade them both good-night. 

Gudrun also rose to take her leave. 

'You needn't go yet, need you?' said Gerald, glancing quickly at theclock. ' It is early yet. I'll walk down with you when you go. Sit down, don't hurry away. '

Gudrun sat down, as if, absent as he was, his will had power over her. She felt almost mesmerised. He was strange to her, something unknown. What was he thinking, what was he feeling, as he stood there so rapt, saying nothing? He kept her--she could feel that. He would not let hergo. She watched him in humble submissiveness. 

'Had the doctor anything new to tell you?' she asked, softly, atlength, with that gentle, timid sympathy which touched a keen fibre inhis heart. He lifted his eyebrows with a negligent, indifferentexpression. 

'No--nothing new, ' he replied, as if the question were quite casual, trivial. 'He says the pulse is very weak indeed, very intermittent--butthat doesn't necessarily mean much, you know. '

He looked down at her. Her eyes were dark and soft and unfolded, with astricken look that roused him. 

'No, ' she murmured at length. 'I don't understand anything about thesethings. '

'Just as well not, ' he said. 'I say, won't you have a cigarette?--do!'He quickly fetched the box, and held her a light. Then he stood beforeher on the hearth again. 

'No, ' he said, 'we've never had much illness in the house, either--nottill father. ' He seemed to meditate a while. Then looking down at her, with strangely communicative blue eyes, that filled her with dread, hecontinued: 'It's something you don't reckon with, you know, till it isthere. And then you realise that it was there all the time--it wasalways there--you understand what I mean?--the possibility of thisincurable illness, this slow death. '

He moved his feet uneasily on the marble hearth, and put his cigaretteto his mouth, looking up at the ceiling. 

'I know, ' murmured Gudrun: 'it is dreadful. '

He smoked without knowing. Then he took the cigarette from his lips, bared his teeth, and putting the tip of his tongue between his teethspat off a grain of tobacco, turning slightly aside, like a man who isalone, or who is lost in thought. 

'I don't know what the effect actually IS, on one, ' he said, and againhe looked down at her. Her eyes were dark and stricken with knowledge, looking into his. He saw her submerged, and he turned aside his face. 'But I absolutely am not the same. There's nothing left, if youunderstand what I mean. You seem to be clutching at the void--and atthe same time you are void yourself. And so you don't know what to DO. '

'No, ' she murmured. A heavy thrill ran down her nerves, heavy, almostpleasure, almost pain. 'What can be done?' she added. 

He turned, and flipped the ash from his cigarette on to the greatmarble hearth-stones, that lay bare in the room, without fender or bar. 

'I don't know, I'm sure, ' he replied. 'But I do think you've got tofind some way of resolving the situation--not because you want to, butbecause you've GOT to, otherwise you're done. The whole of everything, and yourself included, is just on the point of caving in, and you arejust holding it up with your hands. Well, it's a situation thatobviously can't continue. You can't stand holding the roof up with yourhands, for ever. You know that sooner or later you'll HAVE to let go. Do you understand what I mean? And so something's got to be done, orthere's a universal collapse--as far as you yourself are concerned. '

He shifted slightly on the hearth, crunching a cinder under his heel. He looked down at it. Gudrun was aware of the beautiful old marblepanels of the fireplace, swelling softly carved, round him and abovehim. She felt as if she were caught at last by fate, imprisoned in somehorrible and fatal trap. 

'But what CAN be done?' she murmured humbly. 'You must use me if I canbe of any help at all--but how can I? I don't see how I CAN help you. '

He looked down at her critically. 

'I don't want you to HELP, ' he said, slightly irritated, 'becausethere's nothing to be DONE. I only want sympathy, do you see: I wantsomebody I can talk to sympathetically. That eases the strain. Andthere IS nobody to talk to sympathetically. That's the curious thing. There IS nobody. There's Rupert Birkin. But then he ISN'T sympathetic, he wants to DICTATE. And that is no use whatsoever. '

She was caught in a strange snare. She looked down at her hands. 

Then there was the sound of the door softly opening. Gerald started. Hewas chagrined. It was his starting that really startled Gudrun. Then hewent forward, with quick, graceful, intentional courtesy. 

'Oh, mother!' he said. 'How nice of you to come down. How are you?'

The elderly woman, loosely and bulkily wrapped in a purple gown, cameforward silently, slightly hulked, as usual. Her son was at her side. He pushed her up a chair, saying 'You know Miss Brangwen, don't you?'

The mother glanced at Gudrun indifferently. 

'Yes, ' she said. Then she turned her wonderful, forget-me-not blue eyesup to her son, as she slowly sat down in the chair he had brought her. 

'I came to ask you about your father, ' she said, in her rapid, scarcely-audible voice. 'I didn't know you had company. '

'No? Didn't Winifred tell you? Miss Brangwen stayed to dinner, to makeus a little more lively--'

Mrs Crich turned slowly round to Gudrun, and looked at her, but withunseeing eyes. 

'I'm afraid it would be no treat to her. ' Then she turned again to herson. 'Winifred tells me the doctor had something to say about yourfather. What is it?'

'Only that the pulse is very weak--misses altogether a good manytimes--so that he might not last the night out, ' Gerald replied. 

Mrs Crich sat perfectly impassive, as if she had not heard. Her bulkseemed hunched in the chair, her fair hair hung slack over her ears. But her skin was clear and fine, her hands, as she sat with themforgotten and folded, were quite beautiful, full of potential energy. Agreat mass of energy seemed decaying up in that silent, hulking form. 

She looked up at her son, as he stood, keen and soldierly, near to her. Her eyes were most wonderfully blue, bluer than forget-me-nots. Sheseemed to have a certain confidence in Gerald, and to feel a certainmotherly mistrust of him. 

'How are YOU?' she muttered, in her strangely quiet voice, as if nobodyshould hear but him. 'You're not getting into a state, are you?

You're not letting it make you hysterical?'

The curious challenge in the last words startled Gudrun. 

'I don't think so, mother, ' he answered, rather coldly cheery. 

'Somebody's got to see it through, you know. '

'Have they? Have they?' answered his mother rapidly. 'Why should YOUtake it on yourself? What have you got to do, seeing it through. Itwill see itself through. You are not needed. '

'No, I don't suppose I can do any good, ' he answered. 'It's just how itaffects us, you see. '

'You like to be affected--don't you? It's quite nuts for you? You wouldhave to be important. You have no need to stop at home. Why don't yougo away!'

These sentences, evidently the ripened grain of many dark hours, tookGerald by surprise. 

'I don't think it's any good going away now, mother, at the lastminute, ' he said, coldly. 

'You take care, ' replied his mother. 'You mind YOURSELF--that's yourbusiness. You take too much on yourself. You mind YOURSELF, or you'llfind yourself in Queer Street, that's what will happen to you. You'rehysterical, always were. '

'I'm all right, mother, ' he said. 'There's no need to worry about ME, Iassure you. '

'Let the dead bury their dead--don't go and bury yourself along withthem--that's what I tell you. I know you well enough. '

He did not answer this, not knowing what to say. The mother sat bunchedup in silence, her beautiful white hands, that had no rings whatsoever, clasping the pommels of her arm-chair. 

'You can't do it, ' she said, almost bitterly. 'You haven't the nerve. You're as weak as a cat, really--always were. Is this young womanstaying here?'

'No, ' said Gerald. 'She is going home tonight. '

'Then she'd better have the dog-cart. Does she go far?'

'Only to Beldover. '

'Ah!' The elderly woman never looked at Gudrun, yet she seemed to takeknowledge of her presence. 

'You are inclined to take too much on yourself, Gerald, ' said themother, pulling herself to her feet, with a little difficulty. 

'Will you go, mother?' he asked, politely. 

'Yes, I'll go up again, ' she replied. Turning to Gudrun, she bade her'Good-night. ' Then she went slowly to the door, as if she wereunaccustomed to walking. At the door she lifted her face to him, implicitly. He kissed her. 

'Don't come any further with me, ' she said, in her barely audiblevoice. 'I don't want you any further. '

He bade her good-night, watched her across to the stairs and mountslowly. Then he closed the door and came back to Gudrun. Gudrun rosealso, to go. 

'A queer being, my mother, ' he said. 

'Yes, ' replied Gudrun. 

'She has her own thoughts. '

'Yes, ' said Gudrun. 

Then they were silent. 

'You want to go?' he asked. 'Half a minute, I'll just have a horse putin--'

'No, ' said Gudrun. 'I want to walk. '

He had promised to walk with her down the long, lonely mile of drive, and she wanted this. 

'You might JUST as well drive, ' he said. 

'I'd MUCH RATHER walk, ' she asserted, with emphasis. 

'You would! Then I will come along with you. You know where your thingsare? I'll put boots on. '

He put on a cap, and an overcoat over his evening dress. They went outinto the night. 

'Let us light a cigarette, ' he said, stopping in a sheltered angle ofthe porch. 'You have one too. '

So, with the scent of tobacco on the night air, they set off down thedark drive that ran between close-cut hedges through sloping meadows. 

He wanted to put his arm round her. If he could put his arm round her, and draw her against him as they walked, he would equilibriate himself. For now he felt like a pair of scales, the half of which tips down anddown into an indefinite void. He must recover some sort of balance. Andhere was the hope and the perfect recovery. 

Blind to her, thinking only of himself, he slipped his arm softly roundher waist, and drew her to him. Her heart fainted, feeling herselftaken. But then, his arm was so strong, she quailed under its powerfulclose grasp. She died a little death, and was drawn against him as theywalked down the stormy darkness. He seemed to balance her perfectly inopposition to himself, in their dual motion of walking. So, suddenly, he was liberated and perfect, strong, heroic. 

He put his hand to his mouth and threw his cigarette away, a gleamingpoint, into the unseen hedge. Then he was quite free to balance her. 

'That's better, ' he said, with exultancy. 

The exultation in his voice was like a sweetish, poisonous drug to her. Did she then mean so much to him! She sipped the poison. 

'Are you happier?' she asked, wistfully. 

'Much better, ' he said, in the same exultant voice, 'and I was ratherfar gone. '

She nestled against him. He felt her all soft and warm, she was therich, lovely substance of his being. The warmth and motion of her walksuffused through him wonderfully. 

'I'm SO glad if I help you, ' she said. 

'Yes, ' he answered. 'There's nobody else could do it, if you wouldn't. '

'That is true, ' she said to herself, with a thrill of strange, fatalelation. 

As they walked, he seemed to lift her nearer and nearer to himself, till she moved upon the firm vehicle of his body. 

He was so strong, so sustaining, and he could not be opposed. Shedrifted along in a wonderful interfusion of physical motion, down thedark, blowy hillside. Far across shone the little yellow lights ofBeldover, many of them, spread in a thick patch on another dark hill. But he and she were walking in perfect, isolated darkness, outside theworld. 

'But how much do you care for me!' came her voice, almost querulous. 'You see, I don't know, I don't understand!'

'How much!' His voice rang with a painful elation. 'I don't knoweither--but everything. ' He was startled by his own declaration. It wastrue. So he stripped himself of every safeguard, in making thisadmission to her. He cared everything for her--she was everything. 

'But I can't believe it, ' said her low voice, amazed, trembling. Shewas trembling with doubt and exultance. This was the thing she wantedto hear, only this. Yet now she heard it, heard the strange clappingvibration of truth in his voice as he said it, she could not believe. She could not believe--she did not believe. Yet she believed, triumphantly, with fatal exultance. 

'Why not?' he said. 'Why don't you believe it? It's true. It is true, as we stand at this moment--' he stood still with her in the wind; 'Icare for nothing on earth, or in heaven, outside this spot where weare. And it isn't my own presence I care about, it is all yours. I'dsell my soul a hundred times--but I couldn't bear not to have you here. I couldn't bear to be alone. My brain would burst. It is true. ' He drewher closer to him, with definite movement. 

'No, ' she murmured, afraid. Yet this was what she wanted. Why did sheso lose courage?

They resumed their strange walk. They were such strangers--and yet theywere so frightfully, unthinkably near. It was like a madness. Yet itwas what she wanted, it was what she wanted. They had descended thehill, and now they were coming to the square arch where the road passedunder the colliery railway. The arch, Gudrun knew, had walls of squaredstone, mossy on one side with water that trickled down, dry on theother side. She had stood under it to hear the train rumble thunderingover the logs overhead. And she knew that under this dark and lonelybridge the young colliers stood in the darkness with their sweethearts, in rainy weather. And so she wanted to stand under the bridge with HERsweetheart, and be kissed under the bridge in the invisible darkness. Her steps dragged as she drew near. 

So, under the bridge, they came to a standstill, and he lifted her uponhis breast. His body vibrated taut and powerful as he closed upon herand crushed her, breathless and dazed and destroyed, crushed her uponhis breast. Ah, it was terrible, and perfect. Under this bridge, thecolliers pressed their lovers to their breast. And now, under thebridge, the master of them all pressed her to himself? And how muchmore powerful and terrible was his embrace than theirs, how much moreconcentrated and supreme his love was, than theirs in the same sort!She felt she would swoon, die, under the vibrating, inhuman tension ofhis arms and his body--she would pass away. Then the unthinkable highvibration slackened and became more undulating. He slackened and drewher with him to stand with his back to the wall. 

She was almost unconscious. So the colliers' lovers would stand withtheir backs to the walls, holding their sweethearts and kissing them asshe was being kissed. Ah, but would their kisses be fine and powerfulas the kisses of the firm-mouthed master? Even the keen, short-cutmoustache--the colliers would not have that. 

And the colliers' sweethearts would, like herself, hang their headsback limp over their shoulder, and look out from the dark archway, atthe close patch of yellow lights on the unseen hill in the distance, orat the vague form of trees, and at the buildings of the collierywood-yard, in the other direction. 

His arms were fast around her, he seemed to be gathering her intohimself, her warmth, her softness, her adorable weight, drinking in thesuffusion of her physical being, avidly. He lifted her, and seemed topour her into himself, like wine into a cup. 

'This is worth everything, ' he said, in a strange, penetrating voice. 

So she relaxed, and seemed to melt, to flow into him, as if she weresome infinitely warm and precious suffusion filling into his veins, like an intoxicant. Her arms were round his neck, he kissed her andheld her perfectly suspended, she was all slack and flowing into him, and he was the firm, strong cup that receives the wine of her life. Soshe lay cast upon him, stranded, lifted up against him, melting andmelting under his kisses, melting into his limbs and bones, as if hewere soft iron becoming surcharged with her electric life. 

Till she seemed to swoon, gradually her mind went, and she passed away, everything in her was melted down and fluid, and she lay still, becomecontained by him, sleeping in him as lightning sleeps in a pure, softstone. So she was passed away and gone in him, and he was perfected. 

When she opened her eyes again, and saw the patch of lights in thedistance, it seemed to her strange that the world still existed, thatshe was standing under the bridge resting her head on Gerald's breast. Gerald--who was he? He was the exquisite adventure, the desirableunknown to her. 

She looked up, and in the darkness saw his face above her, his shapely, male face. There seemed a faint, white light emitted from him, a whiteaura, as if he were visitor from the unseen. She reached up, like Evereaching to the apples on the tree of knowledge, and she kissed him, though her passion was a transcendent fear of the thing he was, touching his face with her infinitely delicate, encroaching wonderingfingers. Her fingers went over the mould of his face, over hisfeatures. How perfect and foreign he was--ah how dangerous! Her soulthrilled with complete knowledge. This was the glistening, forbiddenapple, this face of a man. She kissed him, putting her fingers over hisface, his eyes, his nostrils, over his brows and his ears, to his neck, to know him, to gather him in by touch. He was so firm, and shapely, with such satisfying, inconceivable shapeliness, strange, yetunutterably clear. He was such an unutterable enemy, yet glisteningwith uncanny white fire. She wanted to touch him and touch him andtouch him, till she had him all in her hands, till she had strained himinto her knowledge. Ah, if she could have the precious KNOWLEDGE ofhim, she would be filled, and nothing could deprive her of this. For hewas so unsure, so risky in the common world of day. 

'You are so BEAUTIFUL, ' she murmured in her throat. 

He wondered, and was suspended. But she felt him quiver, and she camedown involuntarily nearer upon him. He could not help himself. Herfingers had him under their power. The fathomless, fathomless desirethey could evoke in him was deeper than death, where he had no choice. 

But she knew now, and it was enough. For the time, her soul wasdestroyed with the exquisite shock of his invisible fluid lightning. She knew. And this knowledge was a death from which she must recover. How much more of him was there to know? Ah much, much, many daysharvesting for her large, yet perfectly subtle and intelligent handsupon the field of his living, radio-active body. Ah, her hands wereeager, greedy for knowledge. But for the present it was enough, enough, as much as her soul could bear. Too much, and she would shatterherself, she would fill the fine vial of her soul too quickly, and itwould break. Enough now--enough for the time being. There were all theafter days when her hands, like birds, could feed upon the fields ofhim mystical plastic form--till then enough. 

And even he was glad to be checked, rebuked, held back. For to desireis better than to possess, the finality of the end was dreaded asdeeply as it was desired. 

They walked on towards the town, towards where the lamps threadedsingly, at long intervals down the dark high-road of the valley. Theycame at length to the gate of the drive. 

'Don't come any further, ' she said. 

'You'd rather I didn't?' he asked, relieved. He did not want to go upthe public streets with her, his soul all naked and alight as it was. 

'Much rather--good-night. ' She held out her hand. He grasped it, thentouched the perilous, potent fingers with his lips. 

'Good-night, ' he said. 'Tomorrow. '

And they parted. He went home full of the strength and the power ofliving desire. 

But the next day, she did not come, she sent a note that she was keptindoors by a cold. Here was a torment! But he possessed his soul insome sort of patience, writing a brief answer, telling her how sorry hewas not to see her. 

The day after this, he stayed at home--it seemed so futile to go downto the office. His father could not live the week out. And he wanted tobe at home, suspended. 

Gerald sat on a chair by the window in his father's room. The landscapeoutside was black and winter-sodden. His father lay grey and ashen onthe bed, a nurse moved silently in her white dress, neat and elegant, even beautiful. There was a scent of eau-de-cologne in the room. Thenurse went out of the room, Gerald was alone with death, facing thewinter-black landscape. 

'Is there much more water in Denley?' came the faint voice, determinedand querulous, from the bed. The dying man was asking about a leakagefrom Willey Water into one of the pits. 

'Some more--we shall have to run off the lake, ' said Gerald. 

'Will you?' The faint voice filtered to extinction. There was deadstillness. The grey-faced, sick man lay with eyes closed, more deadthan death. Gerald looked away. He felt his heart was seared, it wouldperish if this went on much longer. 

Suddenly he heard a strange noise. Turning round, he saw his father'seyes wide open, strained and rolling in a frenzy of inhuman struggling. Gerald started to his feet, and stood transfixed in horror. 

'Wha-a-ah-h-h-' came a horrible choking rattle from his father'sthroat, the fearful, frenzied eye, rolling awfully in its wildfruitless search for help, passed blindly over Gerald, then up came thedark blood and mess pumping over the face of the agonised being. Thetense body relaxed, the head fell aside, down the pillow. 

Gerald stood transfixed, his soul echoing in horror. He would move, buthe could not. He could not move his limbs. His brain seemed to re-echo, like a pulse. 

The nurse in white softly entered. She glanced at Gerald, then at thebed. 

'Ah!' came her soft whimpering cry, and she hurried forward to the deadman. 'Ah-h!' came the slight sound of her agitated distress, as shestood bending over the bedside. Then she recovered, turned, and camefor towel and sponge. She was wiping the dead face carefully, andmurmuring, almost whimpering, very softly: 'Poor Mr Crich!--Poor MrCrich! Poor Mr Crich!'

'Is he dead?' clanged Gerald's sharp voice. 

'Oh yes, he's gone, ' replied the soft, moaning voice of the nurse, asshe looked up at Gerald's face. She was young and beautiful andquivering. A strange sort of grin went over Gerald's face, over thehorror. And he walked out of the room. 

He was going to tell his mother. On the landing he met his brotherBasil. 

'He's gone, Basil, ' he said, scarcely able to subdue his voice, not tolet an unconscious, frightening exultation sound through. 

'What?' cried Basil, going pale. 

Gerald nodded. Then he went on to his mother's room. 

She was sitting in her purple gown, sewing, very slowly sewing, puttingin a stitch then another stitch. She looked up at Gerald with her blueundaunted eyes. 

'Father's gone, ' he said. 

'He's dead? Who says so?'

'Oh, you know, mother, if you see him. '

She put her sewing down, and slowly rose. 

'Are you going to see him?' he asked. 

'Yes, ' she said

By the bedside the children already stood in a weeping group. 

'Oh, mother!' cried the daughters, almost in hysterics, weeping loudly. 

But the mother went forward. The dead man lay in repose, as if gentlyasleep, so gently, so peacefully, like a young man sleeping in purity. He was still warm. She stood looking at him in gloomy, heavy silence, for some time. 

'Ay, ' she said bitterly, at length, speaking as if to the unseenwitnesses of the air. 'You're dead. ' She stood for some minutes insilence, looking down. 'Beautiful, ' she asserted, 'beautiful as if lifehad never touched you--never touched you. God send I look different. Ihope I shall look my years, when I am dead. Beautiful, beautiful, ' shecrooned over him. 'You can see him in his teens, with his first beardon his face. A beautiful soul, beautiful--' Then there was a tearing inher voice as she cried: 'None of you look like this, when you are dead!Don't let it happen again. ' It was a strange, wild command from out ofthe unknown. Her children moved unconsciously together, in a nearergroup, at the dreadful command in her voice. The colour was flushedbright in her cheek, she looked awful and wonderful. 'Blame me, blameme if you like, that he lies there like a lad in his teens, with hisfirst beard on his face. Blame me if you like. But you none of youknow. ' She was silent in intense silence. 

Then there came, in a low, tense voice: 'If I thought that the childrenI bore would lie looking like that in death, I'd strangle them whenthey were infants, yes--'

'No, mother, ' came the strange, clarion voice of Gerald from thebackground, 'we are different, we don't blame you. '

She turned and looked full in his eyes. Then she lifted her hands in astrange half-gesture of mad despair. 

'Pray!' she said strongly. 'Pray for yourselves to God, for there's nohelp for you from your parents. '

'Oh mother!' cried her daughters wildly. 

But she had turned and gone, and they all went quickly away from eachother. 

When Gudrun heard that Mr Crich was dead, she felt rebuked. She hadstayed away lest Gerald should think her too easy of winning. And now, he was in the midst of trouble, whilst she was cold. 

The following day she went up as usual to Winifred, who was glad to seeher, glad to get away into the studio. The girl had wept, and then, toofrightened, had turned aside to avoid any more tragic eventuality. Sheand Gudrun resumed work as usual, in the isolation of the studio, andthis seemed an immeasurable happiness, a pure world of freedom, afterthe aimlessness and misery of the house. Gudrun stayed on till evening. She and Winifred had dinner brought up to the studio, where they ate infreedom, away from all the people in the house. 

After dinner Gerald came up. The great high studio was full of shadowand a fragrance of coffee. Gudrun and Winifred had a little table nearthe fire at the far end, with a white lamp whose light did not travelfar. They were a tiny world to themselves, the two girls surrounded bylovely shadows, the beams and rafters shadowy over-head, the benchesand implements shadowy down the studio. 

'You are cosy enough here, ' said Gerald, going up to them. 

There was a low brick fireplace, full of fire, an old blue Turkish rug, the little oak table with the lamp and the white-and-blue cloth and thedessert, and Gudrun making coffee in an odd brass coffee-maker, andWinifred scalding a little milk in a tiny saucepan. 

'Have you had coffee?' said Gudrun. 

'I have, but I'll have some more with you, ' he replied. 

'Then you must have it in a glass--there are only two cups, ' saidWinifred. 

'It is the same to me, ' he said, taking a chair and coming into thecharmed circle of the girls. How happy they were, how cosy andglamorous it was with them, in a world of lofty shadows! The outsideworld, in which he had been transacting funeral business all the daywas completely wiped out. In an instant he snuffed glamour and magic. 

They had all their things very dainty, two odd and lovely little cups, scarlet and solid gilt, and a little black jug with scarlet discs, andthe curious coffee-machine, whose spirit-flame flowed steadily, almostinvisibly. There was the effect of rather sinister richness, in whichGerald at once escaped himself. 

They all sat down, and Gudrun carefully poured out the coffee. 

'Will you have milk?' she asked calmly, yet nervously poising thelittle black jug with its big red dots. She was always so completelycontrolled, yet so bitterly nervous. 

'No, I won't, ' he replied. 

So, with a curious humility, she placed him the little cup of coffee, and herself took the awkward tumbler. She seemed to want to serve him. 

'Why don't you give me the glass--it is so clumsy for you, ' he said. Hewould much rather have had it, and seen her daintily served. But shewas silent, pleased with the disparity, with her self-abasement. 

'You are quite EN MENAGE, ' he said. 

'Yes. We aren't really at home to visitors, ' said Winifred. 

'You're not? Then I'm an intruder?'

For once he felt his conventional dress was out of place, he was anoutsider. 

Gudrun was very quiet. She did not feel drawn to talk to him. At thisstage, silence was best--or mere light words. It was best to leaveserious things aside. So they talked gaily and lightly, till they heardthe man below lead out the horse, and call it to 'back-back!' into thedog-cart that was to take Gudrun home. So she put on her things, andshook hands with Gerald, without once meeting his eyes. And she wasgone. 

The funeral was detestable. Afterwards, at the tea-table, the daughterskept saying--'He was a good father to us--the best father in theworld'--or else--'We shan't easily find another man as good as fatherwas. '

Gerald acquiesced in all this. It was the right conventional attitude, and, as far as the world went, he believed in the conventions. He tookit as a matter of course. But Winifred hated everything, and hid in thestudio, and cried her heart out, and wished Gudrun would come. 

Luckily everybody was going away. The Criches never stayed long athome. By dinner-time, Gerald was left quite alone. Even Winifred wascarried off to London, for a few days with her sister Laura. 

But when Gerald was really left alone, he could not bear it. One daypassed by, and another. And all the time he was like a man hung inchains over the edge of an abyss. Struggle as he might, he could notturn himself to the solid earth, he could not get footing. He wassuspended on the edge of a void, writhing. Whatever he thought of, wasthe abyss--whether it were friends or strangers, or work or play, itall showed him only the same bottomless void, in which his heart swungperishing. There was no escape, there was nothing to grasp hold of. Hemust writhe on the edge of the chasm, suspended in chains of invisiblephysical life. 

At first he was quiet, he kept still, expecting the extremity to passaway, expecting to find himself released into the world of the living, after this extremity of penance. But it did not pass, and a crisisgained upon him. 

As the evening of the third day came on, his heart rang with fear. Hecould not bear another night. Another night was coming on, for anothernight he was to be suspended in chain of physical life, over thebottomless pit of nothingness. And he could not bear it. He could notbear it. He was frightened deeply, and coldly, frightened in his soul. He did not believe in his own strength any more. He could not fall intothis infinite void, and rise again. If he fell, he would be gone forever. He must withdraw, he must seek reinforcements. He did not believein his own single self, any further than this. 

After dinner, faced with the ultimate experience of his ownnothingness, he turned aside. He pulled on his boots, put on his coat, and set out to walk in the night. 

It was dark and misty. He went through the wood, stumbling and feelinghis way to the Mill. Birkin was away. Good--he was half glad. He turnedup the hill, and stumbled blindly over the wild slopes, having lost thepath in the complete darkness. It was boring. Where was he going? Nomatter. He stumbled on till he came to a path again. Then he went onthrough another wood. His mind became dark, he went on automatically. Without thought or sensation, he stumbled unevenly on, out into theopen again, fumbling for stiles, losing the path, and going along thehedges of the fields till he came to the outlet. 

And at last he came to the high road. It had distracted him to struggleblindly through the maze of darkness. But now, he must take adirection. And he did not even know where he was. But he must take adirection now. Nothing would be resolved by merely walking, walkingaway. He had to take a direction. 

He stood still on the road, that was high in the utterly dark night, and he did not know where he was. It was a strange sensation, his heartbeating, and ringed round with the utterly unknown darkness. So hestood for some time. 

Then he heard footsteps, and saw a small, swinging light. Heimmediately went towards this. It was a miner. 

'Can you tell me, ' he said, 'where this road goes?'

'Road? Ay, it goes ter Whatmore. '

'Whatmore! Oh thank you, that's right. I thought I was wrong. Good-night. '

'Good-night, ' replied the broad voice of the miner. 

Gerald guessed where he was. At least, when he came to Whatmore, hewould know. He was glad to be on a high road. He walked forward as in asleep of decision. 

That was Whatmore Village--? Yes, the King's Head--and there the hallgates. He descended the steep hill almost running. Winding through thehollow, he passed the Grammar School, and came to Willey Green Church. The churchyard! He halted. 

Then in another moment he had clambered up the wall and was going amongthe graves. Even in this darkness he could see the heaped pallor of oldwhite flowers at his feet. This then was the grave. He stooped down. The flowers were cold and clammy. There was a raw scent ofchrysanthemums and tube-roses, deadened. He felt the clay beneath, andshrank, it was so horribly cold and sticky. He stood away in revulsion. 

Here was one centre then, here in the complete darkness beside theunseen, raw grave. But there was nothing for him here. No, he hadnothing to stay here for. He felt as if some of the clay were stickingcold and unclean, on his heart. No, enough of this. 

Where then?--home? Never! It was no use going there. That was less thanno use. It could not be done. There was somewhere else to go. Where?

A dangerous resolve formed in his heart, like a fixed idea. There wasGudrun--she would be safe in her home. But he could get at her--hewould get at her. He would not go back tonight till he had come to her, if it cost him his life. He staked his all on this throw. 

He set off walking straight across the fields towards Beldover. It wasso dark, nobody could ever see him. His feet were wet and cold, heavywith clay. But he went on persistently, like a wind, straight forward, as if to his fate. There were great gaps in his consciousness. He wasconscious that he was at Winthorpe hamlet, but quite unconscious how hehad got there. And then, as in a dream, he was in the long street ofBeldover, with its street-lamps. 

There was a noise of voices, and of a door shutting loudly, and beingbarred, and of men talking in the night. The 'Lord Nelson' had justclosed, and the drinkers were going home. He had better ask one ofthese where she lived--for he did not know the side streets at all. 

'Can you tell me where Somerset Drive is?' he asked of one of theuneven men. 

'Where what?' replied the tipsy miner's voice. 

'Somerset Drive. '

'Somerset Drive!--I've heard o' such a place, but I couldn't for mylife say where it is. Who might you be wanting?'

'Mr Brangwen--William Brangwen. '

'William Brangwen--?--?'

'Who teaches at the Grammar School, at Willey Green--his daughterteaches there too. '

'O-o-o-oh, Brangwen! NOW I've got you. Of COURSE, William Brangwen!Yes, yes, he's got two lasses as teachers, aside hisself. Ay, that'shim--that's him! Why certainly I know where he lives, back your life Ido! Yi--WHAT place do they ca' it?'

'Somerset Drive, ' repeated Gerald patiently. He knew his own colliersfairly well. 

'Somerset Drive, for certain!' said the collier, swinging his arm as ifcatching something up. 'Somerset Drive--yi! I couldn't for my life layhold o' the lercality o' the place. Yis, I know the place, to be sure Ido--'

He turned unsteadily on his feet, and pointed up the dark, nighdesertedroad. 

'You go up theer--an' you ta'e th' first--yi, th' first turnin' on yourleft--o' that side--past Withamses tuffy shop--'

'I know, ' said Gerald. 

'Ay! You go down a bit, past wheer th' water-man lives--and thenSomerset Drive, as they ca' it, branches off on 't right hand side--an'there's nowt but three houses in it, no more than three, Ibelieve, --an' I'm a'most certain as theirs is th' last--th' last o' th'three--you see--'

'Thank you very much, ' said Gerald. 'Good-night. '

And he started off, leaving the tipsy man there standing rooted. 

Gerald went past the dark shops and houses, most of them sleeping now, and twisted round to the little blind road that ended on a field ofdarkness. He slowed down, as he neared his goal, not knowing how heshould proceed. What if the house were closed in darkness?

But it was not. He saw a big lighted window, and heard voices, then agate banged. His quick ears caught the sound of Birkin's voice, hiskeen eyes made out Birkin, with Ursula standing in a pale dress on thestep of the garden path. Then Ursula stepped down, and came along theroad, holding Birkin's arm. 

Gerald went across into the darkness and they dawdled past him, talkinghappily, Birkin's voice low, Ursula's high and distinct. Gerald wentquickly to the house. 

The blinds were drawn before the big, lighted window of the diningroom. Looking up the path at the side he could see the door left open, shedding a soft, coloured light from the hall lamp. He went quickly andsilently up the path, and looked up into the hall. There were pictureson the walls, and the antlers of a stag--and the stairs going up on oneside--and just near the foot of the stairs the half opened door of thedining-room. 

With heart drawn fine, Gerald stepped into the hall, whose floor was ofcoloured tiles, went quickly and looked into the large, pleasant room. In a chair by the fire, the father sat asleep, his head tilted backagainst the side of the big oak chimney piece, his ruddy face seenforeshortened, the nostrils open, the mouth fallen a little. It wouldtake the merest sound to wake him. 

Gerald stood a second suspended. He glanced down the passage behindhim. It was all dark. Again he was suspended. Then he went swiftlyupstairs. His senses were so finely, almost supernaturally keen, thathe seemed to cast his own will over the half-unconscious house. 

He came to the first landing. There he stood, scarcely breathing. Again, corresponding to the door below, there was a door again. Thatwould be the mother's room. He could hear her moving about in thecandlelight. She would be expecting her husband to come up. He lookedalong the dark landing. 

Then, silently, on infinitely careful feet, he went along the passage, feeling the wall with the extreme tips of his fingers. There was adoor. He stood and listened. He could hear two people's breathing. Itwas not that. He went stealthily forward. There was another door, slightly open. The room was in darkness. Empty. Then there was thebathroom, he could smell the soap and the heat. Then at the end anotherbedroom--one soft breathing. This was she. 

With an almost occult carefulness he turned the door handle, and openedthe door an inch. It creaked slightly. Then he opened it anotherinch--then another. His heart did not beat, he seemed to create asilence about himself, an obliviousness. 

He was in the room. Still the sleeper breathed softly. It was verydark. He felt his way forward inch by inch, with his feet and hands. Hetouched the bed, he could hear the sleeper. He drew nearer, bendingclose as if his eyes would disclose whatever there was. And then, verynear to his face, to his fear, he saw the round, dark head of a boy. 

He recovered, turned round, saw the door ajar, a faint light revealed. And he retreated swiftly, drew the door to without fastening it, andpassed rapidly down the passage. At the head of the stairs hehesitated. There was still time to flee. 

But it was unthinkable. He would maintain his will. He turned past thedoor of the parental bedroom like a shadow, and was climbing the secondflight of stairs. They creaked under his weight--it was exasperating. Ah what disaster, if the mother's door opened just beneath him, and shesaw him! It would have to be, if it were so. He held the control still. 

He was not quite up these stairs when he heard a quick running of feetbelow, the outer door was closed and locked, he heard Ursula's voice, then the father's sleepy exclamation. He pressed on swiftly to theupper landing. 

Again a door was ajar, a room was empty. Feeling his way forward, withthe tips of his fingers, travelling rapidly, like a blind man, anxiouslest Ursula should come upstairs, he found another door. There, withhis preternaturally fine sense alert, he listened. He heard someonemoving in bed. This would be she. 

Softly now, like one who has only one sense, the tactile sense, heturned the latch. It clicked. He held still. The bed-clothes rustled. His heart did not beat. Then again he drew the latch back, and verygently pushed the door. It made a sticking noise as it gave. 

'Ursula?' said Gudrun's voice, frightened. He quickly opened the doorand pushed it behind him. 

'Is it you, Ursula?' came Gudrun's frightened voice. He heard hersitting up in bed. In another moment she would scream. 

'No, it's me, ' he said, feeling his way towards her. 'It is I, Gerald. '

She sat motionless in her bed in sheer astonishment. She was tooastonished, too much taken by surprise, even to be afraid. 

'Gerald!' she echoed, in blank amazement. He had found his way to thebed, and his outstretched hand touched her warm breast blindly. Sheshrank away. 

'Let me make a light, ' she said, springing out. 

He stood perfectly motionless. He heard her touch the match-box, heheard her fingers in their movement. Then he saw her in the light of amatch, which she held to the candle. The light rose in the room, thensank to a small dimness, as the flame sank down on the candle, beforeit mounted again. 

She looked at him, as he stood near the other side of the bed. His capwas pulled low over his brow, his black overcoat was buttoned close upto his chin. His face was strange and luminous. He was inevitable as asupernatural being. When she had seen him, she knew. She knew there wassomething fatal in the situation, and she must accept it. Yet she mustchallenge him. 

'How did you come up?' she asked. 

'I walked up the stairs--the door was open. '

She looked at him. 

'I haven't closed this door, either, ' he said. She walked swiftlyacross the room, and closed her door, softly, and locked it. Then shecame back. 

She was wonderful, with startled eyes and flushed cheeks, and her plaitof hair rather short and thick down her back, and her long, fine whitenight-dress falling to her feet. 

