Women in Love Page 8

  CHAPTER VIII.

  BREADALBY

  Breadalby was a Georgian house with Corinthian pillars, standing amongthe softer, greener hills of Derbyshire, not far from Cromford. Infront, it looked over a lawn, over a few trees, down to a string offish-ponds in the hollow of the silent park. At the back were trees,among which were to be found the stables, and the big kitchen garden,behind which was a wood.

  It was a very quiet place, some miles from the high-road, back from theDerwent Valley, outside the show scenery. Silent and forsaken, thegolden stucco showed between the trees, the house-front looked down thepark, unchanged and unchanging.

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

  The summer was just coming in when Ursula and Gudrun went to stay thesecond time with Hermione. Coming along in the car, after they hadentered the park, they looked across the dip, where the fish-ponds layin silence, at the pillared front of the house, sunny and small like anEnglish drawing of the old school, on the brow of the green hill,against the trees. There were small figures on the green lawn, women inlavender and yellow moving to the shade of the enormous, beautifullybalanced cedar tree.

  'Isn't it complete!' said Gudrun. 'It is as final as an old aquatint.'She spoke with some resentment in her voice, as if she were captivatedunwillingly, as if she must admire against her will.

  'Do you love it?' asked Ursula.

  'I don't LOVE it, but in its way, I think it is quite complete.'

  The motor-car ran down the hill and up again in one breath, and theywere curving to the side door. A parlour-maid appeared, and thenHermione, coming forward with her pale face lifted, and her handsoutstretched, advancing straight to the new-comers, her voice singing:

  'Here you are--I'm so glad to see you--' she kissed Gudrun--'so glad tosee you--' she kissed Ursula and remained with her arm round her. 'Areyou very tired?'

  'Not at all tired,' said Ursula.

  'Are you tired, Gudrun?'

  'Not at all, thanks,' said Gudrun.

  'No--' drawled Hermione. And she stood and looked at them. The twogirls were embarrassed because she would not move into the house, butmust have her little scene of welcome there on the path. The servantswaited.

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

  Hermione herself wore a dress of prune-coloured silk, with coral beadsand coral coloured stockings. But her dress was both shabby and soiled,even rather dirty.

  'You would like to see your rooms now, wouldn't you! Yes. We will go upnow, shall we?'

  Ursula was glad when she could be left alone in her room. Hermionelingered so long, made such a stress on one. She stood so near to one,pressing herself near upon one, in a way that was most embarrassing andoppressive. She seemed to hinder one's workings.

  Lunch was served on the lawn, under the great tree, whose thick,blackish boughs came down close to the grass. There were present ayoung Italian woman, slight and fashionable, a young, athletic-lookingMiss Bradley, a learned, dry Baronet of fifty, who was always makingwitticisms and laughing at them heartily in a harsh, horse-laugh, therewas Rupert Birkin, and then a woman secretary, a Fraulein Marz, youngand slim and pretty.

  The food was very good, that was one thing. Gudrun, critical ofeverything, gave it her full approval. Ursula loved the situation, thewhite table by the cedar tree, the scent of new sunshine, the littlevision of the leafy park, with far-off deer feeding peacefully. Thereseemed a magic circle drawn about the place, shutting out the present,enclosing the delightful, precious past, trees and deer and silence,like a dream.

  But in spirit she was unhappy. The talk went on like a rattle of smallartillery, always slightly sententious, with a sententiousness that wasonly emphasised by the continual crackling of a witticism, thecontinual spatter of verbal jest, designed to give a tone of flippancyto a stream of conversation that was all critical and general, a canalof conversation rather than a stream.

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

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

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

  'There's Salsie!' sang Hermione, in her slow, amusing sing-song. Andlaying down her work, she rose slowly, and slowly passed over the lawn,round the bushes, out of sight.

  'Who is it?' asked Gudrun.

  'Mr Roddice--Miss Roddice's brother--at least, I suppose it's he,' saidSir Joshua.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Gudrun looked at her in silent loathi
ng.

  'Well--' rumbled Hermione, 'I don't know. To me the pleasure of knowingis so great, so WONDERFUL--nothing has meant so much to me in all life,as certain knowledge--no, I am sure--nothing.'

  'What knowledge, for example, Hermione?' asked Alexander.

  Hermione lifted her face and rumbled--

  'M--m--m--I don't know . . . But one thing was the stars, when I reallyunderstood something about the stars. One feels so UPLIFTED, soUNBOUNDED . . .'

  Birkin looked at her in a white fury.

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

  Hermione recoiled in offence.

