Women in Love Page 7

  CHAPTER VII.

  FETISH

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

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

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

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

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

  'It IS rather pleasant,' said Gerald.

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

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

  'That's a disadvantage,' murmured Maxim.

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

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

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

  'South America--Amazon,' said Gerald.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'I say, Rupert!'

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

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

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

  'It is art,' said Birkin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It was a quiet and ordinary breakfast, the four men all looking veryclean and bathed. Gerald and the Russian were both correct and COMME ILFAUT in appearance and manner, Birkin was gaunt and sick, and looked afailure in his attempt to be a properly dressed man, like Gerald andMaxim. Halliday wore tweeds and a green flannel shirt, and a rag of atie, which was just right for him. The Hindu brought in a great deal ofsoft toast, and looked exactly the same as he had looked the nightbefore, statically the same.

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

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

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

  In the morning they all stalked and lounged about again. But Geraldcould feel a strange hostility to himself, in the air. It roused hisobstinacy, and he stood up against it. He hung on for two more days.The result was a nasty and insane scene with Halliday on the fourthevening. Halliday turned with absurd animosity upon Gerald, in thecafe. There was a row. Gerald was on the point of knocking-inHalliday's face; when he was filled with sudden disgust andindifference, and he went away, leaving Halliday in a foolish state ofgloating triumph, the Pussum hard and established, and Maxim standingclear. Birkin was absent, he had gone out of town again.

  Gerald was piqued because he had left without giving the Pussum money.It was true, she did not care whether he gave her money or not, and heknew it. But she would have been glad of ten pounds, and he would havebeen VERY glad to give them to her. Now he felt in a false position. Hewent away chewing his lips to get at the ends of his short clippedmoustache. He knew the Pussum was merely glad to be rid of him. She hadgot her Halliday whom she wanted. She wanted him completely in herpower. Then she would marry him. She wanted to marry him. She had sether will on marrying Halliday. She never wanted to hear of Geraldagain; unless, perhaps, she were in difficulty; because after all,Gerald was what she called a man, and these others, Halliday,Libidnikov, Birkin, the whole Bohemian set, they were only half men.But it was half men she could deal with. She felt sure of herself withthem. The real men, like Gerald, put her in her place too much.

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