She saw that his boots were all clayey, even his trousers wereplastered with clay. And she wondered if he had made footprints all theway up. He was a very strange figure, standing in her bedroom, near thetossed bed. 

'Why have you come?' she asked, almost querulous. 

'I wanted to, ' he replied. 

And this she could see from his face. It was fate. 

'You are so muddy, ' she said, in distaste, but gently. 

He looked down at his feet. 

'I was walking in the dark, ' he replied. But he felt vividly elated. There was a pause. He stood on one side of the tumbled bed, she on theother. He did not even take his cap from his brows. 

'And what do you want of me, ' she challenged. 

He looked aside, and did not answer. Save for the extreme beauty andmystic attractiveness of this distinct, strange face, she would havesent him away. But his face was too wonderful and undiscovered to her. It fascinated her with the fascination of pure beauty, cast a spell onher, like nostalgia, an ache. 

'What do you want of me?' she repeated in an estranged voice. 

He pulled off his cap, in a movement of dream-liberation, and wentacross to her. But he could not touch her, because she stood barefootin her night-dress, and he was muddy and damp. Her eyes, wide and largeand wondering, watched him, and asked him the ultimate question. 

'I came--because I must, ' he said. 'Why do you ask?'

She looked at him in doubt and wonder. 

'I must ask, ' she said. 

He shook his head slightly. 

'There is no answer, ' he replied, with strange vacancy. 

There was about him a curious, and almost godlike air of simplicity andnative directness. He reminded her of an apparition, the young Hermes. 

'But why did you come to me?' she persisted. 

'Because--it has to be so. If there weren't you in the world, then Ishouldn't be in the world, either. '

She stood looking at him, with large, wide, wondering, stricken eyes. His eyes were looking steadily into hers all the time, and he seemedfixed in an odd supernatural steadfastness. She sighed. She was lostnow. She had no choice. 

'Won't you take off your boots, ' she said. 'They must be wet. '

He dropped his cap on a chair, unbuttoned his overcoat, lifting up hischin to unfasten the throat buttons. His short, keen hair was ruffled. He was so beautifully blond, like wheat. He pulled off his overcoat. 

Quickly he pulled off his jacket, pulled loose his black tie, and wasunfastening his studs, which were headed each with a pearl. Shelistened, watching, hoping no one would hear the starched linencrackle. It seemed to snap like pistol shots. 

He had come for vindication. She let him hold her in his arms, claspher close against him. He found in her an infinite relief. Into her hepoured all his pent-up darkness and corrosive death, and he was wholeagain. It was wonderful, marvellous, it was a miracle. This was theeverrecurrent miracle of his life, at the knowledge of which he waslost in an ecstasy of relief and wonder. And she, subject, received himas a vessel filled with his bitter potion of death. She had no power atthis crisis to resist. The terrible frictional violence of death filledher, and she received it in an ecstasy of subjection, in throes ofacute, violent sensation. 

As he drew nearer to her, he plunged deeper into her enveloping softwarmth, a wonderful creative heat that penetrated his veins and gavehim life again. He felt himself dissolving and sinking to rest in thebath of her living strength. It seemed as if her heart in her breastwere a second unconquerable sun, into the glow and creative strength ofwhich he plunged further and further. All his veins, that were murderedand lacerated, healed softly as life came pulsing in, stealinginvisibly in to him as if it were the all-powerful effluence of thesun. His blood, which seemed to have been drawn back into death, cameebbing on the return, surely, beautifully, powerfully. 

He felt his limbs growing fuller and flexible with life, his bodygained an unknown strength. He was a man again, strong and rounded. Andhe was a child, so soothed and restored and full of gratitude. 

And she, she was the great bath of life, he worshipped her. Mother andsubstance of all life she was. And he, child and man, received of herand was made whole. His pure body was almost killed. But themiraculous, soft effluence of her breast suffused over him, over hisseared, damaged brain, like a healing lymph, like a soft, soothing flowof life itself, perfect as if he were bathed in the womb again. 

His brain was hurt, seared, the tissue was as if destroyed. He had notknown how hurt he was, how his tissue, the very tissue of his brain wasdamaged by the corrosive flood of death. Now, as the healing lymph ofher effluence flowed through him, he knew how destroyed he was, like aplant whose tissue is burst from inwards by a frost. 

He buried his small, hard head between her breasts, and pressed herbreasts against him with his hands. And she with quivering handspressed his head against her, as he lay suffused out, and she lay fullyconscious. The lovely creative warmth flooded through him like a sleepof fecundity within the womb. Ah, if only she would grant him the flowof this living effluence, he would be restored, he would be completeagain. He was afraid she would deny him before it was finished. Like achild at the breast, he cleaved intensely to her, and she could not puthim away. And his seared, ruined membrane relaxed, softened, that whichwas seared and stiff and blasted yielded again, became soft andflexible, palpitating with new life. He was infinitely grateful, as toGod, or as an infant is at its mother's breast. He was glad andgrateful like a delirium, as he felt his own wholeness come over himagain, as he felt the full, unutterable sleep coming over him, thesleep of complete exhaustion and restoration. 

But Gudrun lay wide awake, destroyed into perfect consciousness. Shelay motionless, with wide eyes staring motionless into the darkness, whilst he was sunk away in sleep, his arms round her. 

She seemed to be hearing waves break on a hidden shore, long, slow, gloomy waves, breaking with the rhythm of fate, so monotonously that itseemed eternal. This endless breaking of slow, sullen waves of fateheld her life a possession, whilst she lay with dark, wide eyes lookinginto the darkness. She could see so far, as far as eternity--yet shesaw nothing. She was suspended in perfect consciousness--and of whatwas she conscious?

This mood of extremity, when she lay staring into eternity, utterlysuspended, and conscious of everything, to the last limits, passed andleft her uneasy. She had lain so long motionless. She moved, she becameself-conscious. She wanted to look at him, to see him. 

But she dared not make a light, because she knew he would wake, and shedid not want to break his perfect sleep, that she knew he had got ofher. 

She disengaged herself, softly, and rose up a little to look at him. There was a faint light, it seemed to her, in the room. She could justdistinguish his features, as he slept the perfect sleep. In thisdarkness, she seemed to see him so distinctly. But he was far off, inanother world. Ah, she could shriek with torment, he was so far off, and perfected, in another world. She seemed to look at him as at apebble far away under clear dark water. And here was she, left with allthe anguish of consciousness, whilst he was sunk deep into the otherelement of mindless, remote, living shadow-gleam. He was beautiful, far-off, and perfected. They would never be together. Ah, this awful, inhuman distance which would always be interposed between her and theother being!

There was nothing to do but to lie still and endure. She felt anoverwhelming tenderness for him, and a dark, under-stirring of jealoushatred, that he should lie so perfect and immune, in an other-world, whilst she was tormented with violent wakefulness, cast out in theouter darkness. 

She lay in intense and vivid consciousness, an exhaustingsuperconsciousness. The church clock struck the hours, it seemed toher, in quick succession. She heard them distinctly in the tension ofher vivid consciousness. And he slept as if time were one moment, unchanging and unmoving. 

She was exhausted, wearied. Yet she must continue in this state ofviolent active superconsciousness. She was conscious of everything--herchildhood, her girlhood, all the forgotten incidents, all theunrealised influences and all the happenings she had not understood, pertaining to herself, to her family, to her friends, her lovers, heracquaintances, everybody. It was as if she drew a glittering rope ofknowledge out of the sea of darkness, drew and drew and drew it out ofthe fathomless depths of the past, and still it did not come to an end, there was no end to it, she must haul and haul at the rope ofglittering consciousness, pull it out phosphorescent from the endlessdepths of the unconsciousness, till she was weary, aching, exhausted, and fit to break, and yet she had not done. 

Ah, if only she might wake him! She turned uneasily. When could sherouse him and send him away? When could she disturb him? And sherelapsed into her activity of automatic consciousness, that would neverend. 

But the time was drawing near when she could wake him. It was like arelease. The clock had struck four, outside in the night. Thank God thenight had passed almost away. At five he must go, and she would bereleased. Then she could relax and fill her own place. Now she wasdriven up against his perfect sleeping motion like a knife white-hot ona grindstone. There was something monstrous about him, about hisjuxtaposition against her. 

The last hour was the longest. And yet, at last it passed. Her heartleapt with relief--yes, there was the slow, strong stroke of the churchclock--at last, after this night of eternity. She waited to catch eachslow, fatal reverberation. 'Three--four--five!' There, it was finished. A weight rolled off her. 

She raised herself, leaned over him tenderly, and kissed him. She wassad to wake him. After a few moments, she kissed him again. But he didnot stir. The darling, he was so deep in sleep! What a shame to takehim out of it. She let him lie a little longer. But he must go--he mustreally go. 

With full over-tenderness she took his face between her hands, andkissed his eyes. The eyes opened, he remained motionless, looking ather. Her heart stood still. To hide her face from his dreadful openedeyes, in the darkness, she bent down and kissed him, whispering:

'You must go, my love. '

But she was sick with terror, sick. 

He put his arms round her. Her heart sank. 

'But you must go, my love. It's late. '

'What time is it?' he said. 

Strange, his man's voice. She quivered. It was an intolerableoppression to her. 

'Past five o'clock, ' she said. 

But he only closed his arms round her again. Her heart cried within herin torture. She disengaged herself firmly. 

'You really must go, ' she said. 

'Not for a minute, ' he said. 

She lay still, nestling against him, but unyielding. 

'Not for a minute, ' he repeated, clasping her closer. 

'Yes, ' she said, unyielding, 'I'm afraid if you stay any longer. '

There was a certain coldness in her voice that made him release her, and she broke away, rose and lit the candle. That then was the end. 

He got up. He was warm and full of life and desire. Yet he felt alittle bit ashamed, humiliated, putting on his clothes before her, inthe candle-light. For he felt revealed, exposed to her, at a time whenshe was in some way against him. It was all very difficult tounderstand. He dressed himself quickly, without collar or tie. Still hefelt full and complete, perfected. She thought it humiliating to see aman dressing: the ridiculous shirt, the ridiculous trousers and braces. But again an idea saved her. 

'It is like a workman getting up to go to work, ' thought Gudrun. 'And Iam like a workman's wife. ' But an ache like nausea was upon her: anausea of him. 

He pushed his collar and tie into his overcoat pocket. Then he sat downand pulled on his boots. They were sodden, as were his socks andtrouser-bottoms. But he himself was quick and warm. 

'Perhaps you ought to have put your boots on downstairs, ' she said. 

At once, without answering, he pulled them off again, and stood holdingthem in his hand. She had thrust her feet into slippers, and flung aloose robe round her. She was ready. She looked at him as he stoodwaiting, his black coat buttoned to the chin, his cap pulled down, hisboots in his hand. And the passionate almost hateful fascinationrevived in her for a moment. It was not exhausted. His face was sowarm-looking, wide-eyed and full of newness, so perfect. She felt old, old. She went to him heavily, to be kissed. He kissed her quickly. Shewished his warm, expressionless beauty did not so fatally put a spellon her, compel her and subjugate her. It was a burden upon her, thatshe resented, but could not escape. Yet when she looked at his straightman's brows, and at his rather small, well-shaped nose, and at hisblue, indifferent eyes, she knew her passion for him was not yetsatisfied, perhaps never could be satisfied. Only now she was weary, with an ache like nausea. She wanted him gone. 

They went downstairs quickly. It seemed they made a prodigious noise. He followed her as, wrapped in her vivid green wrap, she preceded himwith the light. She suffered badly with fear, lest her people should beroused. He hardly cared. He did not care now who knew. And she hatedthis in him. One MUST be cautious. One must preserve oneself. 

She led the way to the kitchen. It was neat and tidy, as the woman hadleft it. He looked up at the clock--twenty minutes past five Then hesat down on a chair to put on his boots. She waited, watching his everymovement. She wanted it to be over, it was a great nervous strain onher. 

He stood up--she unbolted the back door, and looked out. A cold, rawnight, not yet dawn, with a piece of a moon in the vague sky. She wasglad she need not go out. 

'Good-bye then, ' he murmured. 

'I'll come to the gate, ' she said. 

And again she hurried on in front, to warn him of the steps. And at thegate, once more she stood on the step whilst he stood below her. 

'Good-bye, ' she whispered. 

He kissed her dutifully, and turned away. 

She suffered torments hearing his firm tread going so distinctly downthe road. Ah, the insensitiveness of that firm tread!

She closed the gate, and crept quickly and noiselessly back to bed. When she was in her room, and the door closed, and all safe, shebreathed freely, and a great weight fell off her. She nestled down inbed, in the groove his body had made, in the warmth he had left. Andexcited, worn-out, yet still satisfied, she fell soon into a deep, heavy sleep. 

Gerald walked quickly through the raw darkness of the coming dawn. Hemet nobody. His mind was beautifully still and thoughtless, like astill pool, and his body full and warm and rich. He went quickly alongtowards Shortlands, in a grateful self-sufficiency. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

MARRIAGE OR NOT

The Brangwen family was going to move from Beldover. It was necessarynow for the father to be in town. 

Birkin had taken out a marriage licence, yet Ursula deferred from dayto day. She would not fix any definite time--she still wavered. Hermonth's notice to leave the Grammar School was in its third week. Christmas was not far off. 

Gerald waited for the Ursula-Birkin marriage. It was something crucialto him. 

'Shall we make it a double-barrelled affair?' he said to Birkin oneday. 

'Who for the second shot?' asked Birkin. 

'Gudrun and me, ' said Gerald, the venturesome twinkle in his eyes. 

Birkin looked at him steadily, as if somewhat taken aback. 

'Serious--or joking?' he asked. 

'Oh, serious. Shall I? Shall Gudrun and I rush in along with you?'

'Do by all means, ' said Birkin. 'I didn't know you'd got that length. '

'What length?' said Gerald, looking at the other man, and laughing. 

'Oh yes, we've gone all the lengths. '

'There remains to put it on a broad social basis, and to achieve a highmoral purpose, ' said Birkin. 

'Something like that: the length and breadth and height of it, ' repliedGerald, smiling. 

'Oh well, ' said Birkin, ' it's a very admirable step to take, I shouldsay. '

Gerald looked at him closely. 

'Why aren't you enthusiastic?' he asked. 'I thought you were such deadnuts on marriage. '

Birkin lifted his shoulders. 

'One might as well be dead nuts on noses. There are all sorts of noses, snub and otherwise-'

Gerald laughed. 

'And all sorts of marriage, also snub and otherwise?' he said. 

'That's it. '

'And you think if I marry, it will be snub?' asked Gerald quizzically, his head a little on one side. 

Birkin laughed quickly. 

'How do I know what it will be!' he said. 'Don't lambaste me with myown parallels-'

Gerald pondered a while. 

'But I should like to know your opinion, exactly, ' he said. 

'On your marriage?--or marrying? Why should you want my opinion? I'vegot no opinions. I'm not interested in legal marriage, one way oranother. It's a mere question of convenience. '

Still Gerald watched him closely. 

'More than that, I think, ' he said seriously. 'However you may be boredby the ethics of marriage, yet really to marry, in one's own personalcase, is something critical, final-'

'You mean there is something final in going to the registrar with awoman?'

'If you're coming back with her, I do, ' said Gerald. 'It is in some wayirrevocable. '

'Yes, I agree, ' said Birkin. 

'No matter how one regards legal marriage, yet to enter into themarried state, in one's own personal instance, is final-'

'I believe it is, ' said Birkin, 'somewhere. '

'The question remains then, should one do it, ' said Gerald. 

Birkin watched him narrowly, with amused eyes. 

'You are like Lord Bacon, Gerald, ' he said. 'You argue it like alawyer--or like Hamlet's to-be-or-not-to-be. If I were you I would NOTmarry: but ask Gudrun, not me. You're not marrying me, are you?'

Gerald did not heed the latter part of this speech. 

'Yes, ' he said, 'one must consider it coldly. It is something critical. One comes to the point where one must take a step in one direction oranother. And marriage is one direction-'

'And what is the other?' asked Birkin quickly. 

Gerald looked up at him with hot, strangely-conscious eyes, that theother man could not understand. 

'I can't say, ' he replied. 'If I knew THAT--' He moved uneasily on hisfeet, and did not finish. 

'You mean if you knew the alternative?' asked Birkin. 'And since youdon't know it, marriage is a PIS ALLER. '

Gerald looked up at Birkin with the same hot, constrained eyes. 

'One does have the feeling that marriage is a PIS ALLER, ' he admitted. 

'Then don't do it, ' said Birkin. 'I tell you, ' he went on, 'the same asI've said before, marriage in the old sense seems to me repulsive. EGOISME A DEUX is nothing to it. It's a sort of tacit hunting incouples: the world all in couples, each couple in its own little house, watching its own little interests, and stewing in its own littleprivacy--it's the most repulsive thing on earth. '

'I quite agree, ' said Gerald. 'There's something inferior about it. Butas I say, what's the alternative. '

'One should avoid this HOME instinct. It's not an instinct, it's ahabit of cowardliness. One should never have a HOME. '

'I agree really, ' said Gerald. 'But there's no alternative. '

'We've got to find one. I do believe in a permanent union between a manand a woman. Chopping about is merely an exhaustive process. But apermanent relation between a man and a woman isn't the last word--itcertainly isn't. '

'Quite, ' said Gerald. 

'In fact, ' said Birkin, 'because the relation between man and woman ismade the supreme and exclusive relationship, that's where all thetightness and meanness and insufficiency comes in. '

'Yes, I believe you, ' said Gerald. 

'You've got to take down the love-and-marriage ideal from its pedestal. We want something broader. I believe in the ADDITIONAL perfectrelationship between man and man--additional to marriage. '

'I can never see how they can be the same, ' said Gerald. 

'Not the same--but equally important, equally creative, equally sacred, if you like. '

'I know, ' said Gerald, 'you believe something like that. Only I can'tFEEL it, you see. ' He put his hand on Birkin's arm, with a sort ofdeprecating affection. And he smiled as if triumphantly. 

He was ready to be doomed. Marriage was like a doom to him. He waswilling to condemn himself in marriage, to become like a convictcondemned to the mines of the underworld, living no life in the sun, but having a dreadful subterranean activity. He was willing to acceptthis. And marriage was the seal of his condemnation. He was willing tobe sealed thus in the underworld, like a soul damned but living foreverin damnation. But he would not make any pure relationship with anyother soul. He could not. Marriage was not the committing of himselfinto a relationship with Gudrun. It was a committing of himself inacceptance of the established world, he would accept the establishedorder, in which he did not livingly believe, and then he would retreatto the underworld for his life. This he would do. 

The other way was to accept Rupert's offer of alliance, to enter intothe bond of pure trust and love with the other man, and thensubsequently with the woman. If he pledged himself with the man hewould later be able to pledge himself with the woman: not merely inlegal marriage, but in absolute, mystic marriage. 

Yet he could not accept the offer. There was a numbness upon him, anumbness either of unborn, absent volition, or of atrophy. Perhaps itwas the absence of volition. For he was strangely elated at Rupert'soffer. Yet he was still more glad to reject it, not to be committed. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

A CHAIR

There was a jumble market every Monday afternoon in the oldmarket-place in town. Ursula and Birkin strayed down there oneafternoon. They had been talking of furniture, and they wanted to seeif there was any fragment they would like to buy, amid the heaps ofrubbish collected on the cobble-stones. 

The old market-square was not very large, a mere bare patch of granitesetts, usually with a few fruit-stalls under a wall. It was in a poorquarter of the town. Meagre houses stood down one side, there was ahosiery factory, a great blank with myriad oblong windows, at the end, a street of little shops with flagstone pavement down the other side, and, for a crowning monument, the public baths, of new red brick, witha clock-tower. The people who moved about seemed stumpy and sordid, theair seemed to smell rather dirty, there was a sense of many meanstreets ramifying off into warrens of meanness. Now and again a greatchocolate-and-yellow tramcar ground round a difficult bend under thehosiery factory. 

Ursula was superficially thrilled when she found herself out among thecommon people, in the jumbled place piled with old bedding, heaps ofold iron, shabby crockery in pale lots, muffled lots of unthinkableclothing. She and Birkin went unwillingly down the narrow aisle betweenthe rusty wares. He was looking at the goods, she at the people. 

She excitedly watched a young woman, who was going to have a baby, andwho was turning over a mattress and making a young man, down-at-heeland dejected, feel it also. So secretive and active and anxious theyoung woman seemed, so reluctant, slinking, the young man. He was goingto marry her because she was having a child. 

When they had felt the mattress, the young woman asked the old manseated on a stool among his wares, how much it was. He told her, andshe turned to the young man. The latter was ashamed, and selfconscious. He turned his face away, though he left his body standing there, andmuttered aside. And again the woman anxiously and actively fingered themattress and added up in her mind and bargained with the old, uncleanman. All the while, the young man stood by, shamefaced anddown-at-heel, submitting. 

'Look, ' said Birkin, 'there is a pretty chair. '

'Charming!' cried Ursula. 'Oh, charming. '

It was an arm-chair of simple wood, probably birch, but of such finedelicacy of grace, standing there on the sordid stones, it almostbrought tears to the eyes. It was square in shape, of the purest, slender lines, and four short lines of wood in the back, that remindedUrsula of harpstrings. 

'It was once, ' said Birkin, 'gilded--and it had a cane seat. Somebodyhas nailed this wooden seat in. Look, here is a trifle of the red thatunderlay the gilt. The rest is all black, except where the wood is wornpure and glossy. It is the fine unity of the lines that is soattractive. Look, how they run and meet and counteract. But of coursethe wooden seat is wrong--it destroys the perfect lightness and unityin tension the cane gave. I like it though--'

'Ah yes, ' said Ursula, 'so do I. '

'How much is it?' Birkin asked the man. 

'Ten shillings. '

'And you will send it--?'

It was bought. 

'So beautiful, so pure!' Birkin said. 'It almost breaks my heart. ' Theywalked along between the heaps of rubbish. 'My beloved country--it hadsomething to express even when it made that chair. '

'And hasn't it now?' asked Ursula. She was always angry when he tookthis tone. 

'No, it hasn't. When I see that clear, beautiful chair, and I think ofEngland, even Jane Austen's England--it had living thoughts to unfoldeven then, and pure happiness in unfolding them. And now, we can onlyfish among the rubbish heaps for the remnants of their old expression. There is no production in us now, only sordid and foul mechanicalness. '

'It isn't true, ' cried Ursula. 'Why must you always praise the past, atthe expense of the present? REALLY, I don't think so much of JaneAusten's England. It was materialistic enough, if you like--'

'It could afford to be materialistic, ' said Birkin, 'because it had thepower to be something other--which we haven't. We are materialisticbecause we haven't the power to be anything else--try as we may, wecan't bring off anything but materialism: mechanism, the very soul ofmaterialism. '

Ursula was subdued into angry silence. She did not heed what he said. She was rebelling against something else. 

'And I hate your past. I'm sick of it, ' she cried. 'I believe I evenhate that old chair, though it IS beautiful. It isn't MY sort ofbeauty. I wish it had been smashed up when its day was over, not leftto preach the beloved past to us. I'm sick of the beloved past. '

'Not so sick as I am of the accursed present, ' he said. 

'Yes, just the same. I hate the present--but I don't want the past totake its place--I don't want that old chair. '

He was rather angry for a moment. Then he looked at the sky shiningbeyond the tower of the public baths, and he seemed to get over it all. He laughed. 

'All right, ' he said, 'then let us not have it. I'm sick of it all, too. At any rate one can't go on living on the old bones of beauty. '

'One can't, ' she cried. 'I DON'T want old things. '

'The truth is, we don't want things at all, ' he replied. 'The thoughtof a house and furniture of my own is hateful to me. '

This startled her for a moment. Then she replied:

'So it is to me. But one must live somewhere. '

'Not somewhere--anywhere, ' he said. 'One should just live anywhere--nothave a definite place. I don't want a definite place. As soon as youget a room, and it is COMPLETE, you want to run from it. Now my roomsat the Mill are quite complete, I want them at the bottom of the sea. It is a horrible tyranny of a fixed milieu, where each piece offurniture is a commandment-stone. '

She clung to his arm as they walked away from the market. 

'But what are we going to do?' she said. 'We must live somehow. And Ido want some beauty in my surroundings. I want a sort of naturalGRANDEUR even, SPLENDOUR. '

'You'll never get it in houses and furniture--or even clothes. Housesand furniture and clothes, they are all terms of an old base world, adetestable society of man. And if you have a Tudor house and old, beautiful furniture, it is only the past perpetuated on top of you, horrible. And if you have a perfect modern house done for you byPoiret, it is something else perpetuated on top of you. It is allhorrible. It is all possessions, possessions, bullying you and turningyou into a generalisation. You have to be like Rodin, Michelangelo, andleave a piece of raw rock unfinished to your figure. You must leaveyour surroundings sketchy, unfinished, so that you are never contained, never confined, never dominated from the outside. '

She stood in the street contemplating. 

'And we are never to have a complete place of our own--never a home?'she said. 

'Pray God, in this world, no, ' he answered. 

'But there's only this world, ' she objected. 

He spread out his hands with a gesture of indifference. 

'Meanwhile, then, we'll avoid having things of our own, ' he said. 

'But you've just bought a chair, ' she said. 

'I can tell the man I don't want it, ' he replied. 

She pondered again. Then a queer little movement twitched her face. 

'No, ' she said, 'we don't want it. I'm sick of old things. '

'New ones as well, ' he said. 

They retraced their steps. 

There--in front of some furniture, stood the young couple, the womanwho was going to have a baby, and the narrow-faced youth. She was fair, rather short, stout. He was of medium height, attractively built. Hisdark hair fell sideways over his brow, from under his cap, he stoodstrangely aloof, like one of the damned. 

'Let us give it to THEM, ' whispered Ursula. 'Look they are getting ahome together. '

'I won't aid abet them in it, ' he said petulantly, instantlysympathising with the aloof, furtive youth, against the active, procreant female. 

'Oh yes, ' cried Ursula. 'It's right for them--there's nothing else forthem. '

'Very well, ' said Birkin, 'you offer it to them. I'll watch. '

Ursula went rather nervously to the young couple, who were discussingan iron washstand--or rather, the man was glancing furtively andwonderingly, like a prisoner, at the abominable article, whilst thewoman was arguing. 

'We bought a chair, ' said Ursula, 'and we don't want it. Would you haveit? We should be glad if you would. '

The young couple looked round at her, not believing that she could beaddressing them. 

'Would you care for it?' repeated Ursula. 'It's really VERYpretty--but--but--' she smiled rather dazzlingly. 

The young couple only stared at her, and looked significantly at eachother, to know what to do. And the man curiously obliterated himself, as if he could make himself invisible, as a rat can. 

'We wanted to GIVE it to you, ' explained Ursula, now overcome withconfusion and dread of them. She was attracted by the young man. He wasa still, mindless creature, hardly a man at all, a creature that thetowns have produced, strangely pure-bred and fine in one sense, furtive, quick, subtle. His lashes were dark and long and fine over hiseyes, that had no mind in them, only a dreadful kind of subject, inwardconsciousness, glazed and dark. His dark brows and all his lines, werefinely drawn. He would be a dreadful, but wonderful lover to a woman, so marvellously contributed. His legs would be marvellously subtle andalive, under the shapeless, trousers, he had some of the fineness andstillness and silkiness of a dark-eyed, silent rat. 

Ursula had apprehended him with a fine FRISSON of attraction. Thefull-built woman was staring offensively. Again Ursula forgot him. 

'Won't you have the chair?' she said. 

The man looked at her with a sideways look of appreciation, yet faroff, almost insolent. The woman drew herself up. There was a certaincostermonger richness about her. She did not know what Ursula wasafter, she was on her guard, hostile. Birkin approached, smilingwickedly at seeing Ursula so nonplussed and frightened. 

'What's the matter?' he said, smiling. His eyelids had droppedslightly, there was about him the same suggestive, mocking secrecy thatwas in the bearing of the two city creatures. The man jerked his head alittle on one side, indicating Ursula, and said, with curious amiable, jeering warmth:

'What she warnt?--eh?' An odd smile writhed his lips. 

Birkin looked at him from under his slack, ironical eyelids. 

'To give you a chair--that--with the label on it, ' he said, pointing. 

The man looked at the object indicated. There was a curious hostilityin male, outlawed understanding between the two men. 

'What's she warnt to give it US for, guvnor, ' he replied, in a tone offree intimacy that insulted Ursula. 

'Thought you'd like it--it's a pretty chair. We bought it and don'twant it. No need for you to have it, don't be frightened, ' said Birkin, with a wry smile. 

The man glanced up at him, half inimical, half recognising. 

'Why don't you want it for yourselves, if you've just bought it?' askedthe woman coolly. ''Taint good enough for you, now you've had a look atit. Frightened it's got something in it, eh?'

She was looking at Ursula, admiringly, but with some resentment. 

'I'd never thought of that, ' said Birkin. 'But no, the wood's too thineverywhere. '

'You see, ' said Ursula, her face luminous and pleased. 'WE are justgoing to get married, and we thought we'd buy things. Then we decided, just now, that we wouldn't have furniture, we'd go abroad. '

The full-built, slightly blowsy city girl looked at the fine face ofthe other woman, with appreciation. They appreciated each other. Theyouth stood aside, his face expressionless and timeless, the thin lineof the black moustache drawn strangely suggestive over his rather wide, closed mouth. He was impassive, abstract, like some dark suggestivepresence, a gutter-presence. 

'It's all right to be some folks, ' said the city girl, turning to herown young man. He did not look at her, but he smiled with the lowerpart of his face, putting his head aside in an odd gesture of assent. His eyes were unchanging, glazed with darkness. 

'Cawsts something to change your mind, ' he said, in an incredibly lowaccent. 

'Only ten shillings this time, ' said Birkin. 

The man looked up at him with a grimace of a smile, furtive, unsure. 

'Cheap at 'arf a quid, guvnor, ' he said. 'Not like getting divawced. '

'We're not married yet, ' said Birkin. 

'No, no more aren't we, ' said the young woman loudly. 'But we shall be, a Saturday. '

Again she looked at the young man with a determined, protective look, at once overbearing and very gentle. He grinned sicklily, turning awayhis head. She had got his manhood, but Lord, what did he care! He had astrange furtive pride and slinking singleness. 

'Good luck to you, ' said Birkin. 

'Same to you, ' said the young woman. Then, rather tentatively: 'When'syours coming off, then?'

Birkin looked round at Ursula. 

'It's for the lady to say, ' he replied. 'We go to the registrar themoment she's ready. '

Ursula laughed, covered with confusion and bewilderment. 

'No 'urry, ' said the young man, grinning suggestive. 

'Oh, don't break your neck to get there, ' said the young woman. ''Slikewhen you're dead--you're long time married. '

The young man turned aside as if this hit him. 

'The longer the better, let us hope, ' said Birkin. 

'That's it, guvnor, ' said the young man admiringly. 'Enjoy it while itlarsts--niver whip a dead donkey. '

'Only when he's shamming dead, ' said the young woman, looking at heryoung man with caressive tenderness of authority. 

'Aw, there's a difference, ' he said satirically. 

'What about the chair?' said Birkin. 

'Yes, all right, ' said the woman. 

They trailed off to the dealer, the handsome but abject young fellowhanging a little aside. 

'That's it, ' said Birkin. 'Will you take it with you, or have theaddress altered. '

'Oh, Fred can carry it. Make him do what he can for the dear old 'ome. '

'Mike use of'im, ' said Fred, grimly humorous, as he took the chair fromthe dealer. His movements were graceful, yet curiously abject, slinking. 

''Ere's mother's cosy chair, ' he said. 'Warnts a cushion. ' And he stoodit down on the market stones. 

'Don't you think it's pretty?' laughed Ursula. 

'Oh, I do, ' said the young woman. 

''Ave a sit in it, you'll wish you'd kept it, ' said the young man. 

Ursula promptly sat down in the middle of the market-place. 

'Awfully comfortable, ' she said. 'But rather hard. You try it. ' Sheinvited the young man to a seat. But he turned uncouthly, awkwardlyaside, glancing up at her with quick bright eyes, oddly suggestive, like a quick, live rat. 

'Don't spoil him, ' said the young woman. 'He's not used to arm-chairs, 'e isn't. 

The young man turned away, and said, with averted grin:

'Only warnts legs on 'is. '

The four parted. The young woman thanked them. 

'Thank you for the chair--it'll last till it gives way. '

'Keep it for an ornyment, ' said the young man. 

'Good afternoon--Good afternoon, ' said Ursula and Birkin. 

'Goo'-luck to you, ' said the young man, glancing and avoiding Birkin'seyes, as he turned aside his head. 

The two couples went asunder, Ursula clinging to Birkin's arm. Whenthey had gone some distance, she glanced back and saw the young mangoing beside the full, easy young woman. His trousers sank over hisheels, he moved with a sort of slinking evasion, more crushed with oddself-consciousness now he had the slim old arm-chair to carry, his armover the back, the four fine, square tapering legs swaying perilouslynear the granite setts of the pavement. And yet he was somewhereindomitable and separate, like a quick, vital rat. He had a queer, subterranean beauty, repulsive too. 

'How strange they are!' said Ursula. 

'Children of men, ' he said. 'They remind me of Jesus: "The meek shallinherit the earth. "'

'But they aren't the meek, ' said Ursula. 

'Yes, I don't know why, but they are, ' he replied. 

They waited for the tramcar. Ursula sat on top and looked out on thetown. The dusk was just dimming the hollows of crowded houses. 

'And are they going to inherit the earth?' she said. 

'Yes--they. '

'Then what are we going to do?' she asked. 'We're not like them--arewe? We're not the meek?'

'No. We've got to live in the chinks they leave us. '

'How horrible!' cried Ursula. 'I don't want to live in chinks. '

'Don't worry, ' he said. 'They are the children of men, they likemarket-places and street-corners best. That leaves plenty of chinks. '

'All the world, ' she said. 

'Ah no--but some room. '

The tramcar mounted slowly up the hill, where the ugly winter-greymasses of houses looked like a vision of hell that is cold and angular. They sat and looked. Away in the distance was an angry redness ofsunset. It was all cold, somehow small, crowded, and like the end ofthe world. 

'I don't mind it even then, ' said Ursula, looking at the repulsivenessof it all. 'It doesn't concern me. '

'No more it does, ' he replied, holding her hand. 'One needn't see. Onegoes one's way. In my world it is sunny and spacious--'

'It is, my love, isn't it?' she cried, hugging near to him on the topof the tramcar, so that the other passengers stared at them. 

'And we will wander about on the face of the earth, ' he said, 'andwe'll look at the world beyond just this bit. '

There was a long silence. Her face was radiant like gold, as she satthinking. 

'I don't want to inherit the earth, ' she said. 'I don't want to inheritanything. '

He closed his hand over hers. 

'Neither do I. I want to be disinherited. '

She clasped his fingers closely. 

'We won't care about ANYTHING, ' she said. 

He sat still, and laughed. 

'And we'll be married, and have done with them, ' she added. 

Again he laughed. 

'It's one way of getting rid of everything, ' she said, 'to getmarried. '

'And one way of accepting the whole world, ' he added. 

'A whole other world, yes, ' she said happily. 

'Perhaps there's Gerald--and Gudrun--' he said. 

'If there is there is, you see, ' she said. 'It's no good our worrying. We can't really alter them, can we?'

'No, ' he said. 'One has no right to try--not with the best intentionsin the world. '

'Do you try to force them?' she asked. 

'Perhaps, ' he said. 'Why should I want him to be free, if it isn't hisbusiness?'

She paused for a time. 

'We can't MAKE him happy, anyhow, ' she said. 'He'd have to be it ofhimself. '

'I know, ' he said. 'But we want other people with us, don't we?'

'Why should we?' she asked. 

'I don't know, ' he said uneasily. 'One has a hankering after a sort offurther fellowship. '

'But why?' she insisted. 'Why should you hanker after other people? Whyshould you need them?'

This hit him right on the quick. His brows knitted. 

'Does it end with just our two selves?' he asked, tense. 

'Yes--what more do you want? If anybody likes to come along, let them. But why must you run after them?'

His face was tense and unsatisfied. 

'You see, ' he said, 'I always imagine our being really happy with somefew other people--a little freedom with people. '

She pondered for a moment. 

'Yes, one does want that. But it must HAPPEN. You can't do anything forit with your will. You always seem to think you can FORCE the flowersto come out. People must love us because they love us--you can't MAKEthem. '

'I know, ' he said. 'But must one take no steps at all? Must one just goas if one were alone in the world--the only creature in the world?'

'You've got me, ' she said. 'Why should you NEED others? Why must youforce people to agree with you? Why can't you be single by yourself, asyou are always saying? You try to bully Gerald--as you tried to bullyHermione. You must learn to be alone. And it's so horrid of you. You'vegot me. And yet you want to force other people to love you as well. Youdo try to bully them to love you. And even then, you don't want theirlove. '

His face was full of real perplexity. 

'Don't I?' he said. 'It's the problem I can't solve. I KNOW I want aperfect and complete relationship with you: and we've nearly got it--wereally have. But beyond that. DO I want a real, ultimate relationshipwith Gerald? Do I want a final, almost extra-human relationship withhim--a relationship in the ultimate of me and him--or don't I?'

She looked at him for a long time, with strange bright eyes, but shedid not answer. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

FLITTING

That evening Ursula returned home very bright-eyed and wondrous--whichirritated her people. Her father came home at suppertime, tired afterthe evening class, and the long journey home. Gudrun was reading, themother sat in silence. 