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

  'Silent upon a peak in Dariayn,' murmured the Italian, lifting her facefor a moment from her book.

  'Not necessarily in Dariayn,' said Gerald, while Ursula began to laugh.

  Hermione waited for the dust to settle, and then she said, untouched:

  'Yes, it is the greatest thing in life--to KNOW. It is really to behappy, to be FREE.'

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

  'In compressed tabloids,' said Birkin, looking at the dry, stiff littlebody of the Baronet. Immediately Gudrun saw the famous sociologist as aflat bottle, containing tabloids of compressed liberty. That pleasedher. Sir Joshua was labelled and placed forever in her mind.

  'What does that mean, Rupert?' sang Hermione, in a calm snub.

  'You can only have knowledge, strictly,' he replied, 'of thingsconcluded, in the past. It's like bottling the liberty of last summerin the bottled gooseberries.'

  'CAN one have knowledge only of the past?' asked the Baronet,pointedly. 'Could we call our knowledge of the laws of gravitation forinstance, knowledge of the past?'

  'Yes,' said Birkin.

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

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

  'See!' said the Contessa.

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

  Again there was a loud laugh, the most startling of which was theBaronet's, which rattled out like a clatter of falling stones.

  'What is the book?' asked Alexander, promptly.

  'Fathers and Sons, by Turgenev,' said the little foreigner, pronouncingevery syllable distinctly. She looked at the cover, to verify herself.

  'An old American edition,' said Birkin.

  'Ha!--of course--translated from the French,' said Alexander, with afine declamatory voice. 'Bazarov ouvra la porte et jeta les yeux dansla rue.'

  He looked brightly round the company.

  'I wonder what the "hurriedly" was,' said Ursula.

  They all began to guess.

  And then, to the amazement of everybody, the maid came hurrying with alarge tea-tray. The afternoon had passed so swiftly.

  After tea, they were all gathered for a walk.

  'Would you like to come for a walk?' said Hermione to each of them, oneby one. And they all said yes, feeling somehow like prisonersmarshalled for exercise. Birkin only refused.

  'Will you come for a walk, Rupert?'

  'No, Hermione.'

  'But are you SURE?'

  'Quite sure.' There was a second's hesitation.

  'And why not?' sang Hermione's question. It made her blood run sharp,to be thwarted in even so trifling a matter. She intended them all towalk with her in the park.

  'Because I don't like trooping off in a gang,' he said.

  Her voice rumbled in her throat for a moment. Then she said, with acurious stray calm:

  'Then we'll leave a little boy behind, if he's sulky.'

  And she looked really gay, while she insulted him. But it merely madehim stiff.

  She trailed off to the rest of the company, only turning to wave herhandkerchief to him, and to chuckle with laughter, singing out:

  'Good-bye, good-bye, little boy.'

  'Good-bye, impudent hag,' he said to himself.

  They all went through the park. Hermione wanted to show them the wilddaffodils on a little slope. 'This way, this way,' sang her leisurelyvoice at intervals. And they had all to come this way. The daffodilswere pretty, but who could see them? Ursula was stiff all over withresentment by this time, resentment of the whole atmosphere. Gudrun,mocking and objective, watched and registered everything.

  They looked at the shy deer, and Hermione talked to the stag, as if hetoo were a boy she wanted to wheedle and fondle. He was male, so shemust exert some kind of power over him. They trailed home by thefish-ponds, and Hermione told them about the quarrel of two male swans,who had striven for the love of the one lady. She chuckled and laughedas she told how the ousted lover had sat with his head buried under hiswing, on the gravel.

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

  'Rupert! Rupert!' The first syllable was high and slow, the seconddropped down. 'Roo-o-opert.'

  But there was no answer. A maid appeared.

  'Where is Mr Birkin, Alice?' asked the mild straying voice of Hermione.But under the straying voice, what a persistent, almost insane WILL!

  'I think he's in his room, madam.'

  'Is he?'

  Hermione went slowly up the stairs, along the corridor, singing out inher high, small call:

  'Ru-oo-pert! Ru-oo pert!'

  She came to his door, and tapped, still crying: 'Roo-pert.'

  'Yes,' sounded his voice at last.

  'What are you doing?'

  The question was mild and curious.

  There was no answer. Then he opened the door.

  'We've come back,' said Hermione. 'The daffodils are SO beautiful.'

  'Yes,' he said, 'I've seen them.'

  She looked at him with her long, slow, impassive look, along hercheeks.

