Page 29 of Women in Love

  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.

&n
bsp; 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.

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nbsp; '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 involunta
rily. 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, separ
ate, 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 e
yes 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.
r />   '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 th
e 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, c
onveying 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.