Suddenly Ursula said to the company at large, in a bright voice, 'Rupert and I are going to be married tomorrow. '

Her father turned round, stiffly. 

'You what?' he said. 

'Tomorrow!' echoed Gudrun. 

'Indeed!' said the mother. 

But Ursula only smiled wonderfully, and did not reply. 

'Married tomorrow!' cried her father harshly. 'What are you talkingabout. '

'Yes, ' said Ursula. 'Why not?' Those two words, from her, always drovehim mad. 'Everything is all right--we shall go to the registrar'soffice-'

There was a second's hush in the room, after Ursula's blithe vagueness. 

'REALLY, Ursula!' said Gudrun. 

'Might we ask why there has been all this secrecy?' demanded themother, rather superbly. 

'But there hasn't, ' said Ursula. 'You knew. '

'Who knew?' now cried the father. 'Who knew? What do you mean by your"you knew"?'

He was in one of his stupid rages, she instantly closed against him. 

'Of course you knew, ' she said coolly. 'You knew we were going to getmarried. '

There was a dangerous pause. 

'We knew you were going to get married, did we? Knew! Why, does anybodyknow anything about you, you shifty bitch!'

'Father!' cried Gudrun, flushing deep in violent remonstrance. Then, ina cold, but gentle voice, as if to remind her sister to be tractable:'But isn't it a FEARFULLY sudden decision, Ursula?' she asked. 

'No, not really, ' replied Ursula, with the same maddening cheerfulness. 'He's been WANTING me to agree for weeks--he's had the licence ready. Only I--I wasn't ready in myself. Now I am ready--is there anything tobe disagreeable about?'

'Certainly not, ' said Gudrun, but in a tone of cold reproof. 'You areperfectly free to do as you like. '

'"Ready in yourself"--YOURSELF, that's all that matters, isn't it! "Iwasn't ready in myself, "' he mimicked her phrase offensively. 'You andYOURSELF, you're of some importance, aren't you?'

She drew herself up and set back her throat, her eyes shining yellowand dangerous. 

'I am to myself, ' she said, wounded and mortified. 'I know I am not toanybody else. You only wanted to BULLY me--you never cared for myhappiness. '

He was leaning forward watching her, his face intense like a spark. 

'Ursula, what are you saying? Keep your tongue still, ' cried hermother. 

Ursula swung round, and the lights in her eyes flashed. 

'No, I won't, ' she cried. 'I won't hold my tongue and be bullied. Whatdoes it matter which day I get married--what does it MATTER! It doesn'taffect anybody but myself. '

Her father was tense and gathered together like a cat about to spring. 

'Doesn't it?' he cried, coming nearer to her. She shrank away. 

'No, how can it?' she replied, shrinking but stubborn. 

'It doesn't matter to ME then, what you do--what becomes of you?' hecried, in a strange voice like a cry. 

The mother and Gudrun stood back as if hypnotised. 

'No, ' stammered Ursula. Her father was very near to her. 'You only wantto-'

She knew it was dangerous, and she stopped. He was gathered together, every muscle ready. 

'What?' he challenged. 

'Bully me, ' she muttered, and even as her lips were moving, his handhad caught her smack at the side of the face and she was sent upagainst the door. 

'Father!' cried Gudrun in a high voice, 'it is impossible!'

He stood unmoving. Ursula recovered, her hand was on the door handle. She slowly drew herself up. He seemed doubtful now. 

'It's true, ' she declared, with brilliant tears in her eyes, her headlifted up in defiance. 'What has your love meant, what did it evermean?--bullying, and denial-it did-'

He was advancing again with strange, tense movements, and clenchedfist, and the face of a murderer. But swift as lightning she hadflashed out of the door, and they heard her running upstairs. 

He stood for a moment looking at the door. Then, like a defeatedanimal, he turned and went back to his seat by the fire. 

Gudrun was very white. Out of the intense silence, the mother's voicewas heard saying, cold and angry:

'Well, you shouldn't take so much notice of her. '

Again the silence fell, each followed a separate set of emotions andthoughts. 

Suddenly the door opened again: Ursula, dressed in hat and furs, with asmall valise in her hand:

'Good-bye!' she said, in her maddening, bright, almost mocking tone. 'I'm going. '

And in the next instant the door was closed, they heard the outer door, then her quick steps down the garden path, then the gate banged, andher light footfall was gone. There was a silence like death in thehouse. 

Ursula went straight to the station, hastening heedlessly on wingedfeet. There was no train, she must walk on to the junction. As she wentthrough the darkness, she began to cry, and she wept bitterly, with adumb, heart-broken, child's anguish, all the way on the road, and inthe train. Time passed unheeded and unknown, she did not know where shewas, nor what was taking place. Only she wept from fathomless depths ofhopeless, hopeless grief, the terrible grief of a child, that knows noextenuation. 

Yet her voice had the same defensive brightness as she spoke toBirkin's landlady at the door. 

'Good evening! Is Mr Birkin in? Can I see him?'

'Yes, he's in. He's in his study. '

Ursula slipped past the woman. His door opened. He had heard her voice. 

'Hello!' he exclaimed in surprise, seeing her standing there with thevalise in her hand, and marks of tears on her face. She was one whowept without showing many traces, like a child. 

'Do I look a sight?' she said, shrinking. 

'No--why? Come in, ' he took the bag from her hand and they went intothe study. 

There--immediately, her lips began to tremble like those of a childthat remembers again, and the tears came rushing up. 

'What's the matter?' he asked, taking her in his arms. She sobbedviolently on his shoulder, whilst he held her still, waiting. 

'What's the matter?' he said again, when she was quieter. But she onlypressed her face further into his shoulder, in pain, like a child thatcannot tell. 

'What is it, then?' he asked. Suddenly she broke away, wiped her eyes, regained her composure, and went and sat in a chair. 

'Father hit me, ' she announced, sitting bunched up, rather like aruffled bird, her eyes very bright. 

'What for?' he said. 

She looked away, and would not answer. There was a pitiful rednessabout her sensitive nostrils, and her quivering lips. 

'Why?' he repeated, in his strange, soft, penetrating voice. 

She looked round at him, rather defiantly. 

'Because I said I was going to be married tomorrow, and he bullied me. '

'Why did he bully you?'

Her mouth dropped again, she remembered the scene once more, the tearscame up. 

'Because I said he didn't care--and he doesn't, it's only hisdomineeringness that's hurt--' she said, her mouth pulled awry by herweeping, all the time she spoke, so that he almost smiled, it seemed sochildish. Yet it was not childish, it was a mortal conflict, a deepwound. 

'It isn't quite true, ' he said. 'And even so, you shouldn't SAY it. '

'It IS true--it IS true, ' she wept, 'and I won't be bullied by hispretending it's love--when it ISN'T--he doesn't care, how can he--no, he can't-'

He sat in silence. She moved him beyond himself. 

'Then you shouldn't rouse him, if he can't, ' replied Birkin quietly. 

'And I HAVE loved him, I have, ' she wept. 'I've loved him always, andhe's always done this to me, he has--'

'It's been a love of opposition, then, ' he said. 'Never mind--it willbe all right. It's nothing desperate. '

'Yes, ' she wept, 'it is, it is. '

'Why?'

'I shall never see him again--'

'Not immediately. Don't cry, you had to break with him, it had tobe--don't cry. '

He went over to her and kissed her fine, fragile hair, touching her wetcheeks gently. 

'Don't cry, ' he repeated, 'don't cry any more. '

He held her head close against him, very close and quiet. 

At last she was still. Then she looked up, her eyes wide and frightened. 

'Don't you want me?' she asked. 

'Want you?' His darkened, steady eyes puzzled her and did not give herplay. 

'Do you wish I hadn't come?' she asked, anxious now again for fear shemight be out of place. 

'No, ' he said. 'I wish there hadn't been the violence--so muchugliness--but perhaps it was inevitable. '

She watched him in silence. He seemed deadened. 

'But where shall I stay?' she asked, feeling humiliated. 

He thought for a moment. 

'Here, with me, ' he said. 'We're married as much today as we shall betomorrow. '

'But--'

'I'll tell Mrs Varley, ' he said. 'Never mind now. '

He sat looking at her. She could feel his darkened steady eyes lookingat her all the time. It made her a little bit frightened. She pushedher hair off her forehead nervously. 

'Do I look ugly?' she said. 

And she blew her nose again. 

A small smile came round his eyes. 

'No, ' he said, 'fortunately. '

And he went across to her, and gathered her like a belonging in hisarms. She was so tenderly beautiful, he could not bear to see her, hecould only bear to hide her against himself. Now; washed all clean byher tears, she was new and frail like a flower just unfolded, a flowerso new, so tender, so made perfect by inner light, that he could notbear to look at her, he must hide her against himself, cover his eyesagainst her. She had the perfect candour of creation, somethingtranslucent and simple, like a radiant, shining flower that momentunfolded in primal blessedness. She was so new, so wonder-clear, soundimmed. And he was so old, so steeped in heavy memories. Her soul wasnew, undefined and glimmering with the unseen. And his soul was darkand gloomy, it had only one grain of living hope, like a grain ofmustard seed. But this one living grain in him matched the perfectyouth in her. 

'I love you, ' he whispered as he kissed her, and trembled with purehope, like a man who is born again to a wonderful, lively hope farexceeding the bounds of death. 

She could not know how much it meant to him, how much he meant by thefew words. Almost childish, she wanted proof, and statement, evenover-statement, for everything seemed still uncertain, unfixed to her. 

But the passion of gratitude with which he received her into his soul, the extreme, unthinkable gladness of knowing himself living and fit tounite with her, he, who was so nearly dead, who was so near to beinggone with the rest of his race down the slope of mechanical death, could never be understood by her. He worshipped her as age worshipsyouth, he gloried in her, because, in his one grain of faith, he wasyoung as she, he was her proper mate. This marriage with her was hisresurrection and his life. 

All this she could not know. She wanted to be made much of, to beadored. There were infinite distances of silence between them. Howcould he tell her of the immanence of her beauty, that was not form, orweight, or colour, but something like a strange, golden light! Howcould he know himself what her beauty lay in, for him. He said 'Yournose is beautiful, your chin is adorable. ' But it sounded like lies, and she was disappointed, hurt. Even when he said, whispering withtruth, 'I love you, I love you, ' it was not the real truth. It wassomething beyond love, such a gladness of having surpassed oneself, ofhaving transcended the old existence. How could he say "I" when he wassomething new and unknown, not himself at all? This I, this old formulaof the age, was a dead letter. 

In the new, superfine bliss, a peace superseding knowledge, there wasno I and you, there was only the third, unrealised wonder, the wonderof existing not as oneself, but in a consummation of my being and ofher being in a new one, a new, paradisal unit regained from theduality. Nor can I say 'I love you, ' when I have ceased to be, and youhave ceased to be: we are both caught up and transcended into a newoneness where everything is silent, because there is nothing to answer, all is perfect and at one. Speech travels between the separate parts. But in the perfect One there is perfect silence of bliss. 

They were married by law on the next day, and she did as he bade her, she wrote to her father and mother. Her mother replied, not her father. 

She did not go back to school. She stayed with Birkin in his rooms, orat the Mill, moving with him as he moved. But she did not see anybody, save Gudrun and Gerald. She was all strange and wondering as yet, butrelieved as by dawn. 

Gerald sat talking to her one afternoon in the warm study down at theMill. Rupert had not yet come home. 

'You are happy?' Gerald asked her, with a smile. 

'Very happy!' she cried, shrinking a little in her brightness. 

'Yes, one can see it. '

'Can one?' cried Ursula in surprise. 

He looked up at her with a communicative smile. 

'Oh yes, plainly. '

She was pleased. She meditated a moment. 

'And can you see that Rupert is happy as well?'

He lowered his eyelids, and looked aside. 

'Oh yes, ' he said. 

'Really!'

'Oh yes. '

He was very quiet, as if it were something not to be talked about byhim. He seemed sad. 

She was very sensitive to suggestion. She asked the question he wantedher to ask. 

'Why don't you be happy as well?' she said. 'You could be just thesame. '

He paused a moment. 

'With Gudrun?' he asked. 

'Yes!' she cried, her eyes glowing. But there was a strange tension, anemphasis, as if they were asserting their wishes, against the truth. 

'You think Gudrun would have me, and we should be happy?' he said. 

'Yes, I'm SURE!' she cried. 

Her eyes were round with delight. Yet underneath she was constrained, she knew her own insistence. 

'Oh, I'm SO glad, ' she added. 

He smiled. 

'What makes you glad?' he said. 

'For HER sake, ' she replied. 'I'm sure you'd--you're the right man forher. '

'You are?' he said. 'And do you think she would agree with you?'

'Oh yes!' she exclaimed hastily. Then, upon reconsideration, veryuneasy: 'Though Gudrun isn't so very simple, is she? One doesn't knowher in five minutes, does one? She's not like me in that. ' She laughedat him with her strange, open, dazzled face. 

'You think she's not much like you?' Gerald asked. 

She knitted her brows. 

'Oh, in many ways she is. But I never know what she will do whenanything new comes. '

'You don't?' said Gerald. He was silent for some moments. Then he movedtentatively. 'I was going to ask her, in any case, to go away with meat Christmas, ' he said, in a very small, cautious voice. 

'Go away with you? For a time, you mean?'

'As long as she likes, ' he said, with a deprecating movement. 

They were both silent for some minutes. 

'Of course, ' said Ursula at last, 'she MIGHT just be willing to rushinto marriage. You can see. '

'Yes, ' smiled Gerald. 'I can see. But in case she won't--do you thinkshe would go abroad with me for a few days--or for a fortnight?'

'Oh yes, ' said Ursula. 'I'd ask her. '

'Do you think we might all go together?'

'All of us?' Again Ursula's face lighted up. 'It would be rather fun, don't you think?'

'Great fun, ' he said. 

'And then you could see, ' said Ursula. 

'What?'

'How things went. I think it is best to take the honeymoon before thewedding--don't you?'

She was pleased with this MOT. He laughed. 

'In certain cases, ' he said. 'I'd rather it were so in my own case. '

'Would you!' exclaimed Ursula. Then doubtingly, 'Yes, perhaps you'reright. One should please oneself. '

Birkin came in a little later, and Ursula told him what had been said. 

'Gudrun!' exclaimed Birkin. 'She's a born mistress, just as Gerald is aborn lover--AMANT EN TITRE. If as somebody says all women are eitherwives or mistresses, then Gudrun is a mistress. '

'And all men either lovers or husbands, ' cried Ursula. 'But why notboth?'

'The one excludes the other, ' he laughed. 

'Then I want a lover, ' cried Ursula. 

'No you don't, ' he said. 

'But I do, ' she wailed. 

He kissed her, and laughed. 

It was two days after this that Ursula was to go to fetch her thingsfrom the house in Beldover. The removal had taken place, the family hadgone. Gudrun had rooms in Willey Green. 

Ursula had not seen her parents since her marriage. She wept over therupture, yet what was the good of making it up! Good or not good, shecould not go to them. So her things had been left behind and she andGudrun were to walk over for them, in the afternoon. 

It was a wintry afternoon, with red in the sky, when they arrived atthe house. The windows were dark and blank, already the place wasfrightening. A stark, void entrance-hall struck a chill to the heartsof the girls. 

'I don't believe I dare have come in alone, ' said Ursula. 'It frightensme. '

'Ursula!' cried Gudrun. 'Isn't it amazing! Can you believe you lived inthis place and never felt it? How I lived here a day without dying ofterror, I cannot conceive!'

They looked in the big dining-room. It was a good-sized room, but now acell would have been lovelier. The large bay windows were naked, thefloor was stripped, and a border of dark polish went round the tract ofpale boarding. 

In the faded wallpaper were dark patches where furniture had stood, where pictures had hung. The sense of walls, dry, thin, flimsy-seemingwalls, and a flimsy flooring, pale with its artificial black edges, wasneutralising to the mind. Everything was null to the senses, there wasenclosure without substance, for the walls were dry and papery. Wherewere they standing, on earth, or suspended in some cardboard box? Inthe hearth was burnt paper, and scraps of half-burnt paper. 

'Imagine that we passed our days here!' said Ursula. 

'I know, ' cried Gudrun. 'It is too appalling. What must we be like, ifwe are the contents of THIS!'

'Vile!' said Ursula. 'It really is. '

And she recognised half-burnt covers of 'Vogue'--half-burntrepresentations of women in gowns--lying under the grate. 

They went to the drawing-room. Another piece of shut-in air; withoutweight or substance, only a sense of intolerable papery imprisonment innothingness. The kitchen did look more substantial, because of thered-tiled floor and the stove, but it was cold and horrid. 

The two girls tramped hollowly up the bare stairs. Every sound reechoedunder their hearts. They tramped down the bare corridor. Against thewall of Ursula's bedroom were her things--a trunk, a work-basket, somebooks, loose coats, a hat-box, standing desolate in the universalemptiness of the dusk. 

'A cheerful sight, aren't they?' said Ursula, looking down at herforsaken possessions. 

'Very cheerful, ' said Gudrun. 

The two girls set to, carrying everything down to the front door. Againand again they made the hollow, re-echoing transit. The whole placeseemed to resound about them with a noise of hollow, empty futility. Inthe distance the empty, invisible rooms sent forth a vibration almostof obscenity. They almost fled with the last articles, into theout-of-door. 

But it was cold. They were waiting for Birkin, who was coming with thecar. They went indoors again, and upstairs to their parents' frontbedroom, whose windows looked down on the road, and across the countryat the black-barred sunset, black and red barred, without light. 

They sat down in the window-seat, to wait. Both girls were looking overthe room. It was void, with a meaninglessness that was almost dreadful. 

'Really, ' said Ursula, 'this room COULDN'T be sacred, could it?'

Gudrun looked over it with slow eyes. 

'Impossible, ' she replied. 

'When I think of their lives--father's and mother's, their love, andtheir marriage, and all of us children, and our bringing-up--would youhave such a life, Prune?'

'I wouldn't, Ursula. '

'It all seems so NOTHING--their two lives--there's no meaning in it. Really, if they had NOT met, and NOT married, and not livedtogether--it wouldn't have mattered, would it?'

'Of course--you can't tell, ' said Gudrun. 

'No. But if I thought my life was going to be like it--Prune, ' shecaught Gudrun's arm, 'I should run. '

Gudrun was silent for a few moments. 

'As a matter of fact, one cannot contemplate the ordinary life--onecannot contemplate it, ' replied Gudrun. 'With you, Ursula, it is quitedifferent. You will be out of it all, with Birkin. He's a special case. But with the ordinary man, who has his life fixed in one place, marriage is just impossible. There may be, and there ARE, thousands ofwomen who want it, and could conceive of nothing else. But the verythought of it sends me MAD. One must be free, above all, one must befree. One may forfeit everything else, but one must be free--one mustnot become 7, Pinchbeck Street--or Somerset Drive--or Shortlands. Noman will be sufficient to make that good--no man! To marry, one musthave a free lance, or nothing, a comrade-in-arms, a Glckstritter. A manwith a position in the social world--well, it is just impossible, impossible!'

'What a lovely word--a Glckstritter!' said Ursula. 'So much nicer thana soldier of fortune. '

'Yes, isn't it?' said Gudrun. 'I'd tilt the world with a Glcksritter. But a home, an establishment! Ursula, what would it mean?--think!'

'I know, ' said Ursula. 'We've had one home--that's enough for me. '

'Quite enough, ' said Gudrun. 

'The little grey home in the west, ' quoted Ursula ironically. 

'Doesn't it sound grey, too, ' said Gudrun grimly. 

They were interrupted by the sound of the car. There was Birkin. Ursulawas surprised that she felt so lit up, that she became suddenly so freefrom the problems of grey homes in the west. 

They heard his heels click on the hall pavement below. 

'Hello!' he called, his voice echoing alive through the house. Ursulasmiled to herself. HE was frightened of the place too. 

'Hello! Here we are, ' she called downstairs. And they heard him quicklyrunning up. 

'This is a ghostly situation, ' he said. 

'These houses don't have ghosts--they've never had any personality, andonly a place with personality can have a ghost, ' said Gudrun. 

'I suppose so. Are you both weeping over the past?'

'We are, ' said Gudrun, grimly. 

Ursula laughed. 

'Not weeping that it's gone, but weeping that it ever WAS, ' she said. 

'Oh, ' he replied, relieved. 

He sat down for a moment. There was something in his presence, Ursulathought, lambent and alive. It made even the impertinent structure ofthis null house disappear. 

'Gudrun says she could not bear to be married and put into a house, 'said Ursula meaningful--they knew this referred to Gerald. 

He was silent for some moments. 

'Well, ' he said, 'if you know beforehand you couldn't stand it, you'resafe. '

'Quite!' said Gudrun. 

'Why DOES every woman think her aim in life is to have a hubby and alittle grey home in the west? Why is this the goal of life? Why shouldit be?' said Ursula. 

'Il faut avoir le respect de ses btises, ' said Birkin. 

'But you needn't have the respect for the BETISE before you'vecommitted it, ' laughed Ursula. 

'Ah then, des betises du papa?'

'Et de la maman, ' added Gudrun satirically. 

'Et des voisins, ' said Ursula. 

They all laughed, and rose. It was getting dark. They carried thethings to the car. Gudrun locked the door of the empty house. Birkinhad lighted the lamps of the automobile. It all seemed very happy, asif they were setting out. 

'Do you mind stopping at Coulsons. I have to leave the key there, ' saidGudrun. 

'Right, ' said Birkin, and they moved off. 

They stopped in the main street. The shops were just lighted, the lastminers were passing home along the causeways, half-visible shadows intheir grey pit-dirt, moving through the blue air. But their feet rangharshly in manifold sound, along the pavement. 

How pleased Gudrun was to come out of the shop, and enter the car, andbe borne swiftly away into the downhill of palpable dusk, with Ursulaand Birkin! What an adventure life seemed at this moment! How deeply, how suddenly she envied Ursula! Life for her was so quick, and an opendoor--so reckless as if not only this world, but the world that wasgone and the world to come were nothing to her. Ah, if she could beJUST LIKE THAT, it would be perfect. 

For always, except in her moments of excitement, she felt a want withinherself. She was unsure. She had felt that now, at last, in Gerald'sstrong and violent love, she was living fully and finally. But when shecompared herself with Ursula, already her soul was jealous, unsatisfied. She was not satisfied--she was never to be satisfied. 

What was she short of now? It was marriage--it was the wonderfulstability of marriage. She did want it, let her say what she might. Shehad been lying. The old idea of marriage was right even now--marriageand the home. Yet her mouth gave a little grimace at the words. Shethought of Gerald and Shortlands--marriage and the home! Ah well, letit rest! He meant a great deal to her--but--! Perhaps it was not in herto marry. She was one of life's outcasts, one of the drifting livesthat have no root. No, no it could not be so. She suddenly conjured upa rosy room, with herself in a beautiful gown, and a handsome man inevening dress who held her in his arms in the firelight, and kissedher. This picture she entitled 'Home. ' It would have done for the RoyalAcademy. 

'Come with us to tea--DO, ' said Ursula, as they ran nearer to thecottage of Willey Green. 

'Thanks awfully--but I MUST go in--' said Gudrun. She wanted very muchto go on with Ursula and Birkin. 

That seemed like life indeed to her. Yet a certain perversity would notlet her. 

'Do come--yes, it would be so nice, ' pleaded Ursula. 

'I'm awfully sorry--I should love to--but I can't--really--'

She descended from the car in trembling haste. 

'Can't you really!' came Ursula's regretful voice. 

'No, really I can't, ' responded Gudrun's pathetic, chagrined words outof the dusk. 

'All right, are you?' called Birkin. 

'Quite!' said Gudrun. 'Good-night!'

'Good-night, ' they called. 

'Come whenever you like, we shall be glad, ' called Birkin. 

'Thank you very much, ' called Gudrun, in the strange, twanging voice oflonely chagrin that was very puzzling to him. She turned away to hercottage gate, and they drove on. But immediately she stood to watchthem, as the car ran vague into the distance. And as she went up thepath to her strange house, her heart was full of incomprehensiblebitterness. 

In her parlour was a long-case clock, and inserted into its dial was aruddy, round, slant-eyed, joyous-painted face, that wagged over withthe most ridiculous ogle when the clock ticked, and back again with thesame absurd glad-eye at the next tick. All the time the absurd smooth, brown-ruddy face gave her an obtrusive 'glad-eye. ' She stood forminutes, watching it, till a sort of maddened disgust overcame her, andshe laughed at herself hollowly. And still it rocked, and gave her theglad-eye from one side, then from the other, from one side, then fromthe other. Ah, how unhappy she was! In the midst of her most activehappiness, ah, how unhappy she was! She glanced at the table. Gooseberry jam, and the same home-made cake with too much soda in it!Still, gooseberry jam was good, and one so rarely got it. 

All the evening she wanted to go to the Mill. But she coldly refused toallow herself. She went the next afternoon instead. She was happy tofind Ursula alone. It was a lovely, intimate secluded atmosphere. Theytalked endlessly and delightedly. 'Aren't you FEARFULLY happy here?'said Gudrun to her sister glancing at her own bright eyes in themirror. She always envied, almost with resentment, the strange positivefullness that subsisted in the atmosphere around Ursula and Birkin. 

How really beautifully this room is done, ' she said aloud. 'This hardplaited matting--what a lovely colour it is, the colour of cool light!'

And it seemed to her perfect. 

'Ursula, ' she said at length, in a voice of question and detachment, 'did you know that Gerald Crich had suggested our going away alltogether at Christmas?'

'Yes, he's spoken to Rupert. '

A deep flush dyed Gudrun's cheek. She was silent a moment, as if takenaback, and not knowing what to say. 

'But don't you thing, ' she said at last, 'it is AMAZINGLY COOL!'

Ursula laughed. 

'I like him for it, ' she said. 

Gudrun was silent. It was evident that, whilst she was almost mortifiedby Gerald's taking the liberty of making such a suggestion to Birkin, yet the idea itself attracted her strongly. 

'There's rather lovely simplicity about Gerald, I think, ' said Ursula, 'so defiant, somehow! Oh, I think he's VERY lovable. '

Gudrun did not reply for some moments. She had still to get over thefeeling of insult at the liberty taken with her freedom. 

'What did Rupert say--do you know?' she asked. 

'He said it would be most awfully jolly, ' said Ursula. 

Again Gudrun looked down, and was silent. 

'Don't you think it would?' said Ursula, tentatively. She was neverquite sure how many defences Gudrun was having round herself. 

Gudrun raised her face with difficulty and held it averted. 

'I think it MIGHT be awfully jolly, as you say, ' she replied. 'Butdon't you think it was an unpardonable liberty to take--to talk of suchthings to Rupert--who after all--you see what I mean, Ursula--theymight have been two men arranging an outing with some little TYPEthey'd picked up. Oh, I think it's unforgivable, quite!' She used theFrench word 'TYPE. '

Her eyes flashed, her soft face was flushed and sullen. Ursula lookedon, rather frightened, frightened most of all because she thoughtGudrun seemed rather common, really like a little TYPE. But she had notthe courage quite to think this--not right out. 

'Oh no, ' she cried, stammering. 'Oh no--not at all like that--oh no!No, I think it's rather beautiful, the friendship between Rupert andGerald. They just are simple--they say anything to each other, likebrothers. '

Gudrun flushed deeper. She could not BEAR it that Gerald gave heraway--even to Birkin. 

'But do you think even brothers have any right to exchange confidencesof that sort?' she asked, with deep anger. 

'Oh yes, ' said Ursula. 'There's never anything said that isn'tperfectly straightforward. No, the thing that's amazed me most inGerald--how perfectly simple and direct he can be! And you know, ittakes rather a big man. Most of them MUST be indirect, they are suchcowards. '

But Gudrun was still silent with anger. She wanted the absolute secrecykept, with regard to her movements. 

'Won't you go?' said Ursula. 'Do, we might all be so happy! There issomething I LOVE about Gerald--he's MUCH more lovable than I thoughthim. He's free, Gudrun, he really is. '

Gudrun's mouth was still closed, sullen and ugly. She opened it atlength. 

'Do you know where he proposes to go?' she asked. 

'Yes--to the Tyrol, where he used to go when he was in Germany--alovely place where students go, small and rough and lovely, for wintersport!'

Through Gudrun's mind went the angry thought--'they know everything. '

'Yes, ' she said aloud, 'about forty kilometres from Innsbruck, isn'tit?'

'I don't know exactly where--but it would be lovely, don't you think, high in the perfect snow--?'

'Very lovely!' said Gudrun, sarcastically. 

Ursula was put out. 

'Of course, ' she said, 'I think Gerald spoke to Rupert so that itshouldn't seem like an outing with a TYPE--'

'I know, of course, ' said Gudrun, 'that he quite commonly does take upwith that sort. '

'Does he!' said Ursula. 'Why how do you know?'

'I know of a model in Chelsea, ' said Gudrun coldly. Now Ursula wassilent. 'Well, ' she said at last, with a doubtful laugh, 'I hope he hasa good time with her. ' At which Gudrun looked more glum. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

GUDRUN IN THE POMPADOUR

Christmas drew near, all four prepared for flight. Birkin and Ursulawere busy packing their few personal things, making them ready to besent off, to whatever country and whatever place they might choose atlast. Gudrun was very much excited. She loved to be on the wing. 

She and Gerald, being ready first, set off via London and Paris toInnsbruck, where they would meet Ursula and Birkin. In London theystayed one night. They went to the music-hall, and afterwards to thePompadour Cafe. 

Gudrun hated the Cafe, yet she always went back to it, as did most ofthe artists of her acquaintance. She loathed its atmosphere of pettyvice and petty jealousy and petty art. Yet she always called in again, when she was in town. It was as if she HAD to return to this small, slow, central whirlpool of disintegration and dissolution: just give ita look. 

She sat with Gerald drinking some sweetish liqueur, and staring withblack, sullen looks at the various groups of people at the tables. Shewould greet nobody, but young men nodded to her frequently, with a kindof sneering familiarity. She cut them all. And it gave her pleasure tosit there, cheeks flushed, eyes black and sullen, seeing them allobjectively, as put away from her, like creatures in some menagerie ofapish degraded souls. God, what a foul crew they were! Her blood beatblack and thick in her veins with rage and loathing. Yet she must sitand watch, watch. One or two people came to speak to her. From everyside of the Cafe, eyes turned half furtively, half jeeringly at her, men looking over their shoulders, women under their hats. 

The old crowd was there, Carlyon in his corner with his pupils and hisgirl, Halliday and Libidnikov and the Pussum--they were all there. Gudrun watched Gerald. She watched his eyes linger a moment onHalliday, on Halliday's party. These last were on the look-out--theynodded to him, he nodded again. They giggled and whispered amongthemselves. Gerald watched them with the steady twinkle in his eyes. They were urging the Pussum to something. 

She at last rose. She was wearing a curious dress of dark silk splashedand spattered with different colours, a curious motley effect. She wasthinner, her eyes were perhaps hotter, more disintegrated. Otherwiseshe was just the same. Gerald watched her with the same steady twinklein his eyes as she came across. She held out her thin brown hand tohim. 

'How are you?' she said. 

He shook hands with her, but remained seated, and let her stand nearhim, against the table. She nodded blackly to Gudrun, whom she did notknow to speak to, but well enough by sight and reputation. 

'I am very well, ' said Gerald. 'And you?'

'Oh I'm all wight. What about Wupert?'

'Rupert? He's very well, too. '

'Yes, I don't mean that. What about him being married?'

'Oh--yes, he is married. '

The Pussum's eyes had a hot flash. 

'Oh, he's weally bwought it off then, has he? When was he married?'

'A week or two ago. '

'Weally! He's never written. '

'No. '

'No. Don't you think it's too bad?'

This last was in a tone of challenge. The Pussum let it be known by hertone, that she was aware of Gudrun's listening. 

'I suppose he didn't feel like it, ' replied Gerald. 

'But why didn't he?' pursued the Pussum. 

This was received in silence. There was an ugly, mocking persistence inthe small, beautiful figure of the short-haired girl, as she stood nearGerald. 

'Are you staying in town long?' she asked. 

'Tonight only. '

'Oh, only tonight. Are you coming over to speak to Julius?'

'Not tonight. '

'Oh very well. I'll tell him then. ' Then came her touch of diablerie. 'You're looking awf'lly fit. '

'Yes--I feel it. ' Gerald was quite calm and easy, a spark of satiricamusement in his eye. 

'Are you having a good time?'

This was a direct blow for Gudrun, spoken in a level, toneless voice ofcallous ease. 

'Yes, ' he replied, quite colourlessly. 

'I'm awf'lly sorry you aren't coming round to the flat. You aren't veryfaithful to your fwiends. '

'Not very, ' he said. 

She nodded them both 'Good-night', and went back slowly to her own set. Gudrun watched her curious walk, stiff and jerking at the loins. Theyheard her level, toneless voice distinctly. 

'He won't come over;--he is otherwise engaged, ' it said. There was morelaughter and lowered voices and mockery at the table. 

'Is she a friend of yours?' said Gudrun, looking calmly at Gerald. 

'I've stayed at Halliday's flat with Birkin, ' he said, meeting herslow, calm eyes. And she knew that the Pussum was one of hismistresses--and he knew she knew. 

She looked round, and called for the waiter. She wanted an icedcocktail, of all things. This amused Gerald--he wondered what was up. 

The Halliday party was tipsy, and malicious. They were talking outloudly about Birkin, ridiculing him on every point, particularly on hismarriage. 

'Oh, DON'T make me think of Birkin, ' Halliday was squealing. 'He makesme perfectly sick. He is as bad as Jesus. "Lord, WHAT must I do to besaved!"'

He giggled to himself tipsily. 

'Do you remember, ' came the quick voice of the Russian, 'the letters heused to send. "Desire is holy-"'

'Oh yes!' cried Halliday. 'Oh, how perfectly splendid. Why, I've gotone in my pocket. I'm sure I have. '

He took out various papers from his pocket book. 

'I'm sure I've--HIC! OH DEAR!--got one. '

Gerald and Gudrun were watching absorbedly. 

'Oh yes, how perfectly--HIC!--splendid! Don't make me laugh, Pussum, itgives me the hiccup. Hic!--' They all giggled. 

'What did he say in that one?' the Pussum asked, leaning forward, herdark, soft hair falling and swinging against her face. There wassomething curiously indecent, obscene, about her small, longish, darkskull, particularly when the ears showed. 

'Wait--oh do wait! NO-O, I won't give it to you, I'll read it aloud. I'll read you the choice bits, --hic! Oh dear! Do you think if I drinkwater it would take off this hiccup? HIC! Oh, I feel perfectlyhelpless. '

'Isn't that the letter about uniting the dark and the light--and theFlux of Corruption?' asked Maxim, in his precise, quick voice. 

'I believe so, ' said the Pussum. 

'Oh is it? I'd forgotten--HIC!--it was that one, ' Halliday said, opening the letter. 'HIC! Oh yes. How perfectly splendid! This is oneof the best. "There is a phase in every race--"' he read in thesing-song, slow, distinct voice of a clergyman reading the Scriptures, '"When the desire for destruction overcomes every other desire. In theindividual, this desire is ultimately a desire for destruction in theself"--HIC!--' he paused and looked up. 

'I hope he's going ahead with the destruction of himself, ' said thequick voice of the Russian. Halliday giggled, and lolled his head back, vaguely. 

'There's not much to destroy in him, ' said the Pussum. 'He's so thinalready, there's only a fag-end to start on. '

'Oh, isn't it beautiful! I love reading it! I believe it has cured myhiccup!' squealed Halliday. 'Do let me go on. "It is a desire for thereduction process in oneself, a reducing back to the origin, a returnalong the Flux of Corruption, to the original rudimentary conditions ofbeing--!" Oh, but I DO think it is wonderful. It almost supersedes theBible-'

'Yes--Flux of Corruption, ' said the Russian, 'I remember that phrase. '

'Oh, he was always talking about Corruption, ' said the Pussum. 'He mustbe corrupt himself, to have it so much on his mind. '

'Exactly!' said the Russian. 

'Do let me go on! Oh, this is a perfectly wonderful piece! But dolisten to this. "And in the great retrogression, the reducing back ofthe created body of life, we get knowledge, and beyond knowledge, thephosphorescent ecstasy of acute sensation. " Oh, I do think thesephrases are too absurdly wonderful. Oh but don't you think theyARE--they're nearly as good as Jesus. "And if, Julius, you want thisecstasy of reduction with the Pussum, you must go on till it isfulfilled. But surely there is in you also, somewhere, the livingdesire for positive creation, relationships in ultimate faith, when allthis process of active corruption, with all its flowers of mud, istranscended, and more or less finished--" I do wonder what the flowersof mud are. Pussum, you are a flower of mud. '

'Thank you--and what are you?'

'Oh, I'm another, surely, according to this letter! We're all flowersof mud--FLEURS--HIC! DU MAL! It's perfectly wonderful, Birkin harrowingHell--harrowing the Pompadour--HIC!'

'Go on--go on, ' said Maxim. 'What comes next? It's really veryinteresting. '

'I think it's awful cheek to write like that, ' said the Pussum. 

'Yes--yes, so do I, ' said the Russian. 'He is a megalomaniac, ofcourse, it is a form of religious mania. He thinks he is the Saviour ofman--go on reading. '

'Surely, ' Halliday intoned, '"surely goodness and mercy hath followedme all the days of my life--"' he broke off and giggled. Then he beganagain, intoning like a clergyman. '"Surely there will come an end inus to this desire--for the constant going apart, --this passion forputting asunder--everything--ourselves, reducing ourselves part frompart--reacting in intimacy only for destruction, --using sex as a greatreducing agent, reducing the two great elements of male and female fromtheir highly complex unity--reducing the old ideas, going back to thesavages for our sensations, --always seeking to LOSE ourselves in someultimate black sensation, mindless and infinite--burning only withdestructive fires, raging on with the hope of being burnt oututterly--"'

'I want to go, ' said Gudrun to Gerald, as she signalled the waiter. Hereyes were flashing, her cheeks were flushed. The strange effect ofBirkin's letter read aloud in a perfect clerical sing-song, clear andresonant, phrase by phrase, made the blood mount into her head as ifshe were mad. 

She rose, whilst Gerald was paying the bill, and walked over toHalliday's table. They all glanced up at her. 

'Excuse me, ' she said. 'Is that a genuine letter you are reading?'

'Oh yes, ' said Halliday. 'Quite genuine. '

'May I see?'

Smiling foolishly he handed it to her, as if hypnotised. 

'Thank you, ' she said. 

And she turned and walked out of the Cafe with the letter, all down thebrilliant room, between the tables, in her measured fashion. It wassome moments before anybody realised what was happening. 

From Halliday's table came half articulate cries, then somebody booed, then all the far end of the place began booing after Gudrun'sretreating form. She was fashionably dressed in blackish-green andsilver, her hat was brilliant green, like the sheen on an insect, butthe brim was soft dark green, a falling edge with fine silver, her coatwas dark green, lustrous, with a high collar of grey fur, and great furcuffs, the edge of her dress showed silver and black velvet, herstockings and shoes were silver grey. She moved with slow, fashionableindifference to the door. The porter opened obsequiously for her, and, at her nod, hurried to the edge of the pavement and whistled for ataxi. The two lights of a vehicle almost immediately curved roundtowards her, like two eyes. 

Gerald had followed in wonder, amid all the booing, not having caughther misdeed. He heard the Pussum's voice saying:

'Go and get it back from her. I never heard of such a thing! Go and getit back from her. Tell Gerald Crich--there he goes--go and make himgive it up. '

Gudrun stood at the door of the taxi, which the man held open for her. 

'To the hotel?' she asked, as Gerald came out, hurriedly. 

'Where you like, ' he answered. 

'Right!' she said. Then to the driver, 'Wagstaff's--Barton Street. '

The driver bowed his head, and put down the flag. 

Gudrun entered the taxi, with the deliberate cold movement of a womanwho is well-dressed and contemptuous in her soul. Yet she was frozenwith overwrought feelings. Gerald followed her. 

'You've forgotten the man, ' she said cooly, with a slight nod of herhat. Gerald gave the porter a shilling. The man saluted. They were inmotion. 

'What was all the row about?' asked Gerald, in wondering excitement. 

'I walked away with Birkin's letter, ' she said, and he saw the crushedpaper in her hand. 

His eyes glittered with satisfaction. 

'Ah!' he said. 'Splendid! A set of jackasses!'

'I could have KILLED them!' she cried in passion. 'DOGS!--they aredogs! Why is Rupert such a FOOL as to write such letters to them? Whydoes he give himself away to such canaille? It's a thing that CANNOT BEBORNE. '

Gerald wondered over her strange passion. 

And she could not rest any longer in London. They must go by themorning train from Charing Cross. As they drew over the bridge, in thetrain, having glimpses of the river between the great iron girders, shecried:

'I feel I could NEVER see this foul town again--I couldn't BEAR to comeback to it. '

CHAPTER XXIX. 

CONTINENTAL

Ursula went on in an unreal suspense, the last weeks before going away. She was not herself, --she was not anything. She was something that isgoing to be--soon--soon--very soon. But as yet, she was only imminent. 

She went to see her parents. It was a rather stiff, sad meeting, morelike a verification of separateness than a reunion. But they were allvague and indefinite with one another, stiffened in the fate that movedthem apart. 

She did not really come to until she was on the ship crossing fromDover to Ostend. Dimly she had come down to London with Birkin, Londonhad been a vagueness, so had the train-journey to Dover. It was alllike a sleep. 

And now, at last, as she stood in the stern of the ship, in apitch-dark, rather blowy night, feeling the motion of the sea, andwatching the small, rather desolate little lights that twinkled on theshores of England, as on the shores of nowhere, watched them sinkingsmaller and smaller on the profound and living darkness, she felt hersoul stirring to awake from its anaesthetic sleep. 

'Let us go forward, shall we?' said Birkin. He wanted to be at the tipof their projection. So they left off looking at the faint sparks thatglimmered out of nowhere, in the far distance, called England, andturned their faces to the unfathomed night in front. 

They went right to the bows of the softly plunging vessel. In thecomplete obscurity, Birkin found a comparatively sheltered nook, wherea great rope was coiled up. It was quite near the very point of theship, near the black, unpierced space ahead. There they sat down, folded together, folded round with the same rug, creeping in nearer andever nearer to one another, till it seemed they had crept right intoeach other, and become one substance. It was very cold, and thedarkness was palpable. 

One of the ship's crew came along the deck, dark as the darkness, notreally visible. They then made out the faintest pallor of his face. Hefelt their presence, and stopped, unsure--then bent forward. When hisface was near them, he saw the faint pallor of their faces. Then hewithdrew like a phantom. And they watched him without making any sound. 

They seemed to fall away into the profound darkness. There was no sky, no earth, only one unbroken darkness, into which, with a soft, sleepingmotion, they seemed to fall like one closed seed of life fallingthrough dark, fathomless space. 

They had forgotten where they were, forgotten all that was and all thathad been, conscious only in their heart, and there conscious only ofthis pure trajectory through the surpassing darkness. The ship's prowcleaved on, with a faint noise of cleavage, into the complete night, without knowing, without seeing, only surging on. 

In Ursula the sense of the unrealised world ahead triumphed overeverything. In the midst of this profound darkness, there seemed toglow on her heart the effulgence of a paradise unknown and unrealised. Her heart was full of the most wonderful light, golden like honey ofdarkness, sweet like the warmth of day, a light which was not shed onthe world, only on the unknown paradise towards which she was going, asweetness of habitation, a delight of living quite unknown, but hersinfallibly. In her transport she lifted her face suddenly to him, andhe touched it with his lips. So cold, so fresh, so sea-clear her facewas, it was like kissing a flower that grows near the surf. 

But he did not know the ecstasy of bliss in fore-knowledge that sheknew. To him, the wonder of this transit was overwhelming. He wasfalling through a gulf of infinite darkness, like a meteorite plungingacross the chasm between the worlds. The world was torn in two, and hewas plunging like an unlit star through the ineffable rift. What wasbeyond was not yet for him. He was overcome by the trajectory. 

In a trance he lay enfolding Ursula round about. His face was againsther fine, fragile hair, he breathed its fragrance with the sea and theprofound night. And his soul was at peace; yielded, as he fell into theunknown. This was the first time that an utter and absolute peace hadentered his heart, now, in this final transit out of life. 

When there came some stir on the deck, they roused. They stood up. Howstiff and cramped they were, in the night-time! And yet the paradisalglow on her heart, and the unutterable peace of darkness in his, thiswas the all-in-all. 

They stood up and looked ahead. Low lights were seen down the darkness. This was the world again. It was not the bliss of her heart, nor thepeace of his. It was the superficial unreal world of fact. Yet notquite the old world. For the peace and the bliss in their hearts wasenduring. 

Strange, and desolate above all things, like disembarking from the Styxinto the desolated underworld, was this landing at night. There was theraw, half-lighted, covered-in vastness of the dark place, boarded andhollow underfoot, with only desolation everywhere. Ursula had caughtsight of the big, pallid, mystic letters 'OSTEND, ' standing in thedarkness. Everybody was hurrying with a blind, insect-like intentnessthrough the dark grey air, porters were calling in un-English English, then trotting with heavy bags, their colourless blouses looking ghostlyas they disappeared; Ursula stood at a long, low, zinc-covered barrier, along with hundreds of other spectral people, and all the way down thevast, raw darkness was this low stretch of open bags and spectralpeople, whilst, on the other side of the barrier, pallid officials inpeaked caps and moustaches were turning the underclothing in the bags, then scrawling a chalk-mark. 

It was done. Birkin snapped the hand bags, off they went, the portercoming behind. They were through a great doorway, and in the open nightagain--ah, a railway platform! Voices were still calling in inhumanagitation through the dark-grey air, spectres were running along thedarkness between the train. 

'Koln--Berlin--' Ursula made out on the boards hung on the high trainon one side. 

'Here we are, ' said Birkin. And on her side she saw:'Elsass--Lothringen--Luxembourg, Metz--Basle. '

'That was it, Basle!'

The porter came up. 

'A Bale--deuxieme classe?--Voila!' And he clambered into the hightrain. They followed. The compartments were already some of them taken. But many were dim and empty. The luggage was stowed, the porter wastipped. 

'Nous avons encore--?' said Birkin, looking at his watch and at theporter. 

'Encore une demi-heure. ' With which, in his blue blouse, hedisappeared. He was ugly and insolent. 

'Come, ' said Birkin. 'It is cold. Let us eat. '

There was a coffee-wagon on the platform. They drank hot, waterycoffee, and ate the long rolls, split, with ham between, which weresuch a wide bite that it almost dislocated Ursula's jaw; and theywalked beside the high trains. It was all so strange, so extremelydesolate, like the underworld, grey, grey, dirt grey, desolate, forlorn, nowhere--grey, dreary nowhere. 

At last they were moving through the night. In the darkness Ursula madeout the flat fields, the wet flat dreary darkness of the Continent. They pulled up surprisingly soon--Bruges! Then on through the leveldarkness, with glimpses of sleeping farms and thin poplar trees anddeserted high-roads. She sat dismayed, hand in hand with Birkin. Hepale, immobile like a REVENANT himself, looked sometimes out of thewindow, sometimes closed his eyes. Then his eyes opened again, dark asthe darkness outside. 

A flash of a few lights on the darkness--Ghent station! A few morespectres moving outside on the platform--then the bell--then motionagain through the level darkness. Ursula saw a man with a lantern comeout of a farm by the railway, and cross to the dark farm-buildings. Shethought of the Marsh, the old, intimate farm-life at Cossethay. My God, how far was she projected from her childhood, how far was she still togo! In one life-time one travelled through aeons. The great chasm ofmemory from her childhood in the intimate country surroundings ofCossethay and the Marsh Farm--she remembered the servant Tilly, whoused to give her bread and butter sprinkled with brown sugar, in theold living-room where the grandfather clock had two pink roses in abasket painted above the figures on the face--and now when she wastravelling into the unknown with Birkin, an utter stranger--was sogreat, that it seemed she had no identity, that the child she had been, playing in Cossethay churchyard, was a little creature of history, notreally herself. 

They were at Brussels--half an hour for breakfast. They got down. Onthe great station clock it said six o'clock. They had coffee and rollsand honey in the vast desert refreshment room, so dreary, always sodreary, dirty, so spacious, such desolation of space. But she washedher face and hands in hot water, and combed her hair--that was ablessing. 

Soon they were in the train again and moving on. The greyness of dawnbegan. There were several people in the compartment, large floridBelgian business-men with long brown beards, talking incessantly in anugly French she was too tired to follow. 

It seemed the train ran by degrees out of the darkness into a faintlight, then beat after beat into the day. Ah, how weary it was!Faintly, the trees showed, like shadows. Then a house, white, had acurious distinctness. How was it? Then she saw a village--there werealways houses passing. 

This was an old world she was still journeying through, winter-heavyand dreary. There was plough-land and pasture, and copses of baretrees, copses of bushes, and homesteads naked and work-bare. No newearth had come to pass. 

She looked at Birkin's face. It was white and still and eternal, tooeternal. She linked her fingers imploringly in his, under the cover ofher rug. His fingers responded, his eyes looked back at her. How dark, like a night, his eyes were, like another world beyond! Oh, if he werethe world as well, if only the world were he! If only he could call aworld into being, that should be their own world!

The Belgians left, the train ran on, through Luxembourg, throughAlsace-Lorraine, through Metz. But she was blind, she could see nomore. Her soul did not look out. 

They came at last to Basle, to the hotel. It was all a drifting trance, from which she never came to. They went out in the morning, before thetrain departed. She saw the street, the river, she stood on the bridge. But it all meant nothing. She remembered some shops--one full ofpictures, one with orange velvet and ermine. But what did thesesignify?--nothing. 

She was not at ease till they were in the train again. Then she wasrelieved. So long as they were moving onwards, she was satisfied. Theycame to Zurich, then, before very long, ran under the mountains, thatwere deep in snow. At last she was drawing near. This was the otherworld now. 

Innsbruck was wonderful, deep in snow, and evening. They drove in anopen sledge over the snow: the train had been so hot and stifling. Andthe hotel, with the golden light glowing under the porch, seemed like ahome. 

They laughed with pleasure when they were in the hall. The place seemedfull and busy. 

'Do you know if Mr and Mrs Crich--English--from Paris, have arrived?'Birkin asked in German. 

The porter reflected a moment, and was just going to answer, whenUrsula caught sight of Gudrun sauntering down the stairs, wearing herdark glossy coat, with grey fur. 

'Gudrun! Gudrun!' she called, waving up the well of the staircase. 'Shu-hu!'

Gudrun looked over the rail, and immediately lost her sauntering, diffident air. Her eyes flashed. 

'Really--Ursula!' she cried. And she began to move downstairs as Ursularan up. They met at a turn and kissed with laughter and exclamationsinarticulate and stirring. 

'But!' cried Gudrun, mortified. 'We thought it was TOMORROW you werecoming! I wanted to come to the station. '

'No, we've come today!' cried Ursula. 'Isn't it lovely here!'

'Adorable!' said Gudrun. 'Gerald's just gone out to get something. Ursula, aren't you FEARFULLY tired?'

'No, not so very. But I look a filthy sight, don't I!'

'No, you don't. You look almost perfectly fresh. I like that fur capIMMENSELY!' She glanced over Ursula, who wore a big soft coat with acollar of deep, soft, blond fur, and a soft blond cap of fur. 

'And you!' cried Ursula. 'What do you think YOU look like!'

Gudrun assumed an unconcerned, expressionless face. 

'Do you like it?' she said. 

'It's VERY fine!' cried Ursula, perhaps with a touch of satire. 

'Go up--or come down, ' said Birkin. For there the sisters stood, Gudrunwith her hand on Ursula's arm, on the turn of the stairs half way tothe first landing, blocking the way and affording full entertainment tothe whole of the hall below, from the door porter to the plump Jew inblack clothes. 

The two young women slowly mounted, followed by Birkin and the waiter. 

'First floor?' asked Gudrun, looking back over her shoulder. 

'Second Madam--the lift!' the waiter replied. And he darted to theelevator to forestall the two women. But they ignored him, as, chattering without heed, they set to mount the second flight. Ratherchagrined, the waiter followed. 

It was curious, the delight of the sisters in each other, at thismeeting. It was as if they met in exile, and united their solitaryforces against all the world. Birkin looked on with some mistrust andwonder. 

When they had bathed and changed, Gerald came in. He looked shininglike the sun on frost. 

'Go with Gerald and smoke, ' said Ursula to Birkin. 'Gudrun and I wantto talk. '

Then the sisters sat in Gudrun's bedroom, and talked clothes, andexperiences. Gudrun told Ursula the experience of the Birkin letter inthe cafe. Ursula was shocked and frightened. 

'Where is the letter?' she asked. 

'I kept it, ' said Gudrun. 

'You'll give it me, won't you?' she said. 

But Gudrun was silent for some moments, before she replied:

'Do you really want it, Ursula?'

'I want to read it, ' said Ursula. 

'Certainly, ' said Gudrun. 

Even now, she could not admit, to Ursula, that she wanted to keep it, as a memento, or a symbol. But Ursula knew, and was not pleased. So thesubject was switched off. 

'What did you do in Paris?' asked Ursula. 

'Oh, ' said Gudrun laconically--'the usual things. We had a FINE partyone night in Fanny Bath's studio. '

'Did you? And you and Gerald were there! Who else? Tell me about it. '

'Well, ' said Gudrun. 'There's nothing particular to tell. You knowFanny is FRIGHTFULLY in love with that painter, Billy Macfarlane. Hewas there--so Fanny spared nothing, she spent VERY freely. It wasreally remarkable! Of course, everybody got fearfully drunk--but in aninteresting way, not like that filthy London crowd. The fact is thesewere all people that matter, which makes all the difference. There wasa Roumanian, a fine chap. He got completely drunk, and climbed to thetop of a high studio ladder, and gave the most marvellousaddress--really, Ursula, it was wonderful! He began in French--La vie, c'est une affaire d'ames imperiales--in a most beautiful voice--he wasa fine-looking chap--but he had got into Roumanian before he hadfinished, and not a soul understood. But Donald Gilchrist was worked toa frenzy. He dashed his glass to the ground, and declared, by God, hewas glad he had been born, by God, it was a miracle to be alive. And doyou know, Ursula, so it was--' Gudrun laughed rather hollowly. 

'But how was Gerald among them all?' asked Ursula. 

'Gerald! Oh, my word, he came out like a dandelion in the sun! HE'S awhole saturnalia in himself, once he is roused. I shouldn't like to saywhose waist his arm did not go round. Really, Ursula, he seems to reapthe women like a harvest. There wasn't one that would have resistedhim. It was too amazing! Can you understand it?'

Ursula reflected, and a dancing light came into her eyes. 

'Yes, ' she said. 'I can. He is such a whole-hogger. '

'Whole-hogger! I should think so!' exclaimed Gudrun. 'But it is true, Ursula, every woman in the room was ready to surrender to him. Chanticleer isn't in it--even Fanny Bath, who is GENUINELY in love withBilly Macfarlane! I never was more amazed in my life! And you know, afterwards--I felt I was a whole ROOMFUL of women. I was no more myselfto him, than I was Queen Victoria. I was a whole roomful of women atonce. It was most astounding! But my eye, I'd caught a Sultan thattime--'

Gudrun's eyes were flashing, her cheek was hot, she looked strange, exotic, satiric. Ursula was fascinated at once--and yet uneasy. 

They had to get ready for dinner. Gudrun came down in a daring gown ofvivid green silk and tissue of gold, with green velvet bodice and astrange black-and-white band round her hair. She was really brilliantlybeautiful and everybody noticed her. Gerald was in that full-blooded, gleaming state when he was most handsome. Birkin watched them withquick, laughing, half-sinister eyes, Ursula quite lost her head. Thereseemed a spell, almost a blinding spell, cast round their table, as ifthey were lighted up more strongly than the rest of the dining-room. 

'Don't you love to be in this place?' cried Gudrun. 'Isn't the snowwonderful! Do you notice how it exalts everything? It is simplymarvellous. One really does feel LIBERMENSCHLICH--more than human. '

'One does, ' cried Ursula. 'But isn't that partly the being out ofEngland?'

'Oh, of course, ' cried Gudrun. 'One could never feel like this inEngland, for the simple reason that the damper is NEVER lifted off one, there. It is quite impossible really to let go, in England, of that Iam assured. '

And she turned again to the food she was eating. She was flutteringwith vivid intensity. 

'It's quite true, ' said Gerald, 'it never is quite the same in England. But perhaps we don't want it to be--perhaps it's like bringing thelight a little too near the powder-magazine, to let go altogether, inEngland. One is afraid what might happen, if EVERYBODY ELSE let go. '

'My God!' cried Gudrun. 'But wouldn't it be wonderful, if all Englanddid suddenly go off like a display of fireworks. '

'It couldn't, ' said Ursula. 'They are all too damp, the powder is dampin them. '

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

'Nor I, ' said Birkin. 'When the English really begin to go off, ENMASSE, it'll be time to shut your ears and run. '

'They never will, ' said Ursula. 

'We'll see, ' he replied. 

'Isn't it marvellous, ' said Gudrun, 'how thankful one can be, to be outof one's country. I cannot believe myself, I am so transported, themoment I set foot on a foreign shore. I say to myself "Here steps a newcreature into life. "'

'Don't be too hard on poor old England, ' said Gerald. 'Though we curseit, we love it really. '

To Ursula, there seemed a fund of cynicism in these words. 

'We may, ' said Birkin. 'But it's a damnably uncomfortable love: like alove for an aged parent who suffers horribly from a complication ofdiseases, for which there is no hope. '

Gudrun looked at him with dilated dark eyes. 

'You think there is no hope?' she asked, in her pertinent fashion. 

But Birkin backed away. He would not answer such a question. 

'Any hope of England's becoming real? God knows. It's a great actualunreality now, an aggregation into unreality. It might be real, ifthere were no Englishmen. '

'You think the English will have to disappear?' persisted Gudrun. Itwas strange, her pointed interest in his answer. It might have been herown fate she was inquiring after. Her dark, dilated eyes rested onBirkin, as if she could conjure the truth of the future out of him, asout of some instrument of divination. 

He was pale. Then, reluctantly, he answered:

'Well--what else is in front of them, but disappearance? They've got todisappear from their own special brand of Englishness, anyhow. '

Gudrun watched him as if in a hypnotic state, her eyes wide and fixedon him. 

'But in what way do you mean, disappear?--' she persisted. 

'Yes, do you mean a change of heart?' put in Gerald. 

'I don't mean anything, why should I?' said Birkin. 'I'm an Englishman, and I've paid the price of it. I can't talk about England--I can onlyspeak for myself. '

'Yes, ' said Gudrun slowly, 'you love England immensely, IMMENSELY, Rupert. '

'And leave her, ' he replied. 

'No, not for good. You'll come back, ' said Gerald, nodding sagely. 

'They say the lice crawl off a dying body, ' said Birkin, with a glareof bitterness. 'So I leave England. '

'Ah, but you'll come back, ' said Gudrun, with a sardonic smile. 

'Tant pis pour moi, ' he replied. 

'Isn't he angry with his mother country!' laughed Gerald, amused. 

'Ah, a patriot!' said Gudrun, with something like a sneer. 

Birkin refused to answer any more. 

Gudrun watched him still for a few seconds. Then she turned away. Itwas finished, her spell of divination in him. She felt already purelycynical. She looked at Gerald. He was wonderful like a piece of radiumto her. She felt she could consume herself and know ALL, by means ofthis fatal, living metal. She smiled to herself at her fancy. And whatwould she do with herself, when she had destroyed herself? For ifspirit, if integral being is destructible, Matter is indestructible. 

He was looking bright and abstracted, puzzled, for the moment. Shestretched out her beautiful arm, with its fluff of green tulle, andtouched his chin with her subtle, artist's fingers. 

'What are they then?' she asked, with a strange, knowing smile. 

'What?' he replied, his eyes suddenly dilating with wonder. 

'Your thoughts. '

Gerald looked like a man coming awake. 

'I think I had none, ' he said. 

'Really!' she said, with grave laughter in her voice. 

And to Birkin it was as if she killed Gerald, with that touch. 

'Ah but, ' cried Gudrun, 'let us drink to Britannia--let us drink toBritannia. '

It seemed there was wild despair in her voice. Gerald laughed, andfilled the glasses. 

'I think Rupert means, ' he said, 'that NATIONALLY all Englishmen mustdie, so that they can exist individually and--'

'Super-nationally--' put in Gudrun, with a slight ironic grimace, raising her glass. 

The next day, they descended at the tiny railway station ofHohenhausen, at the end of the tiny valley railway. It was snoweverywhere, a white, perfect cradle of snow, new and frozen, sweepingup an either side, black crags, and white sweeps of silver towards theblue pale heavens. 

As they stepped out on the naked platform, with only snow around andabove, Gudrun shrank as if it chilled her heart. 

'My God, Jerry, ' she said, turning to Gerald with sudden intimacy, 'you've done it now. '

'What?'

She made a faint gesture, indicating the world on either hand. 

'Look at it!'

She seemed afraid to go on. He laughed. 

They were in the heart of the mountains. From high above, on eitherside, swept down the white fold of snow, so that one seemed small andtiny in a valley of pure concrete heaven, all strangely radiant andchangeless and silent. 

'It makes one feel so small and alone, ' said Ursula, turning to Birkinand laying her hand on his arm. 

'You're not sorry you've come, are you?' said Gerald to Gudrun. 

She looked doubtful. They went out of the station between banks ofsnow. 

'Ah, ' said Gerald, sniffing the air in elation, 'this is perfect. There's our sledge. We'll walk a bit--we'll run up the road. '

Gudrun, always doubtful, dropped her heavy coat on the sledge, as hedid his, and they set off. Suddenly she threw up her head and set offscudding along the road of snow, pulling her cap down over her ears. Her blue, bright dress fluttered in the wind, her thick scarletstockings were brilliant above the whiteness. Gerald watched her: sheseemed to be rushing towards her fate, and leaving him behind. He lether get some distance, then, loosening his limbs, he went after her. 

Everywhere was deep and silent snow. Great snow-eaves weighed down thebroad-roofed Tyrolese houses, that were sunk to the window-sashes insnow. Peasant-women, full-skirted, wearing each a cross-over shawl, andthick snow-boots, turned in the way to look at the soft, determinedgirl running with such heavy fleetness from the man, who was overtakingher, but not gaining any power over her. 

They passed the inn with its painted shutters and balcony, a fewcottages, half buried in the snow; then the snow-buried silent sawmillby the roofed bridge, which crossed the hidden stream, over which theyran into the very depth of the untouched sheets of snow. It was asilence and a sheer whiteness exhilarating to madness. But the perfectsilence was most terrifying, isolating the soul, surrounding the heartwith frozen air. 

'It's a marvellous place, for all that, ' said Gudrun, looking into hiseyes with a strange, meaning look. His soul leapt. 

'Good, ' he said. 

A fierce electric energy seemed to flow over all his limbs, his muscleswere surcharged, his hands felt hard with strength. They walked alongrapidly up the snow-road, that was marked by withered branches of treesstuck in at intervals. He and she were separate, like opposite poles ofone fierce energy. But they felt powerful enough to leap over theconfines of life into the forbidden places, and back again. 

Birkin and Ursula were running along also, over the snow. He haddisposed of the luggage, and they had a little start of the sledges. Ursula was excited and happy, but she kept turning suddenly to catchhold of Birkin's arm, to make sure of him. 

'This is something I never expected, ' she said. 'It is a differentworld, here. '

They went on into a snow meadow. There they were overtaken by thesledge, that came tinkling through the silence. It was another milebefore they came upon Gudrun and Gerald on the steep up-climb, besidethe pink, half-buried shrine. 

Then they passed into a gulley, where were walls of black rock and ariver filled with snow, and a still blue sky above. Through a coveredbridge they went, drumming roughly over the boards, crossing thesnow-bed once more, then slowly up and up, the horses walking swiftly, the driver cracking his long whip as he walked beside, and calling hisstrange wild HUE-HUE!, the walls of rock passing slowly by, till theyemerged again between slopes and masses of snow. Up and up, graduallythey went, through the cold shadow-radiance of the afternoon, silencedby the imminence of the mountains, the luminous, dazing sides of snowthat rose above them and fell away beneath. 

They came forth at last in a little high table-land of snow, wherestood the last peaks of snow like the heart petals of an open rose. Inthe midst of the last deserted valleys of heaven stood a lonelybuilding with brown wooden walls and white heavy roof, deep anddeserted in the waste of snow, like a dream. It stood like a rock thathad rolled down from the last steep slopes, a rock that had taken theform of a house, and was now half-buried. It was unbelievable that onecould live there uncrushed by all this terrible waste of whiteness andsilence and clear, upper, ringing cold. 

Yet the sledges ran up in fine style, people came to the door laughingand excited, the floor of the hostel rang hollow, the passage was wetwith snow, it was a real, warm interior. 

The new-comers tramped up the bare wooden stairs, following the servingwoman. Gudrun and Gerald took the first bedroom. In a moment they foundthemselves alone in a bare, smallish, close-shut room that was all ofgolden-coloured wood, floor, walls, ceiling, door, all of the same warmgold panelling of oiled pine. There was a window opposite the door, butlow down, because the roof sloped. Under the slope of the ceiling werethe table with wash-hand bowl and jug, and across, another table withmirror. On either side the door were two beds piled high with anenormous blue-checked overbolster, enormous. 

This was all--no cupboard, none of the amenities of life. Here theywere shut up together in this cell of golden-coloured wood, with twoblue checked beds. They looked at each other and laughed, frightened bythis naked nearness of isolation. 

A man knocked and came in with the luggage. He was a sturdy fellow withflattish cheek-bones, rather pale, and with coarse fair moustache. Gudrun watched him put down the bags, in silence, then tramp heavilyout. 

'It isn't too rough, is it?' Gerald asked. 

The bedroom was not very warm, and she shivered slightly. 

'It is wonderful, ' she equivocated. 'Look at the colour of thispanelling--it's wonderful, like being inside a nut. '

He was standing watching her, feeling his short-cut moustache, leaningback slightly and watching her with his keen, undaunted eyes, dominatedby the constant passion, that was like a doom upon him. 

She went and crouched down in front of the window, curious. 

'Oh, but this--!' she cried involuntarily, almost in pain. 

In front was a valley shut in under the sky, the last huge slopes ofsnow and black rock, and at the end, like the navel of the earth, awhite-folded wall, and two peaks glimmering in the late light. Straightin front ran the cradle of silent snow, between the great slopes thatwere fringed with a little roughness of pine-trees, like hair, roundthe base. But the cradle of snow ran on to the eternal closing-in, where the walls of snow and rock rose impenetrable, and the mountainpeaks above were in heaven immediate. This was the centre, the knot, the navel of the world, where the earth belonged to the skies, pure, unapproachable, impassable. 

It filled Gudrun with a strange rapture. She crouched in front of thewindow, clenching her face in her hands, in a sort of trance. At lastshe had arrived, she had reached her place. Here at last she folded herventure and settled down like a crystal in the navel of snow, and wasgone. 

Gerald bent above her and was looking out over her shoulder. Already hefelt he was alone. She was gone. She was completely gone, and there wasicy vapour round his heart. He saw the blind valley, the greatcul-de-sac of snow and mountain peaks, under the heaven. And there wasno way out. The terrible silence and cold and the glamorous whitenessof the dusk wrapped him round, and she remained crouching before thewindow, as at a shrine, a shadow. 

'Do you like it?' he asked, in a voice that sounded detached andforeign. At least she might acknowledge he was with her. But she onlyaverted her soft, mute face a little from his gaze. And he knew thatthere were tears in her eyes, her own tears, tears of her strangereligion, that put him to nought. 

Quite suddenly, he put his hand under her chin and lifted up her faceto him. Her dark blue eyes, in their wetness of tears, dilated as ifshe was startled in her very soul. They looked at him through theirtears in terror and a little horror. His light blue eyes were keen, small-pupilled and unnatural in their vision. Her lips parted, as shebreathed with difficulty. 

The passion came up in him, stroke after stroke, like the ringing of abronze bell, so strong and unflawed and indomitable. His kneestightened to bronze as he hung above her soft face, whose lips partedand whose eyes dilated in a strange violation. In the grasp of his handher chin was unutterably soft and silken. He felt strong as winter, hishands were living metal, invincible and not to be turned aside. Hisheart rang like a bell clanging inside him. 

He took her up in his arms. She was soft and inert, motionless. All thewhile her eyes, in which the tears had not yet dried, were dilated asif in a kind of swoon of fascination and helplessness. He wassuperhumanly strong, and unflawed, as if invested with supernaturalforce. 

He lifted her close and folded her against him. Her softness, herinert, relaxed weight lay against his own surcharged, bronze-like limbsin a heaviness of desirability that would destroy him, if he were notfulfilled. She moved convulsively, recoiling away from him. His heartwent up like a flame of ice, he closed over her like steel. He woulddestroy her rather than be denied. 

But the overweening power of his body was too much for her. She relaxedagain, and lay loose and soft, panting in a little delirium. And tohim, she was so sweet, she was such bliss of release, that he wouldhave suffered a whole eternity of torture rather than forego one secondof this pang of unsurpassable bliss. 

'My God, ' he said to her, his face drawn and strange, transfigured, 'what next?'

She lay perfectly still, with a still, child-like face and dark eyes, looking at him. She was lost, fallen right away. 

'I shall always love you, ' he said, looking at her. 

But she did not hear. She lay, looking at him as at something she couldnever understand, never: as a child looks at a grown-up person, withouthope of understanding, only submitting. 

He kissed her, kissed her eyes shut, so that she could not look anymore. He wanted something now, some recognition, some sign, someadmission. But she only lay silent and child-like and remote, like achild that is overcome and cannot understand, only feels lost. Hekissed her again, giving up. 

'Shall we go down and have coffee and Kuchen?' he asked. 

The twilight was falling slate-blue at the window. She closed her eyes, closed away the monotonous level of dead wonder, and opened them againto the every-day world. 

'Yes, ' she said briefly, regaining her will with a click. She wentagain to the window. Blue evening had fallen over the cradle of snowand over the great pallid slopes. But in the heaven the peaks of snowwere rosy, glistening like transcendent, radiant spikes of blossom inthe heavenly upper-world, so lovely and beyond. 

Gudrun saw all their loveliness, she KNEW how immortally beautiful theywere, great pistils of rose-coloured, snow-fed fire in the bluetwilight of the heaven. She could SEE it, she knew it, but she was notof it. She was divorced, debarred, a soul shut out. 

With a last look of remorse, she turned away, and was doing her hair. He had unstrapped the luggage, and was waiting, watching her. She knewhe was watching her. It made her a little hasty and feverish in herprecipitation. 

They went downstairs, both with a strange other-world look on theirfaces, and with a glow in their eyes. They saw Birkin and Ursulasitting at the long table in a corner, waiting for them. 

'How good and simple they look together, ' Gudrun thought, jealously. She envied them some spontaneity, a childish sufficiency to which sheherself could never approach. They seemed such children to her. 

'Such good Kranzkuchen!' cried Ursula greedily. 'So good!'

'Right, ' said Gudrun. 'Can we have Kaffee mit Kranzkuchen?' she addedto the waiter. 

And she seated herself on the bench beside Gerald. Birkin, looking atthem, felt a pain of tenderness for them. 

'I think the place is really wonderful, Gerald, ' he said; 'prachtvolland wunderbar and wunderschon and unbeschreiblich and all the otherGerman adjectives. '

Gerald broke into a slight smile. 

'I like it, ' he said. 

The tables, of white scrubbed wood, were placed round three sides ofthe room, as in a Gasthaus. Birkin and Ursula sat with their backs tothe wall, which was of oiled wood, and Gerald and Gudrun sat in thecorner next them, near to the stove. It was a fairly large place, witha tiny bar, just like a country inn, but quite simple and bare, and allof oiled wood, ceilings and walls and floor, the only furniture beingthe tables and benches going round three sides, the great green stove, and the bar and the doors on the fourth side. The windows were double, and quite uncurtained. It was early evening. 

The coffee came--hot and good--and a whole ring of cake. 

'A whole Kuchen!' cried Ursula. 'They give you more than us! I wantsome of yours. '

There were other people in the place, ten altogether, so Birkin hadfound out: two artists, three students, a man and wife, and a Professorand two daughters--all Germans. The four English people, beingnewcomers, sat in their coign of vantage to watch. The Germans peepedin at the door, called a word to the waiter, and went away again. Itwas not meal-time, so they did not come into this dining-room, butbetook themselves, when their boots were changed, to the Reunionsaal. 

The English visitors could hear the occasional twanging of a zither, the strumming of a piano, snatches of laughter and shouting andsinging, a faint vibration of voices. The whole building being of wood, it seemed to carry every sound, like a drum, but instead of increasingeach particular noise, it decreased it, so that the sound of the zitherseemed tiny, as if a diminutive zither were playing somewhere, and itseemed the piano must be a small one, like a little spinet. 

The host came when the coffee was finished. He was a Tyrolese, broad, rather flat-cheeked, with a pale, pock-marked skin and flourishingmoustaches. 

'Would you like to go to the Reunionsaal to be introduced to the otherladies and gentlemen?' he asked, bending forward and smiling, showinghis large, strong teeth. His blue eyes went quickly from one to theother--he was not quite sure of his ground with these English people. He was unhappy too because he spoke no English and he was not surewhether to try his French. 

'Shall we go to the Reunionsaal, and be introduced to the otherpeople?' repeated Gerald, laughing. 

There was a moment's hesitation. 

'I suppose we'd better--better break the ice, ' said Birkin. 

The women rose, rather flushed. And the Wirt's black, beetle-like, broad-shouldered figure went on ignominiously in front, towards thenoise. He opened the door and ushered the four strangers into theplay-room. 

Instantly a silence fell, a slight embarrassment came over the company. The newcomers had a sense of many blond faces looking their way. Then, the host was bowing to a short, energetic-looking man with largemoustaches, and saying in a low voice:

'Herr Professor, darf ich vorstellen-'

The Herr Professor was prompt and energetic. He bowed low to theEnglish people, smiling, and began to be a comrade at once. 

'Nehmen die Herrschaften teil an unserer Unterhaltung?' he said, with avigorous suavity, his voice curling up in the question. 

The four English people smiled, lounging with an attentive uneasinessin the middle of the room. Gerald, who was spokesman, said that theywould willingly take part in the entertainment. Gudrun and Ursula, laughing, excited, felt the eyes of all the men upon them, and theylifted their heads and looked nowhere, and felt royal. 

The Professor announced the names of those present, SANS CEREMONIE. There was a bowing to the wrong people and to the right people. Everybody was there, except the man and wife. The two tall, clear-skinned, athletic daughters of the professor, with theirplain-cut, dark blue blouses and loden skirts, their rather long, strong necks, their clear blue eyes and carefully banded hair, andtheir blushes, bowed and stood back; the three students bowed very low, in the humble hope of making an impression of extreme good-breeding;then there was a thin, dark-skinned man with full eyes, an oddcreature, like a child, and like a troll, quick, detached; he bowedslightly; his companion, a large fair young man, stylishly dressed, blushed to the eyes and bowed very low. 

It was over. 

'Herr Loerke was giving us a recitation in the Cologne dialect, ' saidthe Professor. 

'He must forgive us for interrupting him, ' said Gerald, 'we should likevery much to hear it. '

There was instantly a bowing and an offering of seats. Gudrun andUrsula, Gerald and Birkin sat in the deep sofas against the wall. Theroom was of naked oiled panelling, like the rest of the house. It had apiano, sofas and chairs, and a couple of tables with books andmagazines. In its complete absence of decoration, save for the big, blue stove, it was cosy and pleasant. 

Herr Loerke was the little man with the boyish figure, and the round, full, sensitive-looking head, and the quick, full eyes, like a mouse's. He glanced swiftly from one to the other of the strangers, and heldhimself aloof. 

'Please go on with the recitation, ' said the Professor, suavely, withhis slight authority. Loerke, who was sitting hunched on the pianostool, blinked and did not answer. 

'It would be a great pleasure, ' said Ursula, who had been getting thesentence ready, in German, for some minutes. 

Then, suddenly, the small, unresponding man swung aside, towards hisprevious audience and broke forth, exactly as he had broken off; in acontrolled, mocking voice, giving an imitation of a quarrel between anold Cologne woman and a railway guard. 

His body was slight and unformed, like a boy's, but his voice wasmature, sardonic, its movement had the flexibility of essential energy, and of a mocking penetrating understanding. Gudrun could not understanda word of his monologue, but she was spell-bound, watching him. He mustbe an artist, nobody else could have such fine adjustment andsingleness. The Germans were doubled up with laughter, hearing hisstrange droll words, his droll phrases of dialect. And in the midst oftheir paroxysms, they glanced with deference at the four Englishstrangers, the elect. Gudrun and Ursula were forced to laugh. The roomrang with shouts of laughter. The blue eyes of the Professor'sdaughters were swimming over with laughter-tears, their clear cheekswere flushed crimson with mirth, their father broke out in the mostastonishing peals of hilarity, the students bowed their heads on theirknees in excess of joy. Ursula looked round amazed, the laughter wasbubbling out of her involuntarily. She looked at Gudrun. Gudrun lookedat her, and the two sisters burst out laughing, carried away. Loerkeglanced at them swiftly, with his full eyes. Birkin was sniggeringinvoluntarily. Gerald Crich sat erect, with a glistening look ofamusement on his face. And the laughter crashed out again, in wildparoxysms, the Professor's daughters were reduced to shakinghelplessness, the veins of the Professor's neck were swollen, his facewas purple, he was strangled in ultimate, silent spasms of laughter. The students were shouting half-articulated words that tailed off inhelpless explosions. Then suddenly the rapid patter of the artistceased, there were little whoops of subsiding mirth, Ursula and Gudrunwere wiping their eyes, and the Professor was crying loudly. 

'Das war ausgezeichnet, das war famos--'

'Wirklich famos, ' echoed his exhausted daughters, faintly. 

'And we couldn't understand it, ' cried Ursula. 

'Oh leider, leider!' cried the Professor. 

'You couldn't understand it?' cried the Students, let loose at last inspeech with the newcomers. 'Ja, das ist wirklich schade, das istschade, gnadige Frau. Wissen Sie--'

The mixture was made, the newcomers were stirred into the party, likenew ingredients, the whole room was alive. Gerald was in his element, he talked freely and excitedly, his face glistened with a strangeamusement. Perhaps even Birkin, in the end, would break forth. He wasshy and withheld, though full of attention. 

Ursula was prevailed upon to sing 'Annie Lowrie, ' as the Professorcalled it. There was a hush of EXTREME deference. She had never been soflattered in her life. Gudrun accompanied her on the piano, playingfrom memory. 

Ursula had a beautiful ringing voice, but usually no confidence, shespoiled everything. This evening she felt conceited and untrammelled. Birkin was well in the background, she shone almost in reaction, theGermans made her feel fine and infallible, she was liberated intooverweening self-confidence. She felt like a bird flying in the air, asher voice soared out, enjoying herself extremely in the balance andflight of the song, like the motion of a bird's wings that is up in thewind, sliding and playing on the air, she played with sentimentality, supported by rapturous attention. She was very happy, singing that songby herself, full of a conceit of emotion and power, working upon allthose people, and upon herself, exerting herself with gratification, giving immeasurable gratification to the Germans. 

At the end, the Germans were all touched with admiring, deliciousmelancholy, they praised her in soft, reverent voices, they could notsay too much. 

'Wie schon, wie ruhrend! Ach, die Schottischen Lieder, sie haben soviel Stimmung! Aber die gnadige Frau hat eine WUNDERBARE Stimme; diegnadige Frau ist wirklich eine Kunstlerin, aber wirklich!'

She was dilated and brilliant, like a flower in the morning sun. Shefelt Birkin looking at her, as if he were jealous of her, and herbreasts thrilled, her veins were all golden. She was as happy as thesun that has just opened above clouds. And everybody seemed so admiringand radiant, it was perfect. 

After dinner she wanted to go out for a minute, to look at the world. The company tried to dissuade her--it was so terribly cold. But just tolook, she said. 

They all four wrapped up warmly, and found themselves in a vague, unsubstantial outdoors of dim snow and ghosts of an upper-world, thatmade strange shadows before the stars. It was indeed cold, bruisingly, frighteningly, unnaturally cold. Ursula could not believe the air inher nostrils. It seemed conscious, malevolent, purposive in its intensemurderous coldness. 

Yet it was wonderful, an intoxication, a silence of dim, unrealisedsnow, of the invisible intervening between her and the visible, betweenher and the flashing stars. She could see Orion sloping up. Howwonderful he was, wonderful enough to make one cry aloud. 

And all around was this cradle of snow, and there was firm snowunderfoot, that struck with heavy cold through her boot-soles. It wasnight, and silence. She imagined she could hear the stars. She imagineddistinctly she could hear the celestial, musical motion of the stars, quite near at hand. She seemed like a bird flying amongst theirharmonious motion. 

And she clung close to Birkin. Suddenly she realised she did not knowwhat he was thinking. She did not know where he was ranging. 

'My love!' she said, stopping to look at him. 

His face was pale, his eyes dark, there was a faint spark of starlighton them. And he saw her face soft and upturned to him, very near. Hekissed her softly. 

'What then?' he asked. 

'Do you love me?' she asked. 

'Too much, ' he answered quietly. 

She clung a little closer. 

'Not too much, ' she pleaded. 

'Far too much, ' he said, almost sadly. 

'And does it make you sad, that I am everything to you?' she asked, wistful. He held her close to him, kissing her, and saying, scarcelyaudible:

'No, but I feel like a beggar--I feel poor. '

She was silent, looking at the stars now. Then she kissed him. 

'Don't be a beggar, ' she pleaded, wistfully. 'It isn't ignominious thatyou love me. '

'It is ignominious to feel poor, isn't it?' he replied. 

'Why? Why should it be?' she asked. He only stood still, in theterribly cold air that moved invisibly over the mountain tops, foldingher round with his arms. 

'I couldn't bear this cold, eternal place without you, ' he said. 'Icouldn't bear it, it would kill the quick of my life. '

She kissed him again, suddenly. 

'Do you hate it?' she asked, puzzled, wondering. 

'If I couldn't come near to you, if you weren't here, I should hate it. I couldn't bear it, ' he answered. 

'But the people are nice, ' she said. 

'I mean the stillness, the cold, the frozen eternality, ' he said. 

She wondered. Then her spirit came home to him, nestling unconscious inhim. 

'Yes, it is good we are warm and together, ' she said. 

And they turned home again. They saw the golden lights of the hotelglowing out in the night of snow-silence, small in the hollow, like acluster of yellow berries. It seemed like a bunch of sun-sparks, tinyand orange in the midst of the snow-darkness. Behind, was a high shadowof a peak, blotting out the stars, like a ghost. 

They drew near to their home. They saw a man come from the darkbuilding, with a lighted lantern which swung golden, and made that hisdark feet walked in a halo of snow. He was a small, dark figure in thedarkened snow. He unlatched the door of an outhouse. A smell of cows, hot, animal, almost like beef, came out on the heavily cold air. Therewas a glimpse of two cattle in their dark stalls, then the door wasshut again, and not a chink of light showed. It had reminded Ursulaagain of home, of the Marsh, of her childhood, and of the journey toBrussels, and, strangely, of Anton Skrebensky. 

Oh, God, could one bear it, this past which was gone down the abyss?Could she bear, that it ever had been! She looked round this silent, upper world of snow and stars and powerful cold. There was anotherworld, like views on a magic lantern; The Marsh, Cossethay, Ilkeston, lit up with a common, unreal light. There was a shadowy unreal Ursula, a whole shadow-play of an unreal life. It was as unreal, andcircumscribed, as a magic-lantern show. She wished the slides could allbe broken. She wished it could be gone for ever, like a lantern-slidewhich was broken. She wanted to have no past. She wanted to have comedown from the slopes of heaven to this place, with Birkin, not to havetoiled out of the murk of her childhood and her upbringing, slowly, allsoiled. She felt that memory was a dirty trick played upon her. Whatwas this decree, that she should 'remember'! Why not a bath of pureoblivion, a new birth, without any recollections or blemish of a pastlife. She was with Birkin, she had just come into life, here in thehigh snow, against the stars. What had she to do with parents andantecedents? She knew herself new and unbegotten, she had no father, nomother, no anterior connections, she was herself, pure and silvery, shebelonged only to the oneness with Birkin, a oneness that struck deepernotes, sounding into the heart of the universe, the heart of reality, where she had never existed before. 

Even Gudrun was a separate unit, separate, separate, having nothing todo with this self, this Ursula, in her new world of reality. That oldshadow-world, the actuality of the past--ah, let it go! She rose freeon the wings of her new condition. 

Gudrun and Gerald had not come in. They had walked up the valleystraight in front of the house, not like Ursula and Birkin, on to thelittle hill at the right. Gudrun was driven by a strange desire. Shewanted to plunge on and on, till she came to the end of the valley ofsnow. Then she wanted to climb the wall of white finality, climb over, into the peaks that sprang up like sharp petals in the heart of thefrozen, mysterious navel of the world. She felt that there, over thestrange blind, terrible wall of rocky snow, there in the navel of themystic world, among the final cluster of peaks, there, in the infoldednavel of it all, was her consummation. If she could but come there, alone, and pass into the infolded navel of eternal snow and ofuprising, immortal peaks of snow and rock, she would be a oneness withall, she would be herself the eternal, infinite silence, the sleeping, timeless, frozen centre of the All. 

They went back to the house, to the Reunionsaal. She was curious to seewhat was going on. The men there made her alert, roused her curiosity. It was a new taste of life for her, they were so prostrate before her, yet so full of life. 

The party was boisterous; they were dancing all together, dancing theSchuhplatteln, the Tyrolese dance of the clapping hands and tossing thepartner in the air at the crisis. The Germans were all proficient--theywere from Munich chiefly. Gerald also was quite passable. There werethree zithers twanging away in a corner. It was a scene of greatanimation and confusion. The Professor was initiating Ursula into thedance, stamping, clapping, and swinging her high, with amazing forceand zest. When the crisis came even Birkin was behaving manfully withone of the Professor's fresh, strong daughters, who was exceedinglyhappy. Everybody was dancing, there was the most boisterous turmoil. 

Gudrun looked on with delight. The solid wooden floor resounded to theknocking heels of the men, the air quivered with the clapping hands andthe zither music, there was a golden dust about the hanging lamps. 

Suddenly the dance finished, Loerke and the students rushed out tobring in drinks. There was an excited clamour of voices, a clinking ofmug-lids, a great crying of 'Prosit--Prosit!' Loerke was everywhere atonce, like a gnome, suggesting drinks for the women, making an obscure, slightly risky joke with the men, confusing and mystifying the waiter. 

He wanted very much to dance with Gudrun. From the first moment he hadseen her, he wanted to make a connection with her. Instinctively shefelt this, and she waited for him to come up. But a kind of sulkinesskept him away from her, so she thought he disliked her. 

'Will you schuhplatteln, gnadige Frau?' said the large, fair youth, Loerke's companion. He was too soft, too humble for Gudrun's taste. Butshe wanted to dance, and the fair youth, who was called Leitner, washandsome enough in his uneasy, slightly abject fashion, a humility thatcovered a certain fear. She accepted him as a partner. 

The zithers sounded out again, the dance began. Gerald led them, laughing, with one of the Professor's daughters. Ursula danced with oneof the students, Birkin with the other daughter of the Professor, theProfessor with Frau Kramer, and the rest of the men danced together, with quite as much zest as if they had had women partners. 

Because Gudrun had danced with the well-built, soft youth, hiscompanion, Loerke, was more pettish and exasperated than ever, andwould not even notice her existence in the room. This piqued her, butshe made up to herself by dancing with the Professor, who was strong asa mature, well-seasoned bull, and as full of coarse energy. She couldnot bear him, critically, and yet she enjoyed being rushed through thedance, and tossed up into the air, on his coarse, powerful impetus. TheProfessor enjoyed it too, he eyed her with strange, large blue eyes, full of galvanic fire. She hated him for the seasoned, semi-paternalanimalism with which he regarded her, but she admired his weight ofstrength. 

The room was charged with excitement and strong, animal emotion. Loerkewas kept away from Gudrun, to whom he wanted to speak, as by a hedge ofthorns, and he felt a sardonic ruthless hatred for this younglove-companion, Leitner, who was his penniless dependent. He mocked theyouth, with an acid ridicule, that made Leitner red in the face andimpotent with resentment. 

Gerald, who had now got the dance perfectly, was dancing again with theyounger of the Professor's daughters, who was almost dying of virginexcitement, because she thought Gerald so handsome, so superb. He hadher in his power, as if she were a palpitating bird, a fluttering, flushing, bewildered creature. And it made him smile, as she shrankconvulsively between his hands, violently, when he must throw her intothe air. At the end, she was so overcome with prostrate love for him, that she could scarcely speak sensibly at all. 

Birkin was dancing with Ursula. There were odd little fires playing inhis eyes, he seemed to have turned into something wicked andflickering, mocking, suggestive, quite impossible. Ursula wasfrightened of him, and fascinated. Clear, before her eyes, as in avision, she could see the sardonic, licentious mockery of his eyes, hemoved towards her with subtle, animal, indifferent approach. Thestrangeness of his hands, which came quick and cunning, inevitably tothe vital place beneath her breasts, and, lifting with mocking, suggestive impulse, carried her through the air as if without strength, through blackmagic, made her swoon with fear. For a moment sherevolted, it was horrible. She would break the spell. But before theresolution had formed she had submitted again, yielded to her fear. Heknew all the time what he was doing, she could see it in his smiling, concentrated eyes. It was his responsibility, she would leave it tohim. 

When they were alone in the darkness, she felt the strange, licentiousness of him hovering upon her. She was troubled and repelled. Why should he turn like this?

'What is it?' she asked in dread. 

But his face only glistened on her, unknown, horrible. And yet she wasfascinated. Her impulse was to repel him violently, break from thisspell of mocking brutishness. But she was too fascinated, she wanted tosubmit, she wanted to know. What would he do to her?

He was so attractive, and so repulsive at one. The sardonicsuggestivity that flickered over his face and looked from his narrowedeyes, made her want to hide, to hide herself away from him and watchhim from somewhere unseen. 

'Why are you like this?' she demanded again, rousing against him withsudden force and animosity. 

The flickering fires in his eyes concentrated as he looked into hereyes. Then the lids drooped with a faint motion of satiric contempt. Then they rose again to the same remorseless suggestivity. And she gaveway, he might do as he would. His licentiousness was repulsivelyattractive. But he was self-responsible, she would see what it was. 

They might do as they liked--this she realised as she went to sleep. How could anything that gave one satisfaction be excluded? What wasdegrading? Who cared? Degrading things were real, with a differentreality. And he was so unabashed and unrestrained. Wasn't it ratherhorrible, a man who could be so soulful and spiritual, now to beso--she balked at her own thoughts and memories: then she added--sobestial? So bestial, they two!--so degraded! She winced. But after all, why not? She exulted as well. Why not be bestial, and go the wholeround of experience? She exulted in it. She was bestial. How good itwas to be really shameful! There would be no shameful thing she had notexperienced. Yet she was unabashed, she was herself. Why not? She wasfree, when she knew everything, and no dark shameful things were deniedher. 

Gudrun, who had been watching Gerald in the Reunionsaal, suddenlythought:

'He should have all the women he can--it is his nature. It is absurd tocall him monogamous--he is naturally promiscuous. That is his nature. '

The thought came to her involuntarily. It shocked her somewhat. It wasas if she had seen some new MENE! MENE! upon the wall. Yet it wasmerely true. A voice seemed to have spoken it to her so clearly, thatfor the moment she believed in inspiration. 

'It is really true, ' she said to herself again. 

She knew quite well she had believed it all along. She knew itimplicitly. But she must keep it dark--almost from herself. She mustkeep it completely secret. It was knowledge for her alone, and scarcelyeven to be admitted to herself. 

The deep resolve formed in her, to combat him. One of them must triumphover the other. Which should it be? Her soul steeled itself withstrength. Almost she laughed within herself, at her confidence. It wokea certain keen, half contemptuous pity, tenderness for him: she was soruthless. 

Everybody retired early. The Professor and Loerke went into a smalllounge to drink. They both watched Gudrun go along the landing by therailing upstairs. 

'Ein schones Frauenzimmer, ' said the Professor. 

'Ja!' asserted Loerke, shortly. 

Gerald walked with his queer, long wolf-steps across the bedroom to thewindow, stooped and looked out, then rose again, and turned to Gudrun, his eyes sharp with an abstract smile. He seemed very tall to her, shesaw the glisten of his whitish eyebrows, that met between his brows. 

'How do you like it?' he said. 

He seemed to be laughing inside himself, quite unconsciously. Shelooked at him. He was a phenomenon to her, not a human being: a sort ofcreature, greedy. 

'I like it very much, ' she replied. 

'Who do you like best downstairs?' he asked, standing tall andglistening above her, with his glistening stiff hair erect. 

'Who do I like best?' she repeated, wanting to answer his question, andfinding it difficult to collect herself. 'Why I don't know, I don'tknow enough about them yet, to be able to say. Who do YOU like best?'

'Oh, I don't care--I don't like or dislike any of them. It doesn'tmatter about me. I wanted to know about you. '

'But why?' she asked, going rather pale. The abstract, unconscioussmile in his eyes was intensified. 

'I wanted to know, ' he said. 

She turned aside, breaking the spell. In some strange way, she felt hewas getting power over her. 

'Well, I can't tell you already, ' she said. 

She went to the mirror to take out the hairpins from her hair. Shestood before the mirror every night for some minutes, brushing her finedark hair. It was part of the inevitable ritual of her life. 

He followed her, and stood behind her. She was busy with bent head, taking out the pins and shaking her warm hair loose. When she lookedup, she saw him in the glass standing behind her, watchingunconsciously, not consciously seeing her, and yet watching, withfinepupilled eyes that SEEMED to smile, and which were not reallysmiling. 

She started. It took all her courage for her to continue brushing herhair, as usual, for her to pretend she was at her ease. She was far, far from being at her ease with him. She beat her brains wildly forsomething to say to him. 

'What are your plans for tomorrow?' she asked nonchalantly, whilst herheart was beating so furiously, her eyes were so bright with strangenervousness, she felt he could not but observe. But she knew also thathe was completely blind, blind as a wolf looking at her. It was astrange battle between her ordinary consciousness and his uncanny, black-art consciousness. 

'I don't know, ' he replied, 'what would you like to do?'

He spoke emptily, his mind was sunk away. 

'Oh, ' she said, with easy protestation, 'I'm ready foranything--anything will be fine for ME, I'm sure. '

And to herself she was saying: 'God, why am I so nervous--why are youso nervous, you fool. If he sees it I'm done for forever--you KNOWyou're done for forever, if he sees the absurd state you're in. '

And she smiled to herself as if it were all child's play. Meanwhile herheart was plunging, she was almost fainting. She could see him, in themirror, as he stood there behind her, tall and over-arching--blond andterribly frightening. She glanced at his reflection with furtive eyes, willing to give anything to save him from knowing she could see him. Hedid not know she could see his reflection. He was lookingunconsciously, glisteningly down at her head, from which the hair fellloose, as she brushed it with wild, nervous hand. She held her headaside and brushed and brushed her hair madly. For her life, she couldnot turn round and face him. For her life, SHE COULD NOT. And theknowledge made her almost sink to the ground in a faint, helpless, spent. She was aware of his frightening, impending figure standingclose behind her, she was aware of his hard, strong, unyielding chest, close upon her back. And she felt she could not bear it any more, in afew minutes she would fall down at his feet, grovelling at his feet, and letting him destroy her. 

The thought pricked up all her sharp intelligence and presence of mind. She dared not turn round to him--and there he stood motionless, unbroken. Summoning all her strength, she said, in a full, resonant, nonchalant voice, that was forced out with all her remainingself-control:

'Oh, would you mind looking in that bag behind there and giving memy--'

Here her power fell inert. 'My what--my what--?' she screamed insilence to herself. 

But he had started round, surprised and startled that she should askhim to look in her bag, which she always kept so VERY private toherself. 

She turned now, her face white, her dark eyes blazing with uncanny, overwrought excitement. She saw him stooping to the bag, undoing theloosely buckled strap, unattentive. 

'Your what?' he asked. 

'Oh, a little enamel box--yellow--with a design of a cormorant pluckingher breast--'

She went towards him, stooping her beautiful, bare arm, and deftlyturned some of her things, disclosing the box, which was exquisitelypainted. 

'That is it, see, ' she said, taking it from under his eyes. 

And he was baffled now. He was left to fasten up the bag, whilst sheswiftly did up her hair for the night, and sat down to unfasten hershoes. She would not turn her back to him any more. 

He was baffled, frustrated, but unconscious. She had the whip hand overhim now. She knew he had not realised her terrible panic. Her heart wasbeating heavily still. Fool, fool that she was, to get into such astate! How she thanked God for Gerald's obtuse blindness. Thank God hecould see nothing. 

She sat slowly unlacing her shoes, and he too commenced to undress. Thank God that crisis was over. She felt almost fond of him now, almostin love with him. 

'Ah, Gerald, ' she laughed, caressively, teasingly, 'Ah, what a finegame you played with the Professor's daughter--didn't you now?'

'What game?' he asked, looking round. 

'ISN'T she in love with you--oh DEAR, isn't she in love with you!' saidGudrun, in her gayest, most attractive mood. 

'I shouldn't think so, ' he said. 

'Shouldn't think so!' she teased. 'Why the poor girl is lying at thismoment overwhelmed, dying with love for you. She thinks you'reWONDERFUL--oh marvellous, beyond what man has ever been. REALLY, isn'tit funny?'

'Why funny, what is funny?' he asked. 

'Why to see you working it on her, ' she said, with a half reproach thatconfused the male conceit in him. 'Really Gerald, the poor girl--!'

'I did nothing to her, ' he said. 

'Oh, it was too shameful, the way you simply swept her off her feet. '

'That was Schuhplatteln, ' he replied, with a bright grin. 

'Ha--ha--ha!' laughed Gudrun. 

Her mockery quivered through his muscles with curious re-echoes. Whenhe slept he seemed to crouch down in the bed, lapped up in his ownstrength, that yet was hollow. 

And Gudrun slept strongly, a victorious sleep. Suddenly, she was almostfiercely awake. The small timber room glowed with the dawn, that cameupwards from the low window. She could see down the valley when shelifted her head: the snow with a pinkish, half-revealed magic, thefringe of pine-trees at the bottom of the slope. And one tiny figuremoved over the vaguely-illuminated space. 

She glanced at his watch; it was seven o'clock. He was still completelyasleep. And she was so hard awake, it was almost frightening--a hard, metallic wakefulness. She lay looking at him. 

He slept in the subjection of his own health and defeat. She wasovercome by a sincere regard for him. Till now, she was afraid beforehim. She lay and thought about him, what he was, what he represented inthe world. A fine, independent will, he had. She thought of therevolution he had worked in the mines, in so short a time. She knewthat, if he were confronted with any problem, any hard actualdifficulty, he would overcome it. If he laid hold of any idea, he wouldcarry it through. He had the faculty of making order out of confusion. Only let him grip hold of a situation, and he would bring to pass aninevitable conclusion. 

For a few moments she was borne away on the wild wings of ambition. Gerald, with his force of will and his power for comprehending theactual world, should be set to solve the problems of the day, theproblem of industrialism in the modern world. She knew he would, in thecourse of time, effect the changes he desired, he could re-organise theindustrial system. She knew he could do it. As an instrument, in thesethings, he was marvellous, she had never seen any man with hispotentiality. He was unaware of it, but she knew. 

He only needed to be hitched on, he needed that his hand should be setto the task, because he was so unconscious. And this she could do. Shewould marry him, he would go into Parliament in the Conservativeinterest, he would clear up the great muddle of labour and industry. Hewas so superbly fearless, masterful, he knew that every problem couldbe worked out, in life as in geometry. And he would care neither abouthimself nor about anything but the pure working out of the problem. Hewas very pure, really. 

Her heart beat fast, she flew away on wings of elation, imagining afuture. He would be a Napoleon of peace, or a Bismarck--and she thewoman behind him. She had read Bismarck's letters, and had been deeplymoved by them. And Gerald would be freer, more dauntless than Bismarck. 

But even as she lay in fictitious transport, bathed in the strange, false sunshine of hope in life, something seemed to snap in her, and aterrible cynicism began to gain upon her, blowing in like a wind. Everything turned to irony with her: the last flavour of everything wasironical. When she felt her pang of undeniable reality, this was whenshe knew the hard irony of hopes and ideas. 

She lay and looked at him, as he slept. He was sheerly beautiful, hewas a perfect instrument. To her mind, he was a pure, inhuman, almostsuperhuman instrument. His instrumentality appealed so strongly to her, she wished she were God, to use him as a tool. 

And at the same instant, came the ironical question: 'What for?' Shethought of the colliers' wives, with their linoleum and their lacecurtains and their little girls in high-laced boots. She thought of thewives and daughters of the pit-managers, their tennis-parties, andtheir terrible struggles to be superior each to the other, in thesocial scale. There was Shortlands with its meaningless distinction, the meaningless crowd of the Criches. There was London, the House ofCommons, the extant social world. My God!

Young as she was, Gudrun had touched the whole pulse of social England. She had no ideas of rising in the world. She knew, with the perfectcynicism of cruel youth, that to rise in the world meant to have oneoutside show instead of another, the advance was like having a spurioushalf-crown instead of a spurious penny. The whole coinage of valuationwas spurious. Yet of course, her cynicism knew well enough that, in aworld where spurious coin was current, a bad sovereign was better thana bad farthing. But rich and poor, she despised both alike. 

Already she mocked at herself for her dreams. They could be fulfilledeasily enough. But she recognised too well, in her spirit, the mockeryof her own impulses. What did she care, that Gerald had created arichly-paying industry out of an old worn-out concern? What did shecare? The worn-out concern and the rapid, splendidly organisedindustry, they were bad money. Yet of course, she cared a great deal, outwardly--and outwardly was all that mattered, for inwardly was a badjoke. 

Everything was intrinsically a piece of irony to her. She leaned overGerald and said in her heart, with compassion:

'Oh, my dear, my dear, the game isn't worth even you. You are a finething really--why should you be used on such a poor show!'

Her heart was breaking with pity and grief for him. And at the samemoment, a grimace came over her mouth, of mocking irony at her ownunspoken tirade. Ah, what a farce it was! She thought of Parnell andKatherine O'Shea. Parnell! After all, who can take the nationalisationof Ireland seriously? Who can take political Ireland really seriously, whatever it does? And who can take political England seriously? Whocan? Who can care a straw, really, how the old patched-up Constitutionis tinkered at any more? Who cares a button for our national ideas, anymore than for our national bowler hat? Aha, it is all old hat, it isall old bowler hat!

That's all it is, Gerald, my young hero. At any rate we'll spareourselves the nausea of stirring the old broth any more. You bebeautiful, my Gerald, and reckless. There ARE perfect moments. Wake up, Gerald, wake up, convince me of the perfect moments. Oh, convince me, Ineed it. 

He opened his eyes, and looked at her. She greeted him with a mocking, enigmatic smile in which was a poignant gaiety. Over his face went thereflection of the smile, he smiled, too, purely unconsciously. 

That filled her with extraordinary delight, to see the smile cross hisface, reflected from her face. She remembered that was how a babysmiled. It filled her with extraordinary radiant delight. 

'You've done it, ' she said. 

'What?' he asked, dazed. 

'Convinced me. '

And she bent down, kissing him passionately, passionately, so that hewas bewildered. He did not ask her of what he had convinced her, thoughhe meant to. He was glad she was kissing him. She seemed to be feelingfor his very heart to touch the quick of him. And he wanted her totouch the quick of his being, he wanted that most of all. 

Outside, somebody was singing, in a manly, reckless handsome voice:

 'Mach mir auf, mach mir auf, du Stolze, Mach mir ein Feuer von Holze. Vom Regen bin ich nass Vom Regen bin ich nass-'

Gudrun knew that that song would sound through her eternity, sung in amanly, reckless, mocking voice. It marked one of her supreme moments, the supreme pangs of her nervous gratification. There it was, fixed ineternity for her. 

The day came fine and bluish. There was a light wind blowing among themountain tops, keen as a rapier where it touched, carrying with it afine dust of snow-powder. Gerald went out with the fine, blind face ofa man who is in his state of fulfilment. Gudrun and he were in perfectstatic unity this morning, but unseeing and unwitting. They went outwith a toboggan, leaving Ursula and Birkin to follow. 

Gudrun was all scarlet and royal blue--a scarlet jersey and cap, and aroyal blue skirt and stockings. She went gaily over the white snow, with Gerald beside her, in white and grey, pulling the little toboggan. They grew small in the distance of snow, climbing the steep slope. 

For Gudrun herself, she seemed to pass altogether into the whiteness ofthe snow, she became a pure, thoughtless crystal. When she reached thetop of the slope, in the wind, she looked round, and saw peak beyondpeak of rock and snow, bluish, transcendent in heaven. And it seemed toher like a garden, with the peaks for pure flowers, and her heartgathering them. She had no separate consciousness for Gerald. 

She held on to him as they went sheering down over the keen slope. Shefelt as if her senses were being whetted on some fine grindstone, thatwas keen as flame. The snow sprinted on either side, like sparks from ablade that is being sharpened, the whiteness round about ran swifter, swifter, in pure flame the white slope flew against her, and she fusedlike one molten, dancing globule, rushed through a white intensity. Then there was a great swerve at the bottom, when they swung as it werein a fall to earth, in the diminishing motion. 

They came to rest. But when she rose to her feet, she could not stand. She gave a strange cry, turned and clung to him, sinking her face onhis breast, fainting in him. Utter oblivion came over her, as she layfor a few moments abandoned against him. 

'What is it?' he was saying. 'Was it too much for you?'

But she heard nothing. 

When she came to, she stood up and looked round, astonished. Her facewas white, her eyes brilliant and large. 

'What is it?' he repeated. 'Did it upset you?'

She looked at him with her brilliant eyes that seemed to have undergonesome transfiguration, and she laughed, with a terrible merriment. 

'No, ' she cried, with triumphant joy. 'It was the complete moment of mylife. '

And she looked at him with her dazzling, overweening laughter, like onepossessed. A fine blade seemed to enter his heart, but he did not care, or take any notice. 

But they climbed up the slope again, and they flew down through thewhite flame again, splendidly, splendidly. Gudrun was laughing andflashing, powdered with snow-crystals, Gerald worked perfectly. He felthe could guide the toboggan to a hair-breadth, almost he could make itpierce into the air and right into the very heart of the sky. It seemedto him the flying sledge was but his strength spread out, he had but tomove his arms, the motion was his own. They explored the great slopes, to find another slide. He felt there must be something better than theyhad known. And he found what he desired, a perfect long, fierce sweep, sheering past the foot of a rock and into the trees at the base. It wasdangerous, he knew. But then he knew also he would direct the sledgebetween his fingers. 

The first days passed in an ecstasy of physical motion, sleighing, skiing, skating, moving in an intensity of speed and white light thatsurpassed life itself, and carried the souls of the human beings beyondinto an inhuman abstraction of velocity and weight and eternal, frozensnow. 

Gerald's eyes became hard and strange, and as he went by on his skis hewas more like some powerful, fateful sigh than a man, his muscleselastic in a perfect, soaring trajectory, his body projected in pureflight, mindless, soulless, whirling along one perfect line of force. 

Luckily there came a day of snow, when they must all stay indoors:otherwise Birkin said, they would all lose their faculties, and beginto utter themselves in cries and shrieks, like some strange, unknownspecies of snow-creatures. 

It happened in the afternoon that Ursula sat in the Reunionsaal talkingto Loerke. The latter had seemed unhappy lately. He was lively and fullof mischievous humour, as usual. 

But Ursula had thought he was sulky about something. His partner, too, the big, fair, good-looking youth, was ill at ease, going about as ifhe belonged to nowhere, and was kept in some sort of subjection, against which he was rebelling. 

Loerke had hardly talked to Gudrun. His associate, on the other hand, had paid her constantly a soft, over-deferential attention. Gudrunwanted to talk to Loerke. He was a sculptor, and she wanted to hear hisview of his art. And his figure attracted her. There was the look of alittle wastrel about him, that intrigued her, and an old man's look, that interested her, and then, beside this, an uncanny singleness, aquality of being by himself, not in contact with anybody else, thatmarked out an artist to her. He was a chatterer, a magpie, a maker ofmischievous word-jokes, that were sometimes very clever, but whichoften were not. And she could see in his brown, gnome's eyes, the blacklook of inorganic misery, which lay behind all his small buffoonery. 

His figure interested her--the figure of a boy, almost a street arab. He made no attempt to conceal it. He always wore a simple loden suit, with knee breeches. His legs were thin, and he made no attempt todisguise the fact: which was of itself remarkable, in a German. And henever ingratiated himself anywhere, not in the slightest, but kept tohimself, for all his apparent playfulness. 

Leitner, his companion, was a great sportsman, very handsome with hisbig limbs and his blue eyes. Loerke would go toboganning or skating, inlittle snatches, but he was indifferent. And his fine, thin nostrils, the nostrils of a pure-bred street arab, would quiver with contempt atLeitner's splothering gymnastic displays. It was evident that the twomen who had travelled and lived together, sharing the same bedroom, hadnow reached the stage of loathing. Leitner hated Loerke with aninjured, writhing, impotent hatred, and Loerke treated Leitner with afine-quivering contempt and sarcasm. Soon the two would have to goapart. 

Already they were rarely together. Leitner ran attaching himself tosomebody or other, always deferring, Loerke was a good deal alone. Outof doors he wore a Westphalian cap, a close brown-velvet head with bigbrown velvet flaps down over his ears, so that he looked like alop-eared rabbit, or a troll. His face was brown-red, with a dry, bright skin, that seemed to crinkle with his mobile expressions. Hiseyes were arresting--brown, full, like a rabbit's, or like a troll's, or like the eyes of a lost being, having a strange, dumb, depraved lookof knowledge, and a quick spark of uncanny fire. Whenever Gudrun hadtried to talk to him he had shied away unresponsive, looking at herwith his watchful dark eyes, but entering into no relation with her. Hehad made her feel that her slow French and her slower German, werehateful to him. As for his own inadequate English, he was much tooawkward to try it at all. But he understood a good deal of what wassaid, nevertheless. And Gudrun, piqued, left him alone. 

This afternoon, however, she came into the lounge as he was talking toUrsula. His fine, black hair somehow reminded her of a bat, thin as itwas on his full, sensitive-looking head, and worn away at the temples. He sat hunched up, as if his spirit were bat-like. And Gudrun could seehe was making some slow confidence to Ursula, unwilling, a slow, grudging, scanty self-revelation. She went and sat by her sister. 

He looked at her, then looked away again, as if he took no notice ofher. But as a matter of fact, she interested him deeply. 

'Isn't it interesting, Prune, ' said Ursula, turning to her sister, 'Herr Loerke is doing a great frieze for a factory in Cologne, for theoutside, the street. '

She looked at him, at his thin, brown, nervous hands, that wereprehensile, and somehow like talons, like 'griffes, ' inhuman. 

'What IN?' she asked. 

'AUS WAS?' repeated Ursula. 

'GRANIT, ' he replied. 

It had become immediately a laconic series of question and answerbetween fellow craftsmen. 

'What is the relief?' asked Gudrun. 

'Alto relievo. '

'And at what height?'

It was very interesting to Gudrun to think of his making the greatgranite frieze for a great granite factory in Cologne. She got from himsome notion of the design. It was a representation of a fair, withpeasants and artisans in an orgy of enjoyment, drunk and absurd intheir modern dress, whirling ridiculously in roundabouts, gaping atshows, kissing and staggering and rolling in knots, swinging inswing-boats, and firing down shooting galleries, a frenzy of chaoticmotion. 

There was a swift discussion of technicalities. Gudrun was very muchimpressed. 

'But how wonderful, to have such a factory!' cried Ursula. 'Is thewhole building fine?'

'Oh yes, ' he replied. 'The frieze is part of the whole architecture. Yes, it is a colossal thing. '

Then he seemed to stiffen, shrugged his shoulders, and went on:

'Sculpture and architecture must go together. The day for irrelevantstatues, as for wall pictures, is over. As a matter of fact sculptureis always part of an architectural conception. And since churches areall museum stuff, since industry is our business, now, then let us makeour places of industry our art--our factory-area our Parthenon, ECCO!'

Ursula pondered. 

'I suppose, ' she said, 'there is no NEED for our great works to be sohideous. '

Instantly he broke into motion. 

'There you are!' he cried, 'there you are! There is not only NO NEEDfor our places of work to be ugly, but their ugliness ruins the work, in the end. Men will not go on submitting to such intolerable ugliness. In the end it will hurt too much, and they will wither because of it. And this will wither the WORK as well. They will think the work itselfis ugly: the machines, the very act of labour. Whereas the machineryand the acts of labour are extremely, maddeningly beautiful. But thiswill be the end of our civilisation, when people will not work becausework has become so intolerable to their senses, it nauseates them toomuch, they would rather starve. THEN we shall see the hammer used onlyfor smashing, then we shall see it. Yet here we are--we have theopportunity to make beautiful factories, beautiful machine-houses--wehave the opportunity--'

Gudrun could only partly understand. She could have cried withvexation. 

'What does he say?' she asked Ursula. And Ursula translated, stammeringand brief. Loerke watched Gudrun's face, to see her judgment. 

'And do you think then, ' said Gudrun, 'that art should serve industry?'

'Art should INTERPRET industry, as art once interpreted religion, ' hesaid. 

'But does your fair interpret industry?' she asked him. 

'Certainly. What is man doing, when he is at a fair like this? He isfulfilling the counterpart of labour--the machine works him, instead ofhe the machine. He enjoys the mechanical motion, in his own body. '

'But is there nothing but work--mechanical work?' said Gudrun. 

'Nothing but work!' he repeated, leaning forward, his eyes twodarknesses, with needle-points of light. 'No, it is nothing but this, serving a machine, or enjoying the motion of a machine--motion, that isall. You have never worked for hunger, or you would know what godgoverns us. '

Gudrun quivered and flushed. For some reason she was almost in tears. 

'No, I have not worked for hunger, ' she replied, 'but I have worked!'

'Travaille--lavorato?' he asked. 'E che lavoro--che lavoro? Queltravail est-ce que vous avez fait?'

He broke into a mixture of Italian and French, instinctively using aforeign language when he spoke to her. 

'You have never worked as the world works, ' he said to her, withsarcasm. 

'Yes, ' she said. 'I have. And I do--I work now for my daily bread. '

He paused, looked at her steadily, then dropped the subject entirely. She seemed to him to be trifling. 

'But have YOU ever worked as the world works?' Ursula asked him. 

He looked at her untrustful. 

'Yes, ' he replied, with a surly bark. 'I have known what it was to liein bed for three days, because I had nothing to eat. '

Gudrun was looking at him with large, grave eyes, that seemed to drawthe confession from him as the marrow from his bones. All his natureheld him back from confessing. And yet her large, grave eyes upon himseemed to open some valve in his veins, and involuntarily he wastelling. 

'My father was a man who did not like work, and we had no mother. Welived in Austria, Polish Austria. How did we live? Ha!--somehow! Mostlyin a room with three other families--one set in each corner--and theW. C. In the middle of the room--a pan with a plank on it--ha! I had twobrothers and a sister--and there might be a woman with my father. Hewas a free being, in his way--would fight with any man in the town--agarrison town--and was a little man too. But he wouldn't work foranybody--set his heart against it, and wouldn't. '

'And how did you live then?' asked Ursula. 

He looked at her--then, suddenly, at Gudrun. 

'Do you understand?' he asked. 

'Enough, ' she replied. 

Their eyes met for a moment. Then he looked away. He would say no more. 

'And how did you become a sculptor?' asked Ursula. 

'How did I become a sculptor--' he paused. 'Dunque--' he resumed, in achanged manner, and beginning to speak French--'I became old enough--Iused to steal from the market-place. Later I went to work--imprintedthe stamp on clay bottles, before they were baked. It was anearthenware-bottle factory. There I began making models. One day, I hadhad enough. I lay in the sun and did not go to work. Then I walked toMunich--then I walked to Italy--begging, begging everything. '

'The Italians were very good to me--they were good and honourable tome. From Bozen to Rome, almost every night I had a meal and a bed, perhaps of straw, with some peasant. I love the Italian people, withall my heart. 

'Dunque, adesso--maintenant--I earn a thousand pounds in a year, or Iearn two thousand--'

He looked down at the ground, his voice tailing off into silence. 

Gudrun looked at his fine, thin, shiny skin, reddish-brown from thesun, drawn tight over his full temples; and at his thin hair--and atthe thick, coarse, brush-like moustache, cut short about his mobile, rather shapeless mouth. 

'How old are you?' she asked. 

He looked up at her with his full, elfin eyes startled. 

'WIE ALT?' he repeated. And he hesitated. It was evidently one of hisreticencies. 

'How old are YOU?' he replied, without answering. 

'I am twenty-six, ' she answered. 

'Twenty-six, ' he repeated, looking into her eyes. He paused. Then hesaid:

'UND IHR HERR GEMAHL, WIE ALT IS ER?'

'Who?' asked Gudrun. 

'Your husband, ' said Ursula, with a certain irony. 

'I haven't got a husband, ' said Gudrun in English. In German sheanswered, 'He is thirty-one. '

But Loerke was watching closely, with his uncanny, full, suspiciouseyes. Something in Gudrun seemed to accord with him. He was really likeone of the 'little people' who have no soul, who has found his mate ina human being. But he suffered in his discovery. She too was fascinatedby him, fascinated, as if some strange creature, a rabbit or a bat, ora brown seal, had begun to talk to her. But also, she knew what he wasunconscious of, his tremendous power of understanding, of apprehendingher living motion. He did not know his own power. He did not know how, with his full, submerged, watchful eyes, he could look into her and seeher, what she was, see her secrets. He would only want her to beherself--he knew her verily, with a subconscious, sinister knowledge, devoid of illusions and hopes. 

To Gudrun, there was in Loerke the rock-bottom of all life. Everybodyelse had their illusion, must have their illusion, their before andafter. But he, with a perfect stoicism, did without any before andafter, dispensed with all illusion. He did not deceive himself in thelast issue. In the last issue he cared about nothing, he was troubledabout nothing, he made not the slightest attempt to be at one withanything. He existed a pure, unconnected will, stoical andmomentaneous. There was only his work. 

It was curious too, how his poverty, the degradation of his earlierlife, attracted her. There was something insipid and tasteless to her, in the idea of a gentleman, a man who had gone the usual course throughschool and university. A certain violent sympathy, however, came up inher for this mud-child. He seemed to be the very stuff of theunderworld of life. There was no going beyond him. 

Ursula too was attracted by Loerke. In both sisters he commanded acertain homage. But there were moments when to Ursula he seemedindescribably inferior, false, a vulgarism. 

Both Birkin and Gerald disliked him, Gerald ignoring him with somecontempt, Birkin exasperated. 

'What do the women find so impressive in that little brat?' Geraldasked. 

'God alone knows, ' replied Birkin, 'unless it's some sort of appeal hemakes to them, which flatters them and has such a power over them. '

Gerald looked up in surprise. 

'DOES he make an appeal to them?' he asked. 

'Oh yes, ' replied Birkin. 'He is the perfectly subjected being, existing almost like a criminal. And the women rush towards that, likea current of air towards a vacuum. '

'Funny they should rush to that, ' said Gerald. 

'Makes one mad, too, ' said Birkin. 'But he has the fascination of pityand repulsion for them, a little obscene monster of the darkness thathe is. '

Gerald stood still, suspended in thought. 

'What DO women want, at the bottom?' he asked. 

Birkin shrugged his shoulders. 

'God knows, ' he said. 'Some satisfaction in basic repulsion, it seemsto me. They seem to creep down some ghastly tunnel of darkness, andwill never be satisfied till they've come to the end. '

Gerald looked out into the mist of fine snow that was blowing by. Everywhere was blind today, horribly blind. 

'And what is the end?' he asked. 

Birkin shook his head. 

'I've not got there yet, so I don't know. Ask Loerke, he's pretty near. He is a good many stages further than either you or I can go. '

'Yes, but stages further in what?' cried Gerald, irritated. 

Birkin sighed, and gathered his brows into a knot of anger. 

'Stages further in social hatred, ' he said. 'He lives like a rat, inthe river of corruption, just where it falls over into the bottomlesspit. He's further on than we are. He hates the ideal more acutely. HeHATES the ideal utterly, yet it still dominates him. I expect he is aJew--or part Jewish. '

'Probably, ' said Gerald. 

'He is a gnawing little negation, gnawing at the roots of life. '

'But why does anybody care about him?' cried Gerald. 

'Because they hate the ideal also, in their souls. They want to explorethe sewers, and he's the wizard rat that swims ahead. '

Still Gerald stood and stared at the blind haze of snow outside. 

'I don't understand your terms, really, ' he said, in a flat, doomedvoice. 'But it sounds a rum sort of desire. '

'I suppose we want the same, ' said Birkin. 'Only we want to take aquick jump downwards, in a sort of ecstasy--and he ebbs with thestream, the sewer stream. '

Meanwhile Gudrun and Ursula waited for the next opportunity to talk toLoerke. It was no use beginning when the men were there. Then theycould get into no touch with the isolated little sculptor. He had to bealone with them. And he preferred Ursula to be there, as a sort oftransmitter to Gudrun. 

'Do you do nothing but architectural sculpture?' Gudrun asked him oneevening. 

'Not now, ' he replied. 'I have done all sorts--except portraits--Inever did portraits. But other things--'

'What kind of things?' asked Gudrun. 

He paused a moment, then rose, and went out of the room. He returnedalmost immediately with a little roll of paper, which he handed to her. She unrolled it. It was a photogravure reproduction of a statuette, signed F. Loerke. 

'That is quite an early thing--NOT mechanical, ' he said, 'morepopular. '

The statuette was of a naked girl, small, finely made, sitting on agreat naked horse. The girl was young and tender, a mere bud. She wassitting sideways on the horse, her face in her hands, as if in shameand grief, in a little abandon. Her hair, which was short and must beflaxen, fell forward, divided, half covering her hands. 

Her limbs were young and tender. Her legs, scarcely formed yet, thelegs of a maiden just passing towards cruel womanhood, dangledchildishly over the side of the powerful horse, pathetically, the smallfeet folded one over the other, as if to hide. But there was no hiding. There she was exposed naked on the naked flank of the horse. 

The horse stood stock still, stretched in a kind of start. It was amassive, magnificent stallion, rigid with pent-up power. Its neck wasarched and terrible, like a sickle, its flanks were pressed back, rigidwith power. 

Gudrun went pale, and a darkness came over her eyes, like shame, shelooked up with a certain supplication, almost slave-like. He glanced ather, and jerked his head a little. 

'How big is it?' she asked, in a toneless voice, persisting inappearing casual and unaffected. 

'How big?' he replied, glancing again at her. 'Without pedestal--sohigh--' he measured with his hand--'with pedestal, so--'

He looked at her steadily. There was a little brusque, turgid contemptfor her in his swift gesture, and she seemed to cringe a little. 

'And what is it done in?' she asked, throwing back her head and lookingat him with affected coldness. 

He still gazed at her steadily, and his dominance was not shaken. 

'Bronze--green bronze. '

'Green bronze!' repeated Gudrun, coldly accepting his challenge. Shewas thinking of the slender, immature, tender limbs of the girl, smoothand cold in green bronze. 

'Yes, beautiful, ' she murmured, looking up at him with a certain darkhomage. 

He closed his eyes and looked aside, triumphant. 

'Why, ' said Ursula, 'did you make the horse so stiff? It is as stiff asa block. '

'Stiff?' he repeated, in arms at once. 

'Yes. LOOK how stock and stupid and brutal it is. Horses are sensitive, quite delicate and sensitive, really. '

He raised his shoulders, spread his hands in a shrug of slowindifference, as much as to inform her she was an amateur and animpertinent nobody. 

'Wissen Sie, ' he said, with an insulting patience and condescension inhis voice, 'that horse is a certain FORM, part of a whole form. It ispart of a work of art, a piece of form. It is not a picture of afriendly horse to which you give a lump of sugar, do you see--it ispart of a work of art, it has no relation to anything outside that workof art. '

Ursula, angry at being treated quite so insultingly DE HAUT EN BAS, from the height of esoteric art to the depth of general exotericamateurism, replied, hotly, flushing and lifting her face. 

'But it IS a picture of a horse, nevertheless. '

He lifted his shoulders in another shrug. 

'As you like--it is not a picture of a cow, certainly. '

Here Gudrun broke in, flushed and brilliant, anxious to avoid any moreof this, any more of Ursula's foolish persistence in giving herselfaway. 

'What do you mean by "it is a picture of a horse?"' she cried at hersister. 'What do you mean by a horse? You mean an idea you have in YOURhead, and which you want to see represented. There is another ideaaltogether, quite another idea. Call it a horse if you like, or say itis not a horse. I have just as much right to say that YOUR horse isn'ta horse, that it is a falsity of your own make-up. '

Ursula wavered, baffled. Then her words came. 

'But why does he have this idea of a horse?' she said. 'I know it ishis idea. I know it is a picture of himself, really--'

Loerke snorted with rage. 

'A picture of myself!' he repeated, in derision. 'Wissen sie, gnadigeFrau, that is a Kunstwerk, a work of art. It is a work of art, it is apicture of nothing, of absolutely nothing. It has nothing to do withanything but itself, it has no relation with the everyday world of thisand other, there is no connection between them, absolutely none, theyare two different and distinct planes of existence, and to translateone into the other is worse than foolish, it is a darkening of allcounsel, a making confusion everywhere. Do you see, you MUST NOTconfuse the relative work of action, with the absolute world of art. That you MUST NOT DO. '

'That is quite true, ' cried Gudrun, let loose in a sort of rhapsody. 'The two things are quite and permanently apart, they have NOTHING todo with one another. I and my art, they have nothing to do with eachother. My art stands in another world, I am in this world. '

Her face was flushed and transfigured. Loerke who was sitting with hishead ducked, like some creature at bay, looked up at her, swiftly, almost furtively, and murmured, 'Ja--so ist es, so ist es. '

Ursula was silent after this outburst. She was furious. She wanted topoke a hole into them both. 

'It isn't a word of it true, of all this harangue you have made me, 'she replied flatly. 'The horse is a picture of your own stock, stupidbrutality, and the girl was a girl you loved and tortured and thenignored. '

He looked up at her with a small smile of contempt in his eyes. Hewould not trouble to answer this last charge. 

Gudrun too was silent in exasperated contempt. Ursula WAS such aninsufferable outsider, rushing in where angels would fear to tread. Butthen--fools must be suffered, if not gladly. 

But Ursula was persistent too. 

'As for your world of art and your world of reality, ' she replied, 'youhave to separate the two, because you can't bear to know what you are. You can't bear to realise what a stock, stiff, hide-bound brutality youARE really, so you say "it's the world of art. " The world of art isonly the truth about the real world, that's all--but you are too fargone to see it. '

She was white and trembling, intent. Gudrun and Loerke sat in stiffdislike of her. Gerald too, who had come up in the beginning of thespeech, stood looking at her in complete disapproval and opposition. Hefelt she was undignified, she put a sort of vulgarity over theesotericism which gave man his last distinction. He joined his forceswith the other two. They all three wanted her to go away. But she saton in silence, her soul weeping, throbbing violently, her fingerstwisting her handkerchief. 

The others maintained a dead silence, letting the display of Ursula'sobtrusiveness pass by. Then Gudrun asked, in a voice that was quitecool and casual, as if resuming a casual conversation:

'Was the girl a model?'

'Nein, sie war kein Modell. Sie war eine kleine Malschulerin. '

'An art-student!' replied Gudrun. 

And how the situation revealed itself to her! She saw the girlart-student, unformed and of pernicious recklessness, too young, herstraight flaxen hair cut short, hanging just into her neck, curvinginwards slightly, because it was rather thick; and Loerke, thewell-known master-sculptor, and the girl, probably well-brought-up, andof good family, thinking herself so great to be his mistress. Oh howwell she knew the common callousness of it all. Dresden, Paris, orLondon, what did it matter? She knew it. 

'Where is she now?' Ursula asked. 

Loerke raised his shoulders, to convey his complete ignorance andindifference. 

'That is already six years ago, ' he said; 'she will be twenty-threeyears old, no more good. '

Gerald had picked up the picture and was looking at it. It attractedhim also. He saw on the pedestal, that the piece was called 'LadyGodiva. '

'But this isn't Lady Godiva, ' he said, smiling good-humouredly. 'Shewas the middle-aged wife of some Earl or other, who covered herselfwith her long hair. '

'A la Maud Allan, ' said Gudrun with a mocking grimace. 

'Why Maud Allan?' he replied. 'Isn't it so? I always thought the legendwas that. '

'Yes, Gerald dear, I'm quite SURE you've got the legend perfectly. '

She was laughing at him, with a little, mock-caressive contempt. 

'To be sure, I'd rather see the woman than the hair, ' he laughed inreturn. 

'Wouldn't you just!' mocked Gudrun. 

Ursula rose and went away, leaving the three together. 

Gudrun took the picture again from Gerald, and sat looking at itclosely. 

'Of course, ' she said, turning to tease Loerke now, 'you UNDERSTOODyour little Malschulerin. '

He raised his eyebrows and his shoulders in a complacent shrug. 

'The little girl?' asked Gerald, pointing to the figure. 

Gudrun was sitting with the picture in her lap. She looked up atGerald, full into his eyes, so that he seemed to be blinded. 

'DIDN'T he understand her!' she said to Gerald, in a slightly mocking, humorous playfulness. 'You've only to look at the feet--AREN'T theydarling, so pretty and tender--oh, they're really wonderful, they arereally--'

She lifted her eyes slowly, with a hot, flaming look into Loerke'seyes. His soul was filled with her burning recognition, he seemed togrow more uppish and lordly. 

Gerald looked at the small, sculptured feet. They were turned together, half covering each other in pathetic shyness and fear. He looked atthem a long time, fascinated. Then, in some pain, he put the pictureaway from him. He felt full of barrenness. 

'What was her name?' Gudrun asked Loerke. 

'Annette von Weck, ' Loerke replied reminiscent. 'Ja, sie war hubsch. She was pretty--but she was tiresome. She was a nuisance, --not for aminute would she keep still--not until I'd slapped her hard and madeher cry--then she'd sit for five minutes. '

He was thinking over the work, his work, the all important to him. 

'Did you really slap her?' asked Gudrun, coolly. 

He glanced back at her, reading her challenge. 

'Yes, I did, ' he said, nonchalant, 'harder than I have ever beatanything in my life. I had to, I had to. It was the only way I got thework done. '

Gudrun watched him with large, dark-filled eyes, for some moments. Sheseemed to be considering his very soul. Then she looked down, insilence. 

'Why did you have such a young Godiva then?' asked Gerald. 'She is sosmall, besides, on the horse--not big enough for it--such a child. '

A queer spasm went over Loerke's face. 

'Yes, ' he said. 'I don't like them any bigger, any older. Then they arebeautiful, at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen--after that, they are no useto me. '

There was a moment's pause. 

'Why not?' asked Gerald. 

Loerke shrugged his shoulders. 

'I don't find them interesting--or beautiful--they are no good to me, for my work. '

'Do you mean to say a woman isn't beautiful after she is twenty?' askedGerald. 

'For me, no. Before twenty, she is small and fresh and tender andslight. After that--let her be what she likes, she has nothing for me. The Venus of Milo is a bourgeoise--so are they all. '

'And you don't care for women at all after twenty?' asked Gerald. 

'They are no good to me, they are of no use in my art, ' Loerke repeatedimpatiently. 'I don't find them beautiful. '

'You are an epicure, ' said Gerald, with a slight sarcastic laugh. 

'And what about men?' asked Gudrun suddenly. 

'Yes, they are good at all ages, ' replied Loerke. 'A man should be bigand powerful--whether he is old or young is of no account, so he hasthe size, something of massiveness and--and stupid form. '

Ursula went out alone into the world of pure, new snow. But thedazzling whiteness seemed to beat upon her till it hurt her, she feltthe cold was slowly strangling her soul. Her head felt dazed and numb. 

Suddenly she wanted to go away. It occurred to her, like a miracle, that she might go away into another world. She had felt so doomed uphere in the eternal snow, as if there were no beyond. 

Now suddenly, as by a miracle she remembered that away beyond, belowher, lay the dark fruitful earth, that towards the south there werestretches of land dark with orange trees and cypress, grey with olives, that ilex trees lifted wonderful plumy tufts in shadow against a bluesky. Miracle of miracles!--this utterly silent, frozen world of themountain-tops was not universal! One might leave it and have done withit. One might go away. 

She wanted to realise the miracle at once. She wanted at this instantto have done with the snow-world, the terrible, static ice-builtmountain tops. She wanted to see the dark earth, to smell its earthyfecundity, to see the patient wintry vegetation, to feel the sunshinetouch a response in the buds. 

She went back gladly to the house, full of hope. Birkin was reading, lying in bed. 

'Rupert, ' she said, bursting in on him. 'I want to go away. '

He looked up at her slowly. 

'Do you?' he replied mildly. 

She sat by him und put her arms round his neck. It surprised her thathe was so little surprised. 

'Don't YOU?' she asked troubled. 

'I hadn't thought about it, ' he said. 'But I'm sure I do. '

She sat up, suddenly erect. 

'I hate it, ' she said. 'I hate the snow, and the unnaturalness of it, the unnatural light it throws on everybody, the ghastly glamour, theunnatural feelings it makes everybody have. '

He lay still and laughed, meditating. 

'Well, ' he said, 'we can go away--we can go tomorrow. We'll go tomorrowto Verona, and find Romeo and Juliet, and sit in theamphitheatre--shall we?'

Suddenly she hid her face against his shoulder with perplexity andshyness. He lay so untrammelled. 

'Yes, ' she said softly, filled with relief. She felt her soul had newwings, now he was so uncaring. 'I shall love to be Romeo and Juliet, 'she said. 'My love!'

'Though a fearfully cold wind blows in Verona, ' he said, 'from out ofthe Alps. We shall have the smell of the snow in our noses. '

She sat up and looked at him. 

'Are you glad to go?' she asked, troubled. 

His eyes were inscrutable and laughing. She hid her face against hisneck, clinging close to him, pleading:

'Don't laugh at me--don't laugh at me. '

'Why how's that?' he laughed, putting his arms round her. 

'Because I don't want to be laughed at, ' she whispered. 

He laughed more, as he kissed her delicate, finely perfumed hair. 

'Do you love me?' she whispered, in wild seriousness. 

'Yes, ' he answered, laughing. 

Suddenly she lifted her mouth to be kissed. Her lips were taut andquivering and strenuous, his were soft, deep and delicate. He waited afew moments in the kiss. Then a shade of sadness went over his soul. 

'Your mouth is so hard, ' he said, in faint reproach. 

'And yours is so soft and nice, ' she said gladly. 

'But why do you always grip your lips?' he asked, regretful. 

'Never mind, ' she said swiftly. 'It is my way. '

She knew he loved her; she was sure of him. Yet she could not let go acertain hold over herself, she could not bear him to question her. Shegave herself up in delight to being loved by him. She knew that, inspite of his joy when she abandoned herself, he was a little bitsaddened too. She could give herself up to his activity. But she couldnot be herself, she DARED not come forth quite nakedly to hisnakedness, abandoning all adjustment, lapsing in pure faith with him. She abandoned herself to HIM, or she took hold of him and gathered herjoy of him. And she enjoyed him fully. But they were never QUITEtogether, at the same moment, one was always a little left out. Nevertheless she was glad in hope, glorious and free, full of life andliberty. And he was still and soft and patient, for the time. 

They made their preparations to leave the next day. First they went toGudrun's room, where she and Gerald were just dressed ready for theevening indoors. 

'Prune, ' said Ursula, 'I think we shall go away tomorrow. I can't standthe snow any more. It hurts my skin and my soul. '

'Does it really hurt your soul, Ursula?' asked Gudrun, in somesurprise. 'I can believe quite it hurts your skin--it is TERRIBLE. ButI thought it was ADMIRABLE for the soul. '

'No, not for mine. It just injures it, ' said Ursula. 

'Really!' cried Gudrun. 

There was a silence in the room. And Ursula and Birkin could feel thatGudrun and Gerald were relieved by their going. 

'You will go south?' said Gerald, a little ring of uneasiness in hisvoice. 

'Yes, ' said Birkin, turning away. There was a queer, indefinablehostility between the two men, lately. Birkin was on the whole dim andindifferent, drifting along in a dim, easy flow, unnoticing andpatient, since he came abroad, whilst Gerald on the other hand, wasintense and gripped into white light, agonistes. The two men revokedone another. 

Gerald and Gudrun were very kind to the two who were departing, solicitous for their welfare as if they were two children. Gudrun cameto Ursula's bedroom with three pairs of the coloured stockings forwhich she was notorious, and she threw them on the bed. But these werethick silk stockings, vermilion, cornflower blue, and grey, bought inParis. The grey ones were knitted, seamless and heavy. Ursula was inraptures. She knew Gudrun must be feeling VERY loving, to give awaysuch treasures. 

'I can't take them from you, Prune, ' she cried. 'I can't possiblydeprive you of them--the jewels. '

'AREN'T they jewels!' cried Gudrun, eyeing her gifts with an enviouseye. 'AREN'T they real lambs!'

'Yes, you MUST keep them, ' said Ursula. 

'I don't WANT them, I've got three more pairs. I WANT you to keepthem--I want you to have them. They're yours, there--'

And with trembling, excited hands she put the coveted stockings underUrsula's pillow. 

'One gets the greatest joy of all out of really lovely stockings, ' saidUrsula. 

'One does, ' replied Gudrun; 'the greatest joy of all. '

And she sat down in the chair. It was evident she had come for a lasttalk. Ursula, not knowing what she wanted, waited in silence. 

'Do you FEEL, Ursula, ' Gudrun began, rather sceptically, that you aregoing-away-for-ever, never-to-return, sort of thing?'

'Oh, we shall come back, ' said Ursula. 'It isn't a question oftrain-journeys. '

'Yes, I know. But spiritually, so to speak, you are going away from usall?'

Ursula quivered. 

'I don't know a bit what is going to happen, ' she said. 'I only know weare going somewhere. '

Gudrun waited. 

'And you are glad?' she asked. 

Ursula meditated for a moment. 

'I believe I am VERY glad, ' she replied. 

But Gudrun read the unconscious brightness on her sister's face, ratherthan the uncertain tones of her speech. 

'But don't you think you'll WANT the old connection with theworld--father and the rest of us, and all that it means, England andthe world of thought--don't you think you'll NEED that, really to makea world?'

Ursula was silent, trying to imagine. 

'I think, ' she said at length, involuntarily, 'that Rupert isright--one wants a new space to be in, and one falls away from theold. '

Gudrun watched her sister with impassive face and steady eyes. 

'One wants a new space to be in, I quite agree, ' she said. 'But I thinkthat a new world is a development from this world, and that to isolateoneself with one other person, isn't to find a new world at all, butonly to secure oneself in one's illusions. '

Ursula looked out of the window. In her soul she began to wrestle, andshe was frightened. She was always frightened of words, because sheknew that mere word-force could always make her believe what she didnot believe. 

'Perhaps, ' she said, full of mistrust, of herself and everybody. 'But, 'she added, 'I do think that one can't have anything new whilst onecares for the old--do you know what I mean?--even fighting the old isbelonging to it. I know, one is tempted to stop with the world, just tofight it. But then it isn't worth it. '

Gudrun considered herself. 

'Yes, ' she said. 'In a way, one is of the world if one lives in it. Butisn't it really an illusion to think you can get out of it? After all, a cottage in the Abruzzi, or wherever it may be, isn't a new world. No, the only thing to do with the world, is to see it through. '

Ursula looked away. She was so frightened of argument. 

'But there CAN be something else, can't there?' she said. 'One can seeit through in one's soul, long enough before it sees itself through inactuality. And then, when one has seen one's soul, one is somethingelse. '

'CAN one see it through in one's soul?' asked Gudrun. 'If you mean thatyou can see to the end of what will happen, I don't agree. I reallycan't agree. And anyhow, you can't suddenly fly off on to a new planet, because you think you can see to the end of this. '

Ursula suddenly straightened herself. 

'Yes, ' she said. 'Yes--one knows. One has no more connections here. Onehas a sort of other self, that belongs to a new planet, not to this. You've got to hop off. '

Gudrun reflected for a few moments. Then a smile of ridicule, almost ofcontempt, came over her face. 

'And what will happen when you find yourself in space?' she cried inderision. 'After all, the great ideas of the world are the same there. You above everybody can't get away from the fact that love, forinstance, is the supreme thing, in space as well as on earth. '

'No, ' said Ursula, 'it isn't. Love is too human and little. I believein something inhuman, of which love is only a little part. I believewhat we must fulfil comes out of the unknown to us, and it is somethinginfinitely more than love. It isn't so merely HUMAN. '

Gudrun looked at Ursula with steady, balancing eyes. She admired anddespised her sister so much, both! Then, suddenly she averted her face, saying coldly, uglily:

'Well, I've got no further than love, yet. '

Over Ursula's mind flashed the thought: 'Because you never HAVE loved, you can't get beyond it. '

Gudrun rose, came over to Ursula and put her arm round her neck. 

'Go and find your new world, dear, ' she said, her voice clanging withfalse benignity. 'After all, the happiest voyage is the quest ofRupert's Blessed Isles. '

Her arm rested round Ursula's neck, her fingers on Ursula's cheek for afew moments. Ursula was supremely uncomfortable meanwhile. There was aninsult in Gudrun's protective patronage that was really too hurting. Feeling her sister's resistance, Gudrun drew awkwardly away, turnedover the pillow, and disclosed the stockings again. 

'Ha--ha!' she laughed, rather hollowly. 'How we do talk indeed--newworlds and old--!'

And they passed to the familiar worldly subjects. 

Gerald and Birkin had walked on ahead, waiting for the sledge toovertake them, conveying the departing guests. 

'How much longer will you stay here?' asked Birkin, glancing up atGerald's very red, almost blank face. 

'Oh, I can't say, ' Gerald replied. 'Till we get tired of it. '

'You're not afraid of the snow melting first?' asked Birkin. 

Gerald laughed. 

'Does it melt?' he said. 

'Things are all right with you then?' said Birkin. 

Gerald screwed up his eyes a little. 

'All right?' he said. 'I never know what those common words mean. Allright and all wrong, don't they become synonymous, somewhere?'

'Yes, I suppose. How about going back?' asked Birkin. 

'Oh, I don't know. We may never get back. I don't look before andafter, ' said Gerald. 

'NOR pine for what is not, ' said Birkin. 

Gerald looked into the distance, with the small-pupilled, abstract eyesof a hawk. 

'No. There's something final about this. And Gudrun seems like the end, to me. I don't know--but she seems so soft, her skin like silk, herarms heavy and soft. And it withers my consciousness, somehow, it burnsthe pith of my mind. ' He went on a few paces, staring ahead, his eyesfixed, looking like a mask used in ghastly religions of the barbarians. 'It blasts your soul's eye, ' he said, 'and leaves you sightless. Yetyou WANT to be sightless, you WANT to be blasted, you don't want it anydifferent. '

He was speaking as if in a trance, verbal and blank. Then suddenly hebraced himself up with a kind of rhapsody, and looked at Birkin withvindictive, cowed eyes, saying:

'Do you know what it is to suffer when you are with a woman? She's sobeautiful, so perfect, you find her SO GOOD, it tears you like a silk, and every stroke and bit cuts hot--ha, that perfection, when you blastyourself, you blast yourself! And then--' he stopped on the snow andsuddenly opened his clenched hands--'it's nothing--your brain mighthave gone charred as rags--and--' he looked round into the air with aqueer histrionic movement 'it's blasting--you understand what Imean--it is a great experience, something final--and then--you'reshrivelled as if struck by electricity. ' He walked on in silence. Itseemed like bragging, but like a man in extremity bragging truthfully. 

'Of course, ' he resumed, 'I wouldn't NOT have had it! It's a completeexperience. And she's a wonderful woman. But--how I hate her somewhere!It's curious--'

Birkin looked at him, at his strange, scarcely conscious face. Geraldseemed blank before his own words. 

'But you've had enough now?' said Birkin. 'You have had yourexperience. Why work on an old wound?'

'Oh, ' said Gerald, 'I don't know. It's not finished--'

And the two walked on. 

'I've loved you, as well as Gudrun, don't forget, ' said Birkinbitterly. Gerald looked at him strangely, abstractedly. 

'Have you?' he said, with icy scepticism. 'Or do you think you have?'He was hardly responsible for what he said. 

The sledge came. Gudrun dismounted and they all made their farewell. They wanted to go apart, all of them. Birkin took his place, and thesledge drove away leaving Gudrun and Gerald standing on the snow, waving. Something froze Birkin's heart, seeing them standing there inthe isolation of the snow, growing smaller and more isolated. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

SNOWED UP

When Ursula and Birkin were gone, Gudrun felt herself free in hercontest with Gerald. As they grew more used to each other, he seemed topress upon her more and more. At first she could manage him, so thather own will was always left free. But very soon, he began to ignoreher female tactics, he dropped his respect for her whims and herprivacies, he began to exert his own will blindly, without submittingto hers. 

Already a vital conflict had set in, which frightened them both. But hewas alone, whilst already she had begun to cast round for externalresource. 

When Ursula had gone, Gudrun felt her own existence had become starkand elemental. She went and crouched alone in her bedroom, looking outof the window at the big, flashing stars. In front was the faint shadowof the mountain-knot. That was the pivot. She felt strange andinevitable, as if she were centred upon the pivot of all existence, there was no further reality. 

Presently Gerald opened the door. She knew he would not be long beforehe came. She was rarely alone, he pressed upon her like a frost, deadening her. 

'Are you alone in the dark?' he said. And she could tell by his tone heresented it, he resented this isolation she had drawn round herself. Yet, feeling static and inevitable, she was kind towards him. 

'Would you like to light the candle?' she asked. 

He did not answer, but came and stood behind her, in the darkness. 

'Look, ' she said, 'at that lovely star up there. Do you know its name?'

He crouched beside her, to look through the low window. 

'No, ' he said. 'It is very fine. '

'ISN'T it beautiful! Do you notice how it darts different colouredfires--it flashes really superbly--'

They remained in silence. With a mute, heavy gesture she put her handon his knee, and took his hand. 

'Are you regretting Ursula?' he asked. 

'No, not at all, ' she said. Then, in a slow mood, she asked:

'How much do you love me?'

He stiffened himself further against her. 

'How much do you think I do?' he asked. 

'I don't know, ' she replied. 

'But what is your opinion?' he asked. 

There was a pause. At length, in the darkness, came her voice, hard andindifferent:

'Very little indeed, ' she said coldly, almost flippant. 

His heart went icy at the sound of her voice. 

'Why don't I love you?' he asked, as if admitting the truth of heraccusation, yet hating her for it. 

'I don't know why you don't--I've been good to you. You were in aFEARFUL state when you came to me. '

Her heart was beating to suffocate her, yet she was strong andunrelenting. 

'When was I in a fearful state?' he asked. 

'When you first came to me. I HAD to take pity on you. But it was neverlove. '

It was that statement 'It was never love, ' which sounded in his earswith madness. 

'Why must you repeat it so often, that there is no love?' he said in avoice strangled with rage. 

'Well you don't THINK you love, do you?' she asked. 

He was silent with cold passion of anger. 

'You don't think you CAN love me, do you?' she repeated almost with asneer. 

'No, ' he said. 

'You know you never HAVE loved me, don't you?'

'I don't know what you mean by the word 'love, ' he replied. 

'Yes, you do. You know all right that you have never loved me. Haveyou, do you think?'

'No, ' he said, prompted by some barren spirit of truthfulness andobstinacy. 

'And you never WILL love me, ' she said finally, 'will you?'

There was a diabolic coldness in her, too much to bear. 

'No, ' he said. 

'Then, ' she replied, 'what have you against me!'

He was silent in cold, frightened rage and despair. 'If only I couldkill her, ' his heart was whispering repeatedly. 'If only I could killher--I should be free. '

It seemed to him that death was the only severing of this Gordian knot. 

'Why do you torture me?' he said. 

She flung her arms round his neck. 

'Ah, I don't want to torture you, ' she said pityingly, as if she werecomforting a child. The impertinence made his veins go cold, he wasinsensible. She held her arms round his neck, in a triumph of pity. Andher pity for him was as cold as stone, its deepest motive was hate ofhim, and fear of his power over her, which she must always counterfoil. 

'Say you love me, ' she pleaded. 'Say you will love me for ever--won'tyou--won't you?'

But it was her voice only that coaxed him. Her senses were entirelyapart from him, cold and destructive of him. It was her overbearingWILL that insisted. 

'Won't you say you'll love me always?' she coaxed. 'Say it, even if itisn't true--say it Gerald, do. '

'I will love you always, ' he repeated, in real agony, forcing the wordsout. 

She gave him a quick kiss. 

'Fancy your actually having said it, ' she said with a touch ofraillery. 

He stood as if he had been beaten. 

'Try to love me a little more, and to want me a little less, ' she said, in a half contemptuous, half coaxing tone. 

The darkness seemed to be swaying in waves across his mind, great wavesof darkness plunging across his mind. It seemed to him he was degradedat the very quick, made of no account. 

'You mean you don't want me?' he said. 

'You are so insistent, and there is so little grace in you, so littlefineness. You are so crude. You break me--you only waste me--it ishorrible to me. '

'Horrible to you?' he repeated. 

'Yes. Don't you think I might have a room to myself, now Ursula hasgone? You can say you want a dressing room. '

'You do as you like--you can leave altogether if you like, ' he managedto articulate. 

'Yes, I know that, ' she replied. 'So can you. You can leave me wheneveryou like--without notice even. '

The great tides of darkness were swinging across his mind, he couldhardly stand upright. A terrible weariness overcame him, he felt hemust lie on the floor. Dropping off his clothes, he got into bed, andlay like a man suddenly overcome by drunkenness, the darkness liftingand plunging as if he were lying upon a black, giddy sea. He lay stillin this strange, horrific reeling for some time, purely unconscious. 

At length she slipped from her own bed and came over to him. Heremained rigid, his back to her. He was all but unconscious. 

She put her arms round his terrifying, insentient body, and laid hercheek against his hard shoulder. 

'Gerald, ' she whispered. 'Gerald. '

There was no change in him. She caught him against her. She pressed herbreasts against his shoulders, she kissed his shoulder, through thesleeping jacket. Her mind wondered, over his rigid, unliving body. Shewas bewildered, and insistent, only her will was set for him to speakto her. 

'Gerald, my dear!' she whispered, bending over him, kissing his ear. 

Her warm breath playing, flying rhythmically over his ear, seemed torelax the tension. She could feel his body gradually relaxing a little, losing its terrifying, unnatural rigidity. Her hands clutched hislimbs, his muscles, going over him spasmodically. 

The hot blood began to flow again through his veins, his limbs relaxed. 

'Turn round to me, ' she whispered, forlorn with insistence and triumph. 

So at last he was given again, warm and flexible. He turned andgathered her in his arms. And feeling her soft against him, soperfectly and wondrously soft and recipient, his arms tightened on her. She was as if crushed, powerless in him. His brain seemed hard andinvincible now like a jewel, there was no resisting him. 

His passion was awful to her, tense and ghastly, and impersonal, like adestruction, ultimate. She felt it would kill her. She was beingkilled. 

'My God, my God, ' she cried, in anguish, in his embrace, feeling herlife being killed within her. And when he was kissing her, soothingher, her breath came slowly, as if she were really spent, dying. 

'Shall I die, shall I die?' she repeated to herself. 

And in the night, and in him, there was no answer to the question. 

And yet, next day, the fragment of her which was not destroyed remainedintact and hostile, she did not go away, she remained to finish theholiday, admitting nothing. He scarcely ever left her alone, butfollowed her like a shadow, he was like a doom upon her, a continual'thou shalt, ' 'thou shalt not. ' Sometimes it was he who seemedstrongest, whist she was almost gone, creeping near the earth like aspent wind; sometimes it was the reverse. But always it was thiseternal see-saw, one destroyed that the other might exist, one ratifiedbecause the other was nulled. 

'In the end, ' she said to herself, 'I shall go away from him. '

'I can be free of her, ' he said to himself in his paroxysms ofsuffering. 

And he set himself to be free. He even prepared to go away, to leaveher in the lurch. But for the first time there was a flaw in his will. 

'Where shall I go?' he asked himself. 

'Can't you be self-sufficient?' he replied to himself, putting himselfupon his pride. 

'Self-sufficient!' he repeated. 

It seemed to him that Gudrun was sufficient unto herself, closed roundand completed, like a thing in a case. In the calm, static reason ofhis soul, he recognised this, and admitted it was her right, to beclosed round upon herself, self-complete, without desire. He realisedit, he admitted it, it only needed one last effort on his own part, towin for himself the same completeness. He knew that it only needed oneconvulsion of his will for him to be able to turn upon himself also, toclose upon himself as a stone fixes upon itself, and is impervious, self-completed, a thing isolated. 

This knowledge threw him into a terrible chaos. Because, however muchhe might mentally WILL to be immune and self-complete, the desire forthis state was lacking, and he could not create it. He could see that, to exist at all, he must be perfectly free of Gudrun, leave her if shewanted to be left, demand nothing of her, have no claim upon her. 

But then, to have no claim upon her, he must stand by himself, in sheernothingness. And his brain turned to nought at the idea. It was a stateof nothingness. On the other hand, he might give in, and fawn to her. Or, finally, he might kill her. Or he might become just indifferent, purposeless, dissipated, momentaneous. But his nature was too serious, not gay enough or subtle enough for mocking licentiousness. 

A strange rent had been torn in him; like a victim that is torn openand given to the heavens, so he had been torn apart and given toGudrun. How should he close again? This wound, this strange, infinitely-sensitive opening of his soul, where he was exposed, like anopen flower, to all the universe, and in which he was given to hiscomplement, the other, the unknown, this wound, this disclosure, thisunfolding of his own covering, leaving him incomplete, limited, unfinished, like an open flower under the sky, this was his cruellestjoy. Why then should he forego it? Why should he close up and becomeimpervious, immune, like a partial thing in a sheath, when he hadbroken forth, like a seed that has germinated, to issue forth in being, embracing the unrealised heavens. 

He would keep the unfinished bliss of his own yearning even through thetorture she inflicted upon him. A strange obstinacy possessed him. Hewould not go away from her whatever she said or did. A strange, deathlyyearning carried him along with her. She was the determinatinginfluence of his very being, though she treated him with contempt, repeated rebuffs, and denials, still he would never be gone, since inbeing near her, even, he felt the quickening, the going forth in him, the release, the knowledge of his own limitation and the magic of thepromise, as well as the mystery of his own destruction andannihilation. 

She tortured the open heart of him even as he turned to her. And shewas tortured herself. It may have been her will was stronger. She felt, with horror, as if he tore at the bud of her heart, tore it open, likean irreverent persistent being. Like a boy who pulls off a fly's wings, or tears open a bud to see what is in the flower, he tore at herprivacy, at her very life, he would destroy her as an immature bud, torn open, is destroyed. 

She might open towards him, a long while hence, in her dreams, when shewas a pure spirit. But now she was not to be violated and ruined. Sheclosed against him fiercely. 

They climbed together, at evening, up the high slope, to see thesunset. In the finely breathing, keen wind they stood and watched theyellow sun sink in crimson and disappear. Then in the east the peaksand ridges glowed with living rose, incandescent like immortal flowersagainst a brown-purple sky, a miracle, whilst down below the world wasa bluish shadow, and above, like an annunciation, hovered a rosytransport in mid-air. 

To her it was so beautiful, it was a delirium, she wanted to gather theglowing, eternal peaks to her breast, and die. He saw them, saw theywere beautiful. But there arose no clamour in his breast, only abitterness that was visionary in itself. He wished the peaks were greyand unbeautiful, so that she should not get her support from them. Whydid she betray the two of them so terribly, in embracing the glow ofthe evening? Why did she leave him standing there, with the ice-windblowing through his heart, like death, to gratify herself among therosy snow-tips?

'What does the twilight matter?' he said. 'Why do you grovel before it?Is it so important to you?'

She winced in violation and in fury. 

'Go away, ' she cried, 'and leave me to it. It is beautiful, beautiful, 'she sang in strange, rhapsodic tones. 'It is the most beautiful thing Ihave ever seen in my life. Don't try to come between it and me. Takeyourself away, you are out of place--'

He stood back a little, and left her standing there, statue-like, transported into the mystic glowing east. Already the rose was fading, large white stars were flashing out. He waited. He would foregoeverything but the yearning. 

'That was the most perfect thing I have ever seen, ' she said in cold, brutal tones, when at last she turned round to him. 'It amazes me thatyou should want to destroy it. If you can't see it yourself, why try todebar me?' But in reality, he had destroyed it for her, she wasstraining after a dead effect. 

'One day, ' he said, softly, looking up at her, 'I shall destroy YOU, asyou stand looking at the sunset; because you are such a liar. '

There was a soft, voluptuous promise to himself in the words. She waschilled but arrogant. 

'Ha!' she said. 'I am not afraid of your threats!' She denied herselfto him, she kept her room rigidly private to herself. But he waited on, in a curious patience, belonging to his yearning for her. 

'In the end, ' he said to himself with real voluptuous promise, 'when itreaches that point, I shall do away with her. ' And he trembleddelicately in every limb, in anticipation, as he trembled in his mostviolent accesses of passionate approach to her, trembling with too muchdesire. 

She had a curious sort of allegiance with Loerke, all the while, now, something insidious and traitorous. Gerald knew of it. But in theunnatural state of patience, and the unwillingness to harden himselfagainst her, in which he found himself, he took no notice, although hersoft kindliness to the other man, whom he hated as a noxious insect, made him shiver again with an access of the strange shuddering thatcame over him repeatedly. 

He left her alone only when he went skiing, a sport he loved, and whichshe did not practise. The he seemed to sweep out of life, to be aprojectile into the beyond. And often, when he went away, she talked tothe little German sculptor. They had an invariable topic, in their art. 

They were almost of the same ideas. He hated Mestrovic, was notsatisfied with the Futurists, he liked the West African wooden figures, the Aztec art, Mexican and Central American. He saw the grotesque, anda curious sort of mechanical motion intoxicated him, a confusion innature. They had a curious game with each other, Gudrun and Loerke, ofinfinite suggestivity, strange and leering, as if they had someesoteric understanding of life, that they alone were initiated into thefearful central secrets, that the world dared not know. Their wholecorrespondence was in a strange, barely comprehensible suggestivity, they kindled themselves at the subtle lust of the Egyptians or theMexicans. The whole game was one of subtle inter-suggestivity, and theywanted to keep it on the plane of suggestion. From their verbal andphysical nuances they got the highest satisfaction in the nerves, froma queer interchange of half-suggested ideas, looks, expressions andgestures, which were quite intolerable, though incomprehensible, toGerald. He had no terms in which to think of their commerce, his termswere much too gross. 

The suggestion of primitive art was their refuge, and the innermysteries of sensation their object of worship. Art and Life were tothem the Reality and the Unreality. 

'Of course, ' said Gudrun, 'life doesn't REALLY matter--it is one's artwhich is central. What one does in one's life has PEU DE RAPPORT, itdoesn't signify much. '

'Yes, that is so, exactly, ' replied the sculptor. 'What one does inone's art, that is the breath of one's being. What one does in one'slife, that is a bagatelle for the outsiders to fuss about. '

It was curious what a sense of elation and freedom Gudrun found in thiscommunication. She felt established for ever. Of course Gerald wasBAGATELLE. Love was one of the temporal things in her life, except inso far as she was an artist. She thought of Cleopatra--Cleopatra musthave been an artist; she reaped the essential from a man, she harvestedthe ultimate sensation, and threw away the husk; and Mary Stuart, andthe great Rachel, panting with her lovers after the theatre, these werethe exoteric exponents of love. After all, what was the lover but fuelfor the transport of this subtle knowledge, for a female art, the artof pure, perfect knowledge in sensuous understanding. 

One evening Gerald was arguing with Loerke about Italy and Tripoli. TheEnglishman was in a strange, inflammable state, the German was excited. It was a contest of words, but it meant a conflict of spirit betweenthe two men. And all the while Gudrun could see in Gerald an arrogantEnglish contempt for a foreigner. Although Gerald was quivering, hiseyes flashing, his face flushed, in his argument there was abrusqueness, a savage contempt in his manner, that made Gudrun's bloodflare up, and made Loerke keen and mortified. For Gerald came down likea sledge-hammer with his assertions, anything the little German saidwas merely contemptible rubbish. 

At last Loerke turned to Gudrun, raising his hands in helpless irony, ashrug of ironical dismissal, something appealing and child-like. 

'Sehen sie, gnadige Frau-' he began. 

'Bitte sagen Sie nicht immer, gnadige Frau, ' cried Gudrun, her eyesflashing, her cheeks burning. She looked like a vivid Medusa. Her voicewas loud and clamorous, the other people in the room were startled. 

'Please don't call me Mrs Crich, ' she cried aloud. 

The name, in Loerke's mouth particularly, had been an intolerablehumiliation and constraint upon her, these many days. 

The two men looked at her in amazement. Gerald went white at thecheek-bones. 

'What shall I say, then?' asked Loerke, with soft, mocking insinuation. 

'Sagen Sie nur nicht das, ' she muttered, her cheeks flushed crimson. 'Not that, at least. '

She saw, by the dawning look on Loerke's face, that he had understood. She was NOT Mrs Crich! So-o-, that explained a great deal. 

'Soll ich Fraulein sagen?' he asked, malevolently. 

'I am not married, ' she said, with some hauteur. 

Her heart was fluttering now, beating like a bewildered bird. She knewshe had dealt a cruel wound, and she could not bear it. 

Gerald sat erect, perfectly still, his face pale and calm, like theface of a statue. He was unaware of her, or of Loerke or anybody. Hesat perfectly still, in an unalterable calm. Loerke, meanwhile, wascrouching and glancing up from under his ducked head. 

Gudrun was tortured for something to say, to relieve the suspense. Shetwisted her face in a smile, and glanced knowingly, almost sneering, atGerald. 

'Truth is best, ' she said to him, with a grimace. 

But now again she was under his domination; now, because she had dealthim this blow; because she had destroyed him, and she did not know howhe had taken it. She watched him. He was interesting to her. She hadlost her interest in Loerke. 

Gerald rose at length, and went over in a leisurely still movement, tothe Professor. The two began a conversation on Goethe. 

She was rather piqued by the simplicity of Gerald's demeanour thisevening. He did not seem angry or disgusted, only he looked curiouslyinnocent and pure, really beautiful. Sometimes it came upon him, thislook of clear distance, and it always fascinated her. 

She waited, troubled, throughout the evening. She thought he wouldavoid her, or give some sign. But he spoke to her simply andunemotionally, as he would to anyone else in the room. A certain peace, an abstraction possessed his soul. 

She went to his room, hotly, violently in love with him. He was sobeautiful and inaccessible. He kissed her, he was a lover to her. Andshe had extreme pleasure of him. But he did not come to, he remainedremote and candid, unconscious. She wanted to speak to him. But thisinnocent, beautiful state of unconsciousness that had come upon himprevented her. She felt tormented and dark. 

In the morning, however, he looked at her with a little aversion, somehorror and some hatred darkening into his eyes. She withdrew on to herold ground. But still he would not gather himself together, againsther. 

Loerke was waiting for her now. The little artist, isolated in his owncomplete envelope, felt that here at last was a woman from whom hecould get something. He was uneasy all the while, waiting to talk withher, subtly contriving to be near her. Her presence filled him withkeenness and excitement, he gravitated cunningly towards her, as if shehad some unseen force of attraction. 

He was not in the least doubtful of himself, as regards Gerald. Geraldwas one of the outsiders. Loerke only hated him for being rich andproud and of fine appearance. All these things, however, riches, prideof social standing, handsome physique, were externals. When it came tothe relation with a woman such as Gudrun, he, Loerke, had an approachand a power that Gerald never dreamed of. 

How should Gerald hope to satisfy a woman of Gudrun's calibre? Did hethink that pride or masterful will or physical strength would help him?Loerke knew a secret beyond these things. The greatest power is the onethat is subtle and adjusts itself, not one which blindly attacks. Andhe, Loerke, had understanding where Gerald was a calf. He, Loerke, could penetrate into depths far out of Gerald's knowledge. Gerald wasleft behind like a postulant in the ante-room of this temple ofmysteries, this woman. But he Loerke, could he not penetrate into theinner darkness, find the spirit of the woman in its inner recess, andwrestle with it there, the central serpent that is coiled at the coreof life. 

What was it, after all, that a woman wanted? Was it mere social effect, fulfilment of ambition in the social world, in the community ofmankind? Was it even a union in love and goodness? Did she want'goodness'? Who but a fool would accept this of Gudrun? This was butthe street view of her wants. Cross the threshold, and you found hercompletely, completely cynical about the social world and itsadvantages. Once inside the house of her soul and there was a pungentatmosphere of corrosion, an inflamed darkness of sensation, and avivid, subtle, critical consciousness, that saw the world distorted, horrific. 

What then, what next? Was it sheer blind force of passion that wouldsatisfy her now? Not this, but the subtle thrills of extreme sensationin reduction. It was an unbroken will reacting against her unbrokenwill in a myriad subtle thrills of reduction, the last subtleactivities of analysis and breaking down, carried out in the darknessof her, whilst the outside form, the individual, was utterly unchanged, even sentimental in its poses. 

But between two particular people, any two people on earth, the rangeof pure sensational experience is limited. The climax of sensualreaction, once reached in any direction, is reached finally, there isno going on. There is only repetition possible, or the going apart ofthe two protagonists, or the subjugating of the one will to the other, or death. 

Gerald had penetrated all the outer places of Gudrun's soul. He was toher the most crucial instance of the existing world, the NE PLUS ULTRAof the world of man as it existed for her. In him she knew the world, and had done with it. Knowing him finally she was the Alexander seekingnew worlds. But there WERE no new worlds, there were no more MEN, therewere only creatures, little, ultimate CREATURES like Loerke. The worldwas finished now, for her. There was only the inner, individualdarkness, sensation within the ego, the obscene religious mystery ofultimate reduction, the mystic frictional activities of diabolicreducing down, disintegrating the vital organic body of life. 

All this Gudrun knew in her subconsciousness, not in her mind. She knewher next step-she knew what she should move on to, when she leftGerald. She was afraid of Gerald, that he might kill her. But she didnot intend to be killed. A fine thread still united her to him. Itshould not be HER death which broke it. She had further to go, afurther, slow exquisite experience to reap, unthinkable subtleties ofsensation to know, before she was finished. 

Of the last series of subtleties, Gerald was not capable. He could nottouch the quick of her. But where his ruder blows could not penetrate, the fine, insinuating blade of Loerke's insect-like comprehensioncould. At least, it was time for her now to pass over to the other, thecreature, the final craftsman. She knew that Loerke, in his innermostsoul, was detached from everything, for him there was neither heavennor earth nor hell. He admitted no allegiance, he gave no adherenceanywhere. He was single and, by abstraction from the rest, absolute inhimself. 

Whereas in Gerald's soul there still lingered some attachment to therest, to the whole. And this was his limitation. He was limited, BORNE, subject to his necessity, in the last issue, for goodness, forrighteousness, for oneness with the ultimate purpose. That the ultimatepurpose might be the perfect and subtle experience of the process ofdeath, the will being kept unimpaired, that was not allowed in him. Andthis was his limitation. 

There was a hovering triumph in Loerke, since Gudrun had denied hermarriage with Gerald. The artist seemed to hover like a creature on thewing, waiting to settle. He did not approach Gudrun violently, he wasnever ill-timed. But carried on by a sure instinct in the completedarkness of his soul, he corresponded mystically with her, imperceptibly, but palpably. 

For two days, he talked to her, continued the discussions of art, oflife, in which they both found such pleasure. They praised the by-gonethings, they took a sentimental, childish delight in the achievedperfections of the past. Particularly they liked the late eighteenthcentury, the period of Goethe and of Shelley, and Mozart. 

They played with the past, and with the great figures of the past, asort of little game of chess, or marionettes, all to please themselves. They had all the great men for their marionettes, and they two were theGod of the show, working it all. As for the future, that they nevermentioned except one laughed out some mocking dream of the destructionof the world by a ridiculous catastrophe of man's invention: a maninvented such a perfect explosive that it blew the earth in two, andthe two halves set off in different directions through space, to thedismay of the inhabitants: or else the people of the world divided intotwo halves, and each half decided IT was perfect and right, the otherhalf was wrong and must be destroyed; so another end of the world. Orelse, Loerke's dream of fear, the world went cold, and snow felleverywhere, and only white creatures, polar-bears, white foxes, and menlike awful white snow-birds, persisted in ice cruelty. 

Apart from these stories, they never talked of the future. Theydelighted most either in mocking imaginations of destruction, or insentimental, fine marionette-shows of the past. It was a sentimentaldelight to reconstruct the world of Goethe at Weimar, or of Schillerand poverty and faithful love, or to see again Jean Jacques in hisquakings, or Voltaire at Ferney, or Frederick the Great reading his ownpoetry. 

They talked together for hours, of literature and sculpture andpainting, amusing themselves with Flaxman and Blake and Fuseli, withtenderness, and with Feuerbach and Bocklin. It would take them alife-time, they felt to live again, IN PETTO, the lives of the greatartists. But they preferred to stay in the eighteenth and thenineteenth centuries. 

They talked in a mixture of languages. The ground-work was French, ineither case. But he ended most of his sentences in a stumble of Englishand a conclusion of German, she skilfully wove herself to her end inwhatever phrase came to her. She took a peculiar delight in thisconversation. It was full of odd, fantastic expression, of doublemeanings, of evasions, of suggestive vagueness. It was a real physicalpleasure to her to make this thread of conversation out of thedifferent-coloured stands of three languages. 

And all the while they two were hovering, hesitating round the flame ofsome invisible declaration. He wanted it, but was held back by someinevitable reluctance. She wanted it also, but she wanted to put itoff, to put it off indefinitely, she still had some pity for Gerald, some connection with him. And the most fatal of all, she had thereminiscent sentimental compassion for herself in connection with him. Because of what HAD been, she felt herself held to him by immortal, invisible threads-because of what HAD been, because of his coming toher that first night, into her own house, in his extremity, because--

Gerald was gradually overcome with a revulsion of loathing for Loerke. He did not take the man seriously, he despised him merely, except as hefelt in Gudrun's veins the influence of the little creature. It wasthis that drove Gerald wild, the feeling in Gudrun's veins of Loerke'spresence, Loerke's being, flowing dominant through her. 

'What makes you so smitten with that little vermin?' he asked, reallypuzzled. For he, man-like, could not see anything attractive orimportant AT ALL in Loerke. Gerald expected to find some handsomenessor nobleness, to account for a woman's subjection. But he saw nonehere, only an insect-like repulsiveness. 

Gudrun flushed deeply. It was these attacks she would never forgive. 

'What do you mean?' she replied. 'My God, what a mercy I am NOT marriedto you!'

Her voice of flouting and contempt scotched him. He was brought upshort. But he recovered himself. 

'Tell me, only tell me, ' he reiterated in a dangerous narrowedvoice--'tell me what it is that fascinates you in him. '

'I am not fascinated, ' she said, with cold repelling innocence. 

'Yes, you are. You are fascinated by that little dry snake, like a birdgaping ready to fall down its throat. '

She looked at him with black fury. 

'I don't choose to be discussed by you, ' she said. 

'It doesn't matter whether you choose or not, ' he replied, 'thatdoesn't alter the fact that you are ready to fall down and kiss thefeet of that little insect. And I don't want to prevent you--do it, fall down and kiss his feet. But I want to know, what it is thatfascinates you--what is it?'

She was silent, suffused with black rage. 

'How DARE you come brow-beating me, ' she cried, 'how dare you, youlittle squire, you bully. What right have you over me, do you think?'

His face was white and gleaming, she knew by the light in his eyes thatshe was in his power--the wolf. And because she was in his power, shehated him with a power that she wondered did not kill him. In her willshe killed him as he stood, effaced him. 

'It is not a question of right, ' said Gerald, sitting down on a chair. She watched the change in his body. She saw his clenched, mechanicalbody moving there like an obsession. Her hatred of him was tinged withfatal contempt. 

'It's not a question of my right over you--though I HAVE some right, remember. I want to know, I only want to know what it is thatsubjugates you to that little scum of a sculptor downstairs, what it isthat brings you down like a humble maggot, in worship of him. I want toknow what you creep after. '

She stood over against the window, listening. Then she turned round. 

'Do you?' she said, in her most easy, most cutting voice. 'Do you wantto know what it is in him? It's because he has some understanding of awoman, because he is not stupid. That's why it is. '

A queer, sinister, animal-like smile came over Gerald's face. 

'But what understanding is it?' he said. 'The understanding of a flea, a hopping flea with a proboscis. Why should you crawl abject before theunderstanding of a flea?'

There passed through Gudrun's mind Blake's representation of the soulof a flea. She wanted to fit it to Loerke. Blake was a clown too. Butit was necessary to answer Gerald. 

'Don't you think the understanding of a flea is more interesting thanthe understanding of a fool?' she asked. 

'A fool!' he repeated. 

'A fool, a conceited fool--a Dummkopf, ' she replied, adding the Germanword. 

'Do you call me a fool?' he replied. 'Well, wouldn't I rather be thefool I am, than that flea downstairs?'

She looked at him. A certain blunt, blind stupidity in him palled onher soul, limiting her. 

'You give yourself away by that last, ' she said. 

He sat and wondered. 

'I shall go away soon, ' he said. 

She turned on him. 

'Remember, ' she said, 'I am completely independent of you--completely. You make your arrangements, I make mine. '

He pondered this. 

'You mean we are strangers from this minute?' he asked. 

She halted and flushed. He was putting her in a trap, forcing her hand. She turned round on him. 

'Strangers, ' she said, 'we can never be. But if you WANT to make anymovement apart from me, then I wish you to know you are perfectly freeto do so. Do not consider me in the slightest. '

Even so slight an implication that she needed him and was depending onhim still was sufficient to rouse his passion. As he sat a change cameover his body, the hot, molten stream mounted involuntarily through hisveins. He groaned inwardly, under its bondage, but he loved it. Helooked at her with clear eyes, waiting for her. 

She knew at once, and was shaken with cold revulsion. HOW could he lookat her with those clear, warm, waiting eyes, waiting for her, even now?What had been said between them, was it not enough to put them worldsasunder, to freeze them forever apart! And yet he was all transfusedand roused, waiting for her. 

It confused her. Turning her head aside, she said:

'I shall always TELL you, whenever I am going to make any change--'

And with this she moved out of the room. 

He sat suspended in a fine recoil of disappointment, that seemedgradually to be destroying his understanding. But the unconscious stateof patience persisted in him. He remained motionless, without thoughtor knowledge, for a long time. Then he rose, and went downstairs, toplay at chess with one of the students. His face was open and clear, with a certain innocent LAISSER-ALLER that troubled Gudrun most, madeher almost afraid of him, whilst she disliked him deeply for it. 

It was after this that Loerke, who had never yet spoken to herpersonally, began to ask her of her state. 

'You are not married at all, are you?' he asked. 

She looked full at him. 

'Not in the least, ' she replied, in her measured way. Loerke laughed, wrinkling up his face oddly. There was a thin wisp of his hair strayingon his forehead, she noticed that his skin was of a clear brown colour, his hands, his wrists. And his hands seemed closely prehensile. Heseemed like topaz, so strangely brownish and pellucid. 

'Good, ' he said. 

Still it needed some courage for him to go on. 

'Was Mrs Birkin your sister?' he asked. 

'Yes. '

'And was SHE married?'

'She was married. '

'Have you parents, then?'

'Yes, ' said Gudrun, 'we have parents. '

And she told him, briefly, laconically, her position. He watched herclosely, curiously all the while. 

'So!' he exclaimed, with some surprise. 'And the Herr Crich, is herich?'

'Yes, he is rich, a coal owner. '

'How long has your friendship with him lasted?'

'Some months. '

There was a pause. 

'Yes, I am surprised, ' he said at length. 'The English, I thought theywere so--cold. And what do you think to do when you leave here?'

'What do I think to do?' she repeated. 

'Yes. You cannot go back to the teaching. No--' he shrugged hisshoulders--'that is impossible. Leave that to the CANAILLE who can donothing else. You, for your part--you know, you are a remarkable woman, eine seltsame Frau. Why deny it--why make any question of it? You arean extraordinary woman, why should you follow the ordinary course, theordinary life?'

Gudrun sat looking at her hands, flushed. She was pleased that he said, so simply, that she was a remarkable woman. He would not say that toflatter her--he was far too self-opinionated and objective by nature. He said it as he would say a piece of sculpture was remarkable, becausehe knew it was so. 

And it gratified her to hear it from him. Other people had such apassion to make everything of one degree, of one pattern. In England itwas chic to be perfectly ordinary. And it was a relief to her to beacknowledged extraordinary. Then she need not fret about the commonstandards. 

'You see, ' she said, 'I have no money whatsoever. '

'Ach, money!' he cried, lifting his shoulders. 'When one is grown up, money is lying about at one's service. It is only when one is youngthat it is rare. Take no thought for money--that always lies to hand. '

'Does it?' she said, laughing. 

'Always. The Gerald will give you a sum, if you ask him for it--'

She flushed deeply. 

'I will ask anybody else, ' she said, with some difficulty--'but nothim. '

Loerke looked closely at her. 

'Good, ' he said. 'Then let it be somebody else. Only don't go back tothat England, that school. No, that is stupid. '

Again there was a pause. He was afraid to ask her outright to go withhim, he was not even quite sure he wanted her; and she was afraid to beasked. He begrudged his own isolation, was VERY chary of sharing hislife, even for a day. 

'The only other place I know is Paris, ' she said, 'and I can't standthat. '

She looked with her wide, steady eyes full at Loerke. He lowered hishead and averted his face. 

'Paris, no!' he said. 'Between the RELIGION D'AMOUR, and the latest'ism, and the new turning to Jesus, one had better ride on a carrouselall day. But come to Dresden. I have a studio there--I can give youwork, --oh, that would be easy enough. I haven't seen any of yourthings, but I believe in you. Come to Dresden--that is a fine town tobe in, and as good a life as you can expect of a town. You haveeverything there, without the foolishness of Paris or the beer ofMunich. '

He sat and looked at her, coldly. What she liked about him was that hespoke to her simple and flat, as to himself. He was a fellow craftsman, a fellow being to her, first. 

'No--Paris, ' he resumed, 'it makes me sick. Pah--l'amour. I detest it. L'amour, l'amore, die Liebe--I detest it in every language. Women andlove, there is no greater tedium, ' he cried. 

She was slightly offended. And yet, this was her own basic feeling. Men, and love--there was no greater tedium. 

'I think the same, ' she said. 

'A bore, ' he repeated. 'What does it matter whether I wear this hat oranother. So love. I needn't wear a hat at all, only for convenience. Neither need I love except for convenience. I tell you what, gnadigeFrau--' and he leaned towards her--then he made a quick, odd gesture, as of striking something aside--'gnadige Fraulein, never mind--I tellyou what, I would give everything, everything, all your love, for alittle companionship in intelligence--' his eyes flickered darkly, evilly at her. 'You understand?' he asked, with a faint smile. 'Itwouldn't matter if she were a hundred years old, a thousand--it wouldbe all the same to me, so that she can UNDERSTAND. ' He shut his eyeswith a little snap. 

Again Gudrun was rather offended. Did he not think her good looking, then? Suddenly she laughed. 

'I shall have to wait about eighty years to suit you, at that!' shesaid. 'I am ugly enough, aren't I?'

He looked at her with an artist's sudden, critical, estimating eye. 

'You are beautiful, ' he said, 'and I am glad of it. But it isn'tthat--it isn't that, ' he cried, with emphasis that flattered her. 'Itis that you have a certain wit, it is the kind of understanding. Forme, I am little, chetif, insignificant. Good! Do not ask me to bestrong and handsome, then. But it is the ME--' he put his fingers tohis mouth, oddly--'it is the ME that is looking for a mistress, and myME is waiting for the THEE of the mistress, for the match to myparticular intelligence. You understand?'

'Yes, ' she said, 'I understand. '

'As for the other, this amour--' he made a gesture, dashing his handaside, as if to dash away something troublesome--'it is unimportant, unimportant. Does it matter, whether I drink white wine this evening, or whether I drink nothing? IT DOES NOT MATTER, it does not matter. Sothis love, this amour, this BAISER. Yes or no, soit ou soit pas, today, tomorrow, or never, it is all the same, it does not matter--no morethan the white wine. '

He ended with an odd dropping of the head in a desperate negation. Gudrun watched him steadily. She had gone pale. 

Suddenly she stretched over and seized his hand in her own. 

'That is true, ' she said, in rather a high, vehement voice, 'that istrue for me too. It is the understanding that matters. '

He looked up at her almost frightened, furtive. Then he nodded, alittle sullenly. She let go his hand: he had made not the lightestresponse. And they sat in silence. 

'Do you know, ' he said, suddenly looking at her with dark, self-important, prophetic eyes, 'your fate and mine, they will runtogether, till--' and he broke off in a little grimace. 

'Till when?' she asked, blanched, her lips going white. She wasterribly susceptible to these evil prognostications, but he only shookhis head. 

'I don't know, ' he said, 'I don't know. '

Gerald did not come in from his skiing until nightfall, he missed thecoffee and cake that she took at four o'clock. The snow was in perfectcondition, he had travelled a long way, by himself, among the snowridges, on his skis, he had climbed high, so high that he could seeover the top of the pass, five miles distant, could see theMarienhutte, the hostel on the crest of the pass, half buried in snow, and over into the deep valley beyond, to the dusk of the pine trees. One could go that way home; but he shuddered with nausea at the thoughtof home;--one could travel on skis down there, and come to the oldimperial road, below the pass. But why come to any road? He revolted atthe thought of finding himself in the world again. He must stay upthere in the snow forever. He had been happy by himself, high up therealone, travelling swiftly on skis, taking far flights, and skimmingpast the dark rocks veined with brilliant snow. 

But he felt something icy gathering at his heart. This strange mood ofpatience and innocence which had persisted in him for some days, waspassing away, he would be left again a prey to the horrible passionsand tortures. 

So he came down reluctantly, snow-burned, snow-estranged, to the housein the hollow, between the knuckles of the mountain tops. He saw itslights shining yellow, and he held back, wishing he need not go in, toconfront those people, to hear the turmoil of voices and to feel theconfusion of other presences. He was isolated as if there were a vacuumround his heart, or a sheath of pure ice. 

The moment he saw Gudrun something jolted in his soul. She was lookingrather lofty and superb, smiling slowly and graciously to the Germans. A sudden desire leapt in his heart, to kill her. He thought, what aperfect voluptuous fulfilment it would be, to kill her. His mind wasabsent all the evening, estranged by the snow and his passion. But hekept the idea constant within him, what a perfect voluptuousconsummation it would be to strangle her, to strangle every spark oflife out of her, till she lay completely inert, soft, relaxed for ever, a soft heap lying dead between his hands, utterly dead. Then he wouldhave had her finally and for ever; there would be such a perfectvoluptuous finality. 

Gudrun was unaware of what he was feeling, he seemed so quiet andamiable, as usual. His amiability even made her feel brutal towardshim. 

She went into his room when he was partially undressed. She did notnotice the curious, glad gleam of pure hatred, with which he looked ather. She stood near the door, with her hand behind her. 

'I have been thinking, Gerald, ' she said, with an insultingnonchalance, 'that I shall not go back to England. '

'Oh, ' he said, 'where will you go then?'

But she ignored his question. She had her own logical statement tomake, and it must be made as she had thought it. 

'I can't see the use of going back, ' she continued. 'It is over betweenme and you--'

She paused for him to speak. But he said nothing. He was only talkingto himself, saying 'Over, is it? I believe it is over. But it isn'tfinished. Remember, it isn't finished. We must put some sort of afinish on it. There must be a conclusion, there must be finality. '

So he talked to himself, but aloud he said nothing whatever. 

'What has been, has been, ' she continued. 'There is nothing that Iregret. I hope you regret nothing--'

She waited for him to speak. 

'Oh, I regret nothing, ' he said, accommodatingly. 

'Good then, ' she answered, 'good then. Then neither of us cherishes anyregrets, which is as it should be. '

'Quite as it should be, ' he said aimlessly. 

She paused to gather up her thread again. 

'Our attempt has been a failure, ' she said. 'But we can try again, elsewhere. '

A little flicker of rage ran through his blood. It was as if she wererousing him, goading him. Why must she do it?

'Attempt at what?' he asked. 

'At being lovers, I suppose, ' she said, a little baffled, yet sotrivial she made it all seem. 

'Our attempt at being lovers has been a failure?' he repeated aloud. 

To himself he was saying, 'I ought to kill her here. There is only thisleft, for me to kill her. ' A heavy, overcharged desire to bring abouther death possessed him. She was unaware. 

'Hasn't it?' she asked. 'Do you think it has been a success?'

Again the insult of the flippant question ran through his blood like acurrent of fire. 

'It had some of the elements of success, our relationship, ' he replied. 'It--might have come off. '

But he paused before concluding the last phrase. Even as he began thesentence, he did not believe in what he was going to say. He knew itnever could have been a success. 

'No, ' she replied. 'You cannot love. '

'And you?' he asked. 

Her wide, dark-filled eyes were fixed on him, like two moons ofdarkness. 

'I couldn't love YOU, ' she said, with stark cold truth. 

A blinding flash went over his brain, his body jolted. His heart hadburst into flame. His consciousness was gone into his wrists, into hishands. He was one blind, incontinent desire, to kill her. His wristswere bursting, there would be no satisfaction till his hands had closedon her. 

But even before his body swerved forward on her, a sudden, cunningcomprehension was expressed on her face, and in a flash she was out ofthe door. She ran in one flash to her room and locked herself in. Shewas afraid, but confident. She knew her life trembled on the edge of anabyss. But she was curiously sure of her footing. She knew her cunningcould outwit him. 

She trembled, as she stood in her room, with excitement and awfulexhilaration. She knew she could outwit him. She could depend on herpresence of mind, and on her wits. But it was a fight to the death, sheknew it now. One slip, and she was lost. She had a strange, tense, exhilarated sickness in her body, as one who is in peril of fallingfrom a great height, but who does not look down, does not admit thefear. 

'I will go away the day after tomorrow, ' she said. 

She only did not want Gerald to think that she was afraid of him, thatshe was running away because she was afraid of him. She was not afraidof him, fundamentally. She knew it was her safeguard to avoid hisphysical violence. But even physically she was not afraid of him. Shewanted to prove it to him. When she had proved it, that, whatever hewas, she was not afraid of him; when she had proved THAT, she couldleave him forever. But meanwhile the fight between them, terrible asshe knew it to be, was inconclusive. And she wanted to be confident inherself. However many terrors she might have, she would be unafraid, uncowed by him. He could never cow her, nor dominate her, nor have anyright over her; this she would maintain until she had proved it. Onceit was proved, she was free of him forever. 

But she had not proved it yet, neither to him nor to herself. And thiswas what still bound her to him. She was bound to him, she could notlive beyond him. She sat up in bed, closely wrapped up, for many hours, thinking endlessly to herself. It was as if she would never have doneweaving the great provision of her thoughts. 

'It isn't as if he really loved me, ' she said to herself. 'He doesn't. Every woman he comes across he wants to make her in love with him. Hedoesn't even know that he is doing it. But there he is, before everywoman he unfurls his male attractiveness, displays his greatdesirability, he tries to make every woman think how wonderful it wouldbe to have him for a lover. His very ignoring of the women is part ofthe game. He is never UNCONSCIOUS of them. He should have been acockerel, so he could strut before fifty females, all his subjects. Butreally, his Don Juan does NOT interest me. I could play Dona Juanita amillion times better than he plays Juan. He bores me, you know. Hismaleness bores me. Nothing is so boring, so inherently stupid andstupidly conceited. Really, the fathomless conceit of these men, it isridiculous--the little strutters. 

'They are all alike. Look at Birkin. Built out of the limitation ofconceit they are, and nothing else. Really, nothing but theirridiculous limitation and intrinsic insignificance could make them soconceited. 

'As for Loerke, there is a thousand times more in him than in a Gerald. Gerald is so limited, there is a dead end to him. He would grind on atthe old mills forever. And really, there is no corn between themillstones any more. They grind on and on, when there is nothing togrind--saying the same things, believing the same things, acting thesame things. Oh, my God, it would wear out the patience of a stone. 

'I don't worship Loerke, but at any rate, he is a free individual. Heis not stiff with conceit of his own maleness. He is not grindingdutifully at the old mills. Oh God, when I think of Gerald, and hiswork--those offices at Beldover, and the mines--it makes my heart sick. What HAVE I to do with it--and him thinking he can be a lover to awoman! One might as well ask it of a self-satisfied lamp-post. Thesemen, with their eternal jobs--and their eternal mills of God that keepon grinding at nothing! It is too boring, just boring. However did Icome to take him seriously at all!

'At least in Dresden, one will have one's back to it all. And therewill be amusing things to do. It will be amusing to go to theseeurythmic displays, and the German opera, the German theatre. It WILLbe amusing to take part in German Bohemian life. And Loerke is anartist, he is a free individual. One will escape from so much, that isthe chief thing, escape so much hideous boring repetition of vulgaractions, vulgar phrases, vulgar postures. I don't delude myself that Ishall find an elixir of life in Dresden. I know I shan't. But I shallget away from people who have their own homes and their own childrenand their own acquaintances and their own this and their own that. Ishall be among people who DON'T own things and who HAVEN'T got a homeand a domestic servant in the background, who haven't got a standingand a status and a degree and a circle of friends of the same. Oh God, the wheels within wheels of people, it makes one's head tick like aclock, with a very madness of dead mechanical monotony andmeaninglessness. How I HATE life, how I hate it. How I hate theGeralds, that they can offer one nothing else. 

'Shortlands!--Heavens! Think of living there, one week, then the next, and THEN THE THIRD--'

'No, I won't think of it--it is too much. '

And she broke off, really terrified, really unable to bear any more. 

The thought of the mechanical succession of day following day, dayfollowing day, AD INFINITUM, was one of the things that made her heartpalpitate with a real approach of madness. The terrible bondage of thistick-tack of time, this twitching of the hands of the clock, thiseternal repetition of hours and days--oh God, it was too awful tocontemplate. And there was no escape from it, no escape. 

She almost wished Gerald were with her to save her from the terror ofher own thoughts. Oh, how she suffered, lying there alone, confrontedby the terrible clock, with its eternal tick-tack. All life, all liferesolved itself into this: tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack; then thestriking of the hour; then the tick-tack, tick-tack, and the twitchingof the clock-fingers. 

Gerald could not save her from it. He, his body, his motion, hislife--it was the same ticking, the same twitching across the dial, ahorrible mechanical twitching forward over the face of the hours. Whatwere his kisses, his embraces. She could hear their tick-tack, tick-tack. 

Ha--ha--she laughed to herself, so frightened that she was trying tolaugh it off--ha--ha, how maddening it was, to be sure, to be sure!

Then, with a fleeting self-conscious motion, she wondered if she wouldbe very much surprised, on rising in the morning, to realise that herhair had turned white. She had FELT it turning white so often, underthe intolerable burden of her thoughts, und her sensations. Yet thereit remained, brown as ever, and there she was herself, looking apicture of health. 

Perhaps she was healthy. Perhaps it was only her unabateable healththat left her so exposed to the truth. If she were sickly she wouldhave her illusions, imaginations. As it was, there was no escape. Shemust always see and know and never escape. She could never escape. There she was, placed before the clock-face of life. And if she turnedround as in a railway station, to look at the bookstall, still shecould see, with her very spine, she could see the clock, always thegreat white clock-face. In vain she fluttered the leaves of books, ormade statuettes in clay. She knew she was not REALLY reading. She wasnot REALLY working. She was watching the fingers twitch across theeternal, mechanical, monotonous clock-face of time. She never reallylived, she only watched. Indeed, she was like a little, twelve-hourclock, vis-a-vis with the enormous clock of eternity--there she was, like Dignity and Impudence, or Impudence and Dignity. 

The picture pleased her. Didn't her face really look like a clockdial--rather roundish and often pale, and impassive. She would have gotup to look, in the mirror, but the thought of the sight of her ownface, that was like a twelve-hour clock-dial, filled her with such deepterror, that she hastened to think of something else. 

Oh, why wasn't somebody kind to her? Why wasn't there somebody whowould take her in their arms, and hold her to their breast, and giveher rest, pure, deep, healing rest. Oh, why wasn't there somebody totake her in their arms and fold her safe and perfect, for sleep. Shewanted so much this perfect enfolded sleep. She lay always sounsheathed in sleep. She would lie always unsheathed in sleep, unrelieved, unsaved. Oh, how could she bear it, this endless unrelief, this eternal unrelief. 

Gerald! Could he fold her in his arms and sheathe her in sleep? Ha! Heneeded putting to sleep himself--poor Gerald. That was all he needed. What did he do, he made the burden for her greater, the burden of hersleep was the more intolerable, when he was there. He was an addedweariness upon her unripening nights, her unfruitful slumbers. Perhapshe got some repose from her. Perhaps he did. Perhaps this was what hewas always dogging her for, like a child that is famished, crying forthe breast. Perhaps this was the secret of his passion, his foreverunquenched desire for her--that he needed her to put him to sleep, togive him repose. 

What then! Was she his mother? Had she asked for a child, whom she mustnurse through the nights, for her lover. She despised him, she despisedhim, she hardened her heart. An infant crying in the night, this DonJuan. 

Ooh, but how she hated the infant crying in the night. She would murderit gladly. She would stifle it and bury it, as Hetty Sorrell did. Nodoubt Hetty Sorrell's infant cried in the night--no doubt ArthurDonnithorne's infant would. Ha--the Arthur Donnithornes, the Geralds ofthis world. So manly by day, yet all the while, such a crying ofinfants in the night. Let them turn into mechanisms, let them. Let thembecome instruments, pure machines, pure wills, that work likeclock-work, in perpetual repetition. Let them be this, let them betaken up entirely in their work, let them be perfect parts of a greatmachine, having a slumber of constant repetition. Let Gerald manage hisfirm. There he would be satisfied, as satisfied as a wheelbarrow thatgoes backwards and forwards along a plank all day--she had seen it. 

The wheel-barrow--the one humble wheel--the unit of the firm. Then thecart, with two wheels; then the truck, with four; then thedonkey-engine, with eight, then the winding-engine, with sixteen, andso on, till it came to the miner, with a thousand wheels, and then theelectrician, with three thousand, and the underground manager, withtwenty thousand, and the general manager with a hundred thousand littlewheels working away to complete his make-up, and then Gerald, with amillion wheels and cogs and axles. 

Poor Gerald, such a lot of little wheels to his make-up! He was moreintricate than a chronometer-watch. But oh heavens, what weariness!What weariness, God above! A chronometer-watch--a beetle--her soulfainted with utter ennui, from the thought. So many wheels to count andconsider and calculate! Enough, enough--there was an end to man'scapacity for complications, even. Or perhaps there was no end. 

Meanwhile Gerald sat in his room, reading. When Gudrun was gone, he wasleft stupefied with arrested desire. He sat on the side of the bed foran hour, stupefied, little strands of consciousness appearing andreappearing. But he did not move, for a long time he remained inert, his head dropped on his breast. 

Then he looked up and realised that he was going to bed. He was cold. Soon he was lying down in the dark. 

But what he could not bear was the darkness. The solid darknessconfronting him drove him mad. So he rose, and made a light. Heremained seated for a while, staring in front. He did not think ofGudrun, he did not think of anything. 

Then suddenly he went downstairs for a book. He had all his life beenin terror of the nights that should come, when he could not sleep. Heknew that this would be too much for him, to have to face nights ofsleeplessness and of horrified watching the hours. 

So he sat for hours in bed, like a statue, reading. His mind, hard andacute, read on rapidly, his body understood nothing. In a state ofrigid unconsciousness, he read on through the night, till morning, when, weary and disgusted in spirit, disgusted most of all withhimself, he slept for two hours. 

Then he got up, hard and full of energy. Gudrun scarcely spoke to him, except at coffee when she said:

'I shall be leaving tomorrow. '

'We will go together as far as Innsbruck, for appearance's sake?' heasked. 

'Perhaps, ' she said. 

She said 'Perhaps' between the sips of her coffee. And the sound of hertaking her breath in the word, was nauseous to him. He rose quickly tobe away from her. 

He went and made arrangements for the departure on the morrow. Then, taking some food, he set out for the day on the skis. Perhaps, he saidto the Wirt, he would go up to the Marienhutte, perhaps to the villagebelow. 

To Gudrun this day was full of a promise like spring. She felt anapproaching release, a new fountain of life rising up in her. It gaveher pleasure to dawdle through her packing, it gave her pleasure to dipinto books, to try on her different garments, to look at herself in theglass. She felt a new lease of life was come upon her, and she washappy like a child, very attractive and beautiful to everybody, withher soft, luxuriant figure, and her happiness. Yet underneath was deathitself. 

In the afternoon she had to go out with Loerke. Her tomorrow wasperfectly vague before her. This was what gave her pleasure. She mightbe going to England with Gerald, she might be going to Dresden withLoerke, she might be going to Munich, to a girl-friend she had there. Anything might come to pass on the morrow. And today was the white, snowy iridescent threshold of all possibility. All possibility--thatwas the charm to her, the lovely, iridescent, indefinite charm, --pureillusion All possibility--because death was inevitable, and NOTHING waspossible but death. 

She did not want things to materialise, to take any definite shape. Shewanted, suddenly, at one moment of the journey tomorrow, to be waftedinto an utterly new course, by some utterly unforeseen event, ormotion. So that, although she wanted to go out with Loerke for the lasttime into the snow, she did not want to be serious or businesslike. 

And Loerke was not a serious figure. In his brown velvet cap, that madehis head as round as a chestnut, with the brown-velvet flaps loose andwild over his ears, and a wisp of elf-like, thin black hair blowingabove his full, elf-like dark eyes, the shiny, transparent brown skincrinkling up into odd grimaces on his small-featured face, he looked anodd little boy-man, a bat. But in his figure, in the greeny loden suit, he looked CHETIF and puny, still strangely different from the rest. 

He had taken a little toboggan, for the two of them, and they trudgedbetween the blinding slopes of snow, that burned their now hardeningfaces, laughing in an endless sequence of quips and jests and polyglotfancies. The fancies were the reality to both of them, they were bothso happy, tossing about the little coloured balls of verbal humour andwhimsicality. Their natures seemed to sparkle in full interplay, theywere enjoying a pure game. And they wanted to keep it on the level of agame, their relationship: SUCH a fine game. 

Loerke did not take the toboganning very seriously. He put no fire andintensity into it, as Gerald did. Which pleased Gudrun. She was weary, oh so weary of Gerald's gripped intensity of physical motion. Loerkelet the sledge go wildly, and gaily, like a flying leaf, and when, at abend, he pitched both her and him out into the snow, he only waited forthem both to pick themselves up unhurt off the keen white ground, to belaughing and pert as a pixie. She knew he would be making ironical, playful remarks as he wandered in hell--if he were in the humour. Andthat pleased her immensely. It seemed like a rising above thedreariness of actuality, the monotony of contingencies. 

They played till the sun went down, in pure amusement, careless andtimeless. Then, as the little sledge twirled riskily to rest at thebottom of the slope, 'Wait!' he said suddenly, and he produced from somewhere a largethermos flask, a packet of Keks, and a bottle of Schnapps. 

'Oh Loerke, ' she cried. 'What an inspiration! What a COMBLE DE JOIEINDEED! What is the Schnapps?'

He looked at it, and laughed. 

'Heidelbeer!' he said. 

'No! From the bilberries under the snow. Doesn't it look as if it weredistilled from snow. Can you--' she sniffed, and sniffed at thebottle--'can you smell bilberries? Isn't it wonderful? It is exactly asif one could smell them through the snow. '

She stamped her foot lightly on the ground. He kneeled down andwhistled, and put his ear to the snow. As he did so his black eyestwinkled up. 

'Ha! Ha!' she laughed, warmed by the whimsical way in which he mockedat her verbal extravagances. He was always teasing her, mocking herways. But as he in his mockery was even more absurd than she in herextravagances, what could one do but laugh and feel liberated. 

She could feel their voices, hers and his, ringing silvery like bellsin the frozen, motionless air of the first twilight. How perfect itwas, how VERY perfect it was, this silvery isolation and interplay. 

She sipped the hot coffee, whose fragrance flew around them like beesmurmuring around flowers, in the snowy air, she drank tiny sips of theHeidelbeerwasser, she ate the cold, sweet, creamy wafers. How goodeverything was! How perfect everything tasted and smelled and sounded, here in this utter stillness of snow and falling twilight. 

'You are going away tomorrow?' his voice came at last. 

'Yes. '

There was a pause, when the evening seemed to rise in its silent, ringing pallor infinitely high, to the infinite which was near at hand. 

'WOHIN?'

That was the question--WOHIN? Whither? WOHIN? What a lovely word! SheNEVER wanted it answered. Let it chime for ever. 

'I don't know, ' she said, smiling at him. 

He caught the smile from her. 

'One never does, ' he said. 

'One never does, ' she repeated. 

There was a silence, wherein he ate biscuits rapidly, as a rabbit eatsleaves. 

'But, ' he laughed, 'where will you take a ticket to?'

'Oh heaven!' she cried. 'One must take a ticket. '

Here was a blow. She saw herself at the wicket, at the railway station. Then a relieving thought came to her. She breathed freely. 

'But one needn't go, ' she cried. 

'Certainly not, ' he said. 

'I mean one needn't go where one's ticket says. '

That struck him. One might take a ticket, so as not to travel to thedestination it indicated. One might break off, and avoid thedestination. A point located. That was an idea!

'Then take a ticket to London, ' he said. 'One should never go there. '

'Right, ' she answered. 

He poured a little coffee into a tin can. 

'You won't tell me where you will go?' he asked. 

'Really and truly, ' she said, 'I don't know. It depends which way thewind blows. '

He looked at her quizzically, then he pursed up his lips, likeZephyrus, blowing across the snow. 

'It goes towards Germany, ' he said. 

'I believe so, ' she laughed. 

Suddenly, they were aware of a vague white figure near them. It wasGerald. Gudrun's heart leapt in sudden terror, profound terror. Sherose to her feet. 

'They told me where you were, ' came Gerald's voice, like a judgment inthe whitish air of twilight. 

'MARIA! You come like a ghost, ' exclaimed Loerke. 

Gerald did not answer. His presence was unnatural and ghostly to them. 

Loerke shook the flask--then he held it inverted over the snow. Only afew brown drops trickled out. 

'All gone!' he said. 

To Gerald, the smallish, odd figure of the German was distinct andobjective, as if seen through field glasses. And he disliked the smallfigure exceedingly, he wanted it removed. 

Then Loerke rattled the box which held the biscuits. 

'Biscuits there are still, ' he said. 

And reaching from his seated posture in the sledge, he handed them toGudrun. She fumbled, and took one. He would have held them to Gerald, but Gerald so definitely did not want to be offered a biscuit, thatLoerke, rather vaguely, put the box aside. Then he took up the smallbottle, and held it to the light. 

'Also there is some Schnapps, ' he said to himself. 

Then suddenly, he elevated the battle gallantly in the air, a strange, grotesque figure leaning towards Gudrun, and said:

'Gnadiges Fraulein, ' he said, 'wohl--'

There was a crack, the bottle was flying, Loerke had started back, thethree stood quivering in violent emotion. 

Loerke turned to Gerald, a devilish leer on his bright-skinned face. 

'Well done!' he said, in a satirical demoniac frenzy. 'C'est le sport, sans doute. '

The next instant he was sitting ludicrously in the snow, Gerald's fisthaving rung against the side of his head. But Loerke pulled himselftogether, rose, quivering, looking full at Gerald, his body weak andfurtive, but his eyes demoniacal with satire. 

'Vive le heros, vive--'

But he flinched, as, in a black flash Gerald's fist came upon him, banged into the other side of his head, and sent him aside like abroken straw. 

But Gudrun moved forward. She raised her clenched hand high, andbrought it down, with a great downward stroke on to the face and on tothe breast of Gerald. 

A great astonishment burst upon him, as if the air had broken. Wide, wide his soul opened, in wonder, feeling the pain. Then it laughed, turning, with strong hands outstretched, at last to take the apple ofhis desire. At last he could finish his desire. 

He took the throat of Gudrun between his hands, that were hard andindomitably powerful. And her throat was beautifully, so beautifullysoft, save that, within, he could feel the slippery chords of her life. And this he crushed, this he could crush. What bliss! Oh what bliss, atlast, what satisfaction, at last! The pure zest of satisfaction filledhis soul. He was watching the unconsciousness come unto her swollenface, watching the eyes roll back. How ugly she was! What a fulfilment, what a satisfaction! How good this was, oh how good it was, what aGod-given gratification, at last! He was unconscious of her fightingand struggling. The struggling was her reciprocal lustful passion inthis embrace, the more violent it became, the greater the frenzy ofdelight, till the zenith was reached, the crisis, the struggle wasoverborne, her movement became softer, appeased. 

Loerke roused himself on the snow, too dazed and hurt to get up. Onlyhis eyes were conscious. 

'Monsieur!' he said, in his thin, roused voice: 'Quand vous aurezfini--'

A revulsion of contempt and disgust came over Gerald's soul. Thedisgust went to the very bottom of him, a nausea. Ah, what was hedoing, to what depths was he letting himself go! As if he cared abouther enough to kill her, to have her life on his hands!

A weakness ran over his body, a terrible relaxing, a thaw, a decay ofstrength. Without knowing, he had let go his grip, and Gudrun hadfallen to her knees. Must he see, must he know?

A fearful weakness possessed him, his joints were turned to water. Hedrifted, as on a wind, veered, and went drifting away. 

'I didn't want it, really, ' was the last confession of disgust in hissoul, as he drifted up the slope, weak, finished, only sheering offunconsciously from any further contact. 'I've had enough--I want to goto sleep. I've had enough. ' He was sunk under a sense of nausea. 

He was weak, but he did not want to rest, he wanted to go on and on, tothe end. Never again to stay, till he came to the end, that was all thedesire that remained to him. So he drifted on and on, unconscious andweak, not thinking of anything, so long as he could keep in action. 

The twilight spread a weird, unearthly light overhead, bluish-rose incolour, the cold blue night sank on the snow. In the valley below, behind, in the great bed of snow, were two small figures: Gudrundropped on her knees, like one executed, and Loerke sitting propped upnear her. That was all. 

Gerald stumbled on up the slope of snow, in the bluish darkness, alwaysclimbing, always unconsciously climbing, weary though he was. On hisleft was a steep slope with black rocks and fallen masses of rock andveins of snow slashing in and about the blackness of rock, veins ofsnow slashing vaguely in and about the blackness of rock. Yet there wasno sound, all this made no noise. 

To add to his difficulty, a small bright moon shone brilliantly justahead, on the right, a painful brilliant thing that was always there, unremitting, from which there was no escape. He wanted so to come tothe end--he had had enough. Yet he did not sleep. 

He surged painfully up, sometimes having to cross a slope of blackrock, that was blown bare of snow. Here he was afraid of falling, verymuch afraid of falling. And high up here, on the crest, moved a windthat almost overpowered him with a sleep-heavy iciness. Only it was nothere, the end, and he must still go on. His indefinite nausea would notlet him stay. 

Having gained one ridge, he saw the vague shadow of something higher infront. Always higher, always higher. He knew he was following the tracktowards the summit of the slopes, where was the marienhutte, and thedescent on the other side. But he was not really conscious. He onlywanted to go on, to go on whilst he could, to move, to keep going, thatwas all, to keep going, until it was finished. He had lost all hissense of place. And yet in the remaining instinct of life, his feetsought the track where the skis had gone. 

He slithered down a sheer snow slope. That frightened him. He had noalpenstock, nothing. But having come safely to rest, he began to walkon, in the illuminated darkness. It was as cold as sleep. He wasbetween two ridges, in a hollow. So he swerved. Should he climb theother ridge, or wander along the hollow? How frail the thread of hisbeing was stretched! He would perhaps climb the ridge. The snow wasfirm and simple. He went along. There was something standing out of thesnow. He approached, with dimmest curiosity. 

It was a half-buried Crucifix, a little Christ under a little slopinghood, at the top of a pole. He sheered away. Somebody was going tomurder him. He had a great dread of being murdered. But it was a dreadwhich stood outside him, like his own ghost. 

Yet why be afraid? It was bound to happen. To be murdered! He lookedround in terror at the snow, the rocking, pale, shadowy slopes of theupper world. He was bound to be murdered, he could see it. This was themoment when the death was uplifted, and there was no escape. 

Lord Jesus, was it then bound to be--Lord Jesus! He could feel the blowdescending, he knew he was murdered. Vaguely wandering forward, hishands lifted as if to feel what would happen, he was waiting for themoment when he would stop, when it would cease. It was not over yet. 

He had come to the hollow basin of snow, surrounded by sheer slopes andprecipices, out of which rose a track that brought one to the top ofthe mountain. But he wandered unconsciously, till he slipped and felldown, and as he fell something broke in his soul, and immediately hewent to sleep. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

EXEUNT

When they brought the body home, the next morning, Gudrun was shut upin her room. From her window she saw men coming along with a burden, over the snow. She sat still and let the minutes go by. 

There came a tap at her door. She opened. There stood a woman, sayingsoftly, oh, far too reverently:

'They have found him, madam!'

'Il est mort?'

'Yes--hours ago. '

Gudrun did not know what to say. What should she say? What should shefeel? What should she do? What did they expect of her? She was coldlyat a loss. 

'Thank you, ' she said, and she shut the door of her room. The womanwent away mortified. Not a word, not a tear--ha! Gudrun was cold, acold woman. 

Gudrun sat on in her room, her face pale and impassive. What was she todo? She could not weep and make a scene. She could not alter herself. She sat motionless, hiding from people. Her one motive was to avoidactual contact with events. She only wrote out a long telegram toUrsula and Birkin. 

In the afternoon, however, she rose suddenly to look for Loerke. Sheglanced with apprehension at the door of the room that had beenGerald's. Not for worlds would she enter there. 

She found Loerke sitting alone in the lounge. She went straight up tohim. 

'It isn't true, is it?' she said. 

He looked up at her. A small smile of misery twisted his face. Heshrugged his shoulders. 

'True?' he echoed. 

'We haven't killed him?' she asked. 

He disliked her coming to him in such a manner. He raised his shoulderswearily. 

'It has happened, ' he said. 

She looked at him. He sat crushed and frustrated for the time being, quite as emotionless and barren as herself. My God! this was a barrentragedy, barren, barren. 

She returned to her room to wait for Ursula and Birkin. She wanted toget away, only to get away. She could not think or feel until she hadgot away, till she was loosed from this position. 

The day passed, the next day came. She heard the sledge, saw Ursula andBirkin alight, and she shrank from these also. 

Ursula came straight up to her. 

'Gudrun!' she cried, the tears running down her cheeks. And she tookher sister in her arms. Gudrun hid her face on Ursula's shoulder, butstill she could not escape the cold devil of irony that froze her soul. 

'Ha, ha!' she thought, 'this is the right behaviour. '

But she could not weep, and the sight of her cold, pale, impassive facesoon stopped the fountain of Ursula's tears. In a few moments, thesisters had nothing to say to each other. 

'Was it very vile to be dragged back here again?' Gudrun asked atlength. 

Ursula looked up in some bewilderment. 

'I never thought of it, ' she said. 

'I felt a beast, fetching you, ' said Gudrun. 'But I simply couldn't seepeople. That is too much for me. '

'Yes, ' said Ursula, chilled. 

Birkin tapped and entered. His face was white and expressionless. Sheknew he knew. He gave her his hand, saying:

'The end of THIS trip, at any rate. '

Gudrun glanced at him, afraid. 

There was silence between the three of them, nothing to be said. Atlength Ursula asked in a small voice:

'Have you seen him?'

He looked back at Ursula with a hard, cold look, and did not trouble toanswer. 

'Have you seen him?' she repeated. 

'I have, ' he said, coldly. 

Then he looked at Gudrun. 

'Have you done anything?' he said. 

'Nothing, ' she replied, 'nothing. '

She shrank in cold disgust from making any statement. 

'Loerke says that Gerald came to you, when you were sitting on thesledge at the bottom of the Rudelbahn, that you had words, and Geraldwalked away. What were the words about? I had better know, so that Ican satisfy the authorities, if necessary. '

Gudrun looked up at him, white, childlike, mute with trouble. 

'There weren't even any words, ' she said. 'He knocked Loerke down andstunned him, he half strangled me, then he went away. '

To herself she was saying:

'A pretty little sample of the eternal triangle!' And she turnedironically away, because she knew that the fight had been betweenGerald and herself and that the presence of the third party was a merecontingency--an inevitable contingency perhaps, but a contingency nonethe less. But let them have it as an example of the eternal triangle, the trinity of hate. It would be simpler for them. 

Birkin went away, his manner cold and abstracted. But she knew he woulddo things for her, nevertheless, he would see her through. She smiledslightly to herself, with contempt. Let him do the work, since he wasso extremely GOOD at looking after other people. 

Birkin went again to Gerald. He had loved him. And yet he felt chieflydisgust at the inert body lying there. It was so inert, so coldly dead, a carcase, Birkin's bowels seemed to turn to ice. He had to stand andlook at the frozen dead body that had been Gerald. 

It was the frozen carcase of a dead male. Birkin remembered a rabbitwhich he had once found frozen like a board on the snow. It had beenrigid like a dried board when he picked it up. And now this was Gerald, stiff as a board, curled up as if for sleep, yet with the horriblehardness somehow evident. It filled him with horror. The room must bemade warm, the body must be thawed. The limbs would break like glass orlike wood if they had to be straightened. 

He reached and touched the dead face. And the sharp, heavy bruise ofice bruised his living bowels. He wondered if he himself were freezingtoo, freezing from the inside. In the short blond moustache thelife-breath was frozen into a block of ice, beneath the silentnostrils. And this was Gerald!

Again he touched the sharp, almost glittering fair hair of the frozenbody. It was icy-cold, hair icy-cold, almost venomous. Birkin's heartbegan to freeze. He had loved Gerald. Now he looked at the shapely, strange-coloured face, with the small, fine, pinched nose and the manlycheeks, saw it frozen like an ice-pebble--yet he had loved it. What wasone to think or feel? His brain was beginning to freeze, his blood wasturning to ice-water. So cold, so cold, a heavy, bruising cold pressingon his arms from outside, and a heavier cold congealing within him, inhis heart and in his bowels. 

He went over the snow slopes, to see where the death had been. At lasthe came to the great shallow among the precipices and slopes, near thesummit of the pass. It was a grey day, the third day of greyness andstillness. All was white, icy, pallid, save for the scoring of blackrocks that jutted like roots sometimes, and sometimes were in nakedfaces. In the distance a slope sheered down from a peak, with manyblack rock-slides. 

It was like a shallow pot lying among the stone and snow of the upperworld. In this pot Gerald had gone to sleep. At the far end, the guideshad driven iron stakes deep into the snow-wall, so that, by means ofthe great rope attached, they could haul themselves up the massivesnow-front, out on to the jagged summit of the pass, naked to heaven, where the Marienhutte hid among the naked rocks. Round about, spiked, slashed snow-peaks pricked the heaven. 

Gerald might have found this rope. He might have hauled himself up tothe crest. He might have heard the dogs in the Marienhutte, and foundshelter. He might have gone on, down the steep, steep fall of thesouth-side, down into the dark valley with its pines, on to the greatImperial road leading south to Italy. 

He might! And what then? The Imperial road! The south? Italy? Whatthen? Was it a way out? It was only a way in again. Birkin stood highin the painful air, looking at the peaks, and the way south. Was it anygood going south, to Italy? Down the old, old Imperial road?

He turned away. Either the heart would break, or cease to care. Bestcease to care. Whatever the mystery which has brought forth man and theuniverse, it is a non-human mystery, it has its own great ends, man isnot the criterion. Best leave it all to the vast, creative, non-humanmystery. Best strive with oneself only, not with the universe. 

'God cannot do without man. ' It was a saying of some great Frenchreligious teacher. But surely this is false. God can do without man. God could do without the ichthyosauri and the mastodon. These monstersfailed creatively to develop, so God, the creative mystery, dispensedwith them. In the same way the mystery could dispense with man, shouldhe too fail creatively to change and develop. The eternal creativemystery could dispose of man, and replace him with a finer createdbeing. Just as the horse has taken the place of the mastodon. 

It was very consoling to Birkin, to think this. If humanity ran into aCUL DE SAC and expended itself, the timeless creative mystery wouldbring forth some other being, finer, more wonderful, some new, morelovely race, to carry on the embodiment of creation. The game was neverup. The mystery of creation was fathomless, infallible, inexhaustible, forever. Races came and went, species passed away, but ever new speciesarose, more lovely, or equally lovely, always surpassing wonder. Thefountain-head was incorruptible and unsearchable. It had no limits. Itcould bring forth miracles, create utter new races and new species, inits own hour, new forms of consciousness, new forms of body, new unitsof being. To be man was as nothing compared to the possibilities of thecreative mystery. To have one's pulse beating direct from the mystery, this was perfection, unutterable satisfaction. Human or inhumanmattered nothing. The perfect pulse throbbed with indescribable being, miraculous unborn species. 

Birkin went home again to Gerald. He went into the room, and sat downon the bed. Dead, dead and cold!

 Imperial Caesar dead, and turned to clay Would stop a hole to keep the wind away. 

There was no response from that which had been Gerald. Strange, congealed, icy substance--no more. No more!

Terribly weary, Birkin went away, about the day's business. He did itall quietly, without bother. To rant, to rave, to be tragic, to makesituations--it was all too late. Best be quiet, and bear one's soul inpatience and in fullness. 

But when he went in again, at evening, to look at Gerald between thecandles, because of his heart's hunger, suddenly his heart contracted, his own candle all but fell from his hand, as, with a strangewhimpering cry, the tears broke out. He sat down in a chair, shaken bya sudden access. Ursula who had followed him, recoiled aghast from him, as he sat with sunken head and body convulsively shaken, making astrange, horrible sound of tears. 

'I didn't want it to be like this--I didn't want it to be like this, 'he cried to himself. Ursula could but think of the Kaiser's: 'Ich habeas nicht gewollt. ' She looked almost with horror on Birkin. 

Suddenly he was silent. But he sat with his head dropped, to hide hisface. Then furtively he wiped his face with his fingers. Then suddenlyhe lifted his head, and looked straight at Ursula, with dark, almostvengeful eyes. 

'He should have loved me, ' he said. 'I offered him. '

She, afraid, white, with mute lips answered:

'What difference would it have made!'

'It would!' he said. 'It would. '

He forgot her, and turned to look at Gerald. With head oddly lifted, like a man who draws his head back from an insult, half haughtily, hewatched the cold, mute, material face. It had a bluish cast. It sent ashaft like ice through the heart of the living man. Cold, mute, material! Birkin remembered how once Gerald had clutched his hand, witha warm, momentaneous grip of final love. For one second--then let goagain, let go for ever. If he had kept true to that clasp, death wouldnot have mattered. Those who die, and dying still can love, stillbelieve, do not die. They live still in the beloved. Gerald might stillhave been living in the spirit with Birkin, even after death. He mighthave lived with his friend, a further life. 

But now he was dead, like clay, like bluish, corruptible ice. Birkinlooked at the pale fingers, the inert mass. He remembered a deadstallion he had seen: a dead mass of maleness, repugnant. He rememberedalso the beautiful face of one whom he had loved, and who had diedstill having the faith to yield to the mystery. That dead face wasbeautiful, no one could call it cold, mute, material. No one couldremember it without gaining faith in the mystery, without the soul'swarming with new, deep life-trust. 

And Gerald! The denier! He left the heart cold, frozen, hardly able tobeat. Gerald's father had looked wistful, to break the heart: but notthis last terrible look of cold, mute Matter. Birkin watched andwatched. 

Ursula stood aside watching the living man stare at the frozen face ofthe dead man. Both faces were unmoved and unmoving. The candle-flamesflickered in the frozen air, in the intense silence. 

'Haven't you seen enough?' she said. 

He got up. 

'It's a bitter thing to me, ' he said. 

'What--that he's dead?' she said. 

His eyes just met hers. He did not answer. 

'You've got me, ' she said. 

He smiled and kissed her. 

'If I die, ' he said, 'you'll know I haven't left you. '

'And me?' she cried. 

'And you won't have left me, ' he said. 'We shan't have any need todespair, in death. '

She took hold of his hand. 

'But need you despair over Gerald?' she said. 

'Yes, ' he answered. 

They went away. Gerald was taken to England, to be buried. Birkin andUrsula accompanied the body, along with one of Gerald's brothers. Itwas the Crich brothers and sisters who insisted on the burial inEngland. Birkin wanted to leave the dead man in the Alps, near thesnow. But the family was strident, loudly insistent. 

Gudrun went to Dresden. She wrote no particulars of herself. Ursulastayed at the Mill with Birkin for a week or two. They were both veryquiet. 

'Did you need Gerald?' she asked one evening. 

'Yes, ' he said. 

'Aren't I enough for you?' she asked. 

'No, ' he said. 'You are enough for me, as far as a woman is concerned. You are all women to me. But I wanted a man friend, as eternal as youand I are eternal. '

'Why aren't I enough?' she said. 'You are enough for me. I don't wantanybody else but you. Why isn't it the same with you?'

'Having you, I can live all my life without anybody else, any othersheer intimacy. But to make it complete, really happy, I wanted eternalunion with a man too: another kind of love, ' he said. 

'I don't believe it, ' she said. 'It's an obstinacy, a theory, aperversity. '

'Well--' he said. 

'You can't have two kinds of love. Why should you!'

It seems as if I can't, ' he said. 'Yet I wanted it. '

'You can't have it, because it's false, impossible, ' she said. 

'I don't believe that, ' he answered.