  'Have you?' she echoed. And she remained looking at him. She wasstimulated above all things by this conflict with him, when he was likea sulky boy, helpless, and she had him safe at Breadalby. Butunderneath she knew the split was coming, and her hatred of him wassubconscious and intense.

  'What were you doing?' she reiterated, in her mild, indifferent tone.He did not answer, and she made her way, almost unconsciously into hisroom. He had taken a Chinese drawing of geese from the boudoir, and wascopying it, with much skill and vividness.

  'You are copying the drawing,' she said, standing near the table, andlooking down at his work. 'Yes. How beautifully you do it! You like itvery much, don't you?'

  'It's a marvellous drawing,' he said.

  'Is it? I'm so glad you like it, because I've always been fond of it.The Chinese Ambassador gave it me.'

  'I know,' he said.

  'But why do you copy it?' she asked, casual and sing-song. 'Why not dosomething original?'

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

  'And what do you get?'

  She was at once roused, she laid as it were violent hands on him, toextract his secrets from him. She MUST know. It was a dreadful tyranny,an obsession in her, to know all he knew. For some time he was silent,hating to answer her. Then, compelled, he began:

  'I know what centres they live from--what they perceive and feel--thehot, stinging centrality of a goose in the flux of cold water andmud--the curious bitter stinging heat of a goose's blood, enteringtheir own blood like an inoculation of corruptive fire--fire of thecold-burning mud--the lotus mystery.'

  Hermione looked at him along her narrow, pallid cheeks. Her eyes werestrange and drugged, heavy under their heavy, drooping lids. Her thinbosom shrugged convulsively. He stared back at her, devilish andunchanging. With another strange, sick convul
sion, she turned away, asif she were sick, could feel dissolution setting-in in her body. Forwith her mind she was unable to attend to his words, he caught her, asit were, beneath all her defences, and destroyed her with someinsidious occult potency.

  'Yes,' she said, as if she did not know what she were saying. 'Yes,'and she swallowed, and tried to regain her mind. But she could not, shewas witless, decentralised. Use all her will as she might, she couldnot recover. She suffered the ghastliness of dissolution, broken andgone in a horrible corruption. And he stood and looked at her unmoved.She strayed out, pallid and preyed-upon like a ghost, like one attackedby the tomb-influences which dog us. And she was gone like a corpse,that has no presence, no connection. He remained hard and vindictive.

  Hermione came down to dinner strange and sepulchral, her eyes heavy andfull of sepulchral darkness, strength. She had put on a dress of stiffold greenish brocade, that fitted tight and made her look tall andrather terrible, ghastly. In the gay light of the drawing-room she wasuncanny and oppressive. But seated in the half-light of the diningroom,sitting stiffly before the shaded candles on the table, she seemed apower, a presence. She listened and attended with a drugged attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Hermione rose and slowly pulled the gold-embroidered band that hung bythe mantel, clinging to it for a moment, then releasing it suddenly.Like a priestess she looked, unconscious, sunk in a heavy half-trance.

  A servant came, and soon reappeared with armfuls of silk robes andshawls and scarves, mostly oriental, things that Hermione, with herlove for beautiful extravagant dress, had collected gradually.

  'The three women will dance together,' she said.

  'What shall it be?' asked Alexander, rising briskly.

  'Vergini Delle Rocchette,' said the Contessa at once.

  'They are so languid,' said Ursula.

  'The three witches from Macbeth,' suggested Fraulein usefully. It wasfinally decided to do Naomi and Ruth and Orpah. Ursula was Naomi,Gudrun was Ruth, the Contessa was Orpah. The idea was to make a littleballet, in the style of the Russian Ballet of Pavlova and Nijinsky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Hermione looked at her slowly, and shuddered, knowing that only aforeigner could have seen and have said this.

  'Cosa vuol'dire, Palestra?' she asked, sing-song.

  'Look,' said the Contessa, in Italian. 'He is not a man, he is achameleon, a creature of change.'

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

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

  'Isn't it wonderful--who would dare to put those two strong colourstogether--'

  Then Hermione's maid entered silently and Ursula, overcome with dread,escaped, carried away by powerful impulse.

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

  'Who are those two Brangwens?' Gerald asked.

  'They live in Beldover.'

  'In Beldover! Who are they then?'

  'Teachers in the Grammar School.'

  There was a pause.

  'They are!' exclaimed Gerald at length. 'I thought I had seen thembefore.'

  'It disappoints you?' said Birkin.

  'Disappoints me! No--but how is it Hermione has them here?'

  'She knew Gudrun in London--that's the younger one, the one with thedarker hair--she's an artist--does sculpture and modelling.'

  'She's not a teacher in the Grammar School, then--only the other?'

  'Both--Gudrun art mistress, Ursula a class mistress.'

  'And what's the father?'

  'Handicraft instructor in the schools.'

  'Really!'

  'Class-barriers are breaking down!'

  Gerald was always uneasy under the slightly jeering tone of the other.

  'That their father is handicraft instructor in a school! What does itmatter to me?'

  Birkin laughed. Gerald looked at his face, as it lay there laughing andbitter and indifferent on the pillow, and he could not go away.

  'I don't suppose you will see very much more of Gudrun, at least. Sheis a restless bird, she'll be gone in a week or two,' said Birkin.

  'Where will she go?'

  'London, Paris, Rome--heaven knows. I always expect her to sheer off toDamascus or San Francisco; she's a bird of paradise. God knows whatshe's got to do with Beldover. It goes by contraries, like dreams.'

  Gerald pondered for a few moments.

  'How do you know her so well?' he asked.

  'I knew her in London,' he replied, 'in the Algernon Strange set.She'll know about Pussum and Libidnikov and the rest--even if shedoesn't know them personally. She was never quite that set--moreconventional, in a way. I've known her for two years, I suppose.'

  'And she makes money, apart from her teaching?' asked Gerald.

  'Some--irregularly. She can sell her models. She has a certainreclame.'

  'How much for?'

  'A guinea, ten guineas.'

  'And are they good? What are they?'

  'I think sometimes they are marvellously good. That is hers, those twowagtails in Hermione's boudoir--you've seen them--they are carved inwood and painted.'

  'I thought it was savage carving again.'

  'No, hers. That's what they are--animals and birds, sometimes odd smallpeople in everyday dress, really rather wonderful when they come off.They have a sort of funniness that is quite unconscious and subtle.'

  'She might be a well-known artist one day?' mused Gerald.

  'She might. But I think she won't. She drops her art if anything elsecatches her. Her contrariness prevents her taking it seriously--shemust never be too serious, she feels she might give herself away. Andshe won't give herself away--she's always on the defensive. That's whatI can't stand about her type. By the way, how did things go off withPussum after I left you? I haven't heard anything.'

  'Oh, rather disgusting. Halliday turned objectionable, and I only justsaved myself from jumping in his stomach, in a real old-fashioned row.'

  Birkin was silent.

  'Of course,' he said, 'Julius is somewhat insane. On the one hand he'shad religious mania, and on the other, he is fascinated by obscenity.Either he is a pure servant, washing the feet of Christ, or else he ismaking obscene drawings of Jesus--action and reaction--and between thetwo, nothing. He is really insane. He wants a pure lily, another girl,with a baby face, on the one hand, and on the other, he MUST have thePussum, just to defile himself with her.'

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

  'He neither does nor doesn't. She is the harlot, the actual harlot ofadultery to him. And he's got a craving to throw himself into the filthof her. Then he gets up and calls on the name of the lily of purity,the baby-faced girl, and so enjoys himself all round. It's the oldstory--action and reaction, and nothing between.'

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

  'But I thought you liked her,' exclaimed Birkin. 'I always felt fond ofher. I never had anything to do with her, personally, that's true.'

  'I liked her all right, for a couple of days,' said Gerald. 'But a weekof her would have turned me over. There's a certain smell about theskin of those women, that in the end is sickening beyond words--even ifyou like it at first.'

  'I know,' said Birkin. Then he added, rather fretfully, 'But go to bed,Gerald. God knows what time it is.'

  Gerald looked at his watch, and at length rose off the bed, and went tohis room. But he returned in a few minutes, in his shirt.

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

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

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

  'She doesn't care.'

  'No, perhaps not. But one feels the account is left open, and one wouldrather it were closed.'

  'Would you?' said Birkin. He was looking at the white legs of Gerald,as the latter sat on the side of the bed in his shirt. They werewhite-skinned, full, muscular legs, handsome and decided. Yet theymoved Birkin with a sort of pathos, tenderness, as if they werechildish.

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

  'It doesn't matter one way or another,' said Birkin.

  'You always say it doesn't matter,' said Gerald, a little puzzled,looking down at the face of the other man affectionately.

  'Neither does it,' said Birkin.

  'But she was a decent sort, really--'

  'Render unto Caesarina the things that are Caesarina's,' said Birkin,turning aside. It seemed to him Gerald was talking for the sake oftalking. 'Go away, it wearies me--it's too late at night,' he said.

  'I wish you'd tell me something that DID matter,' said Gerald, lