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 sayspending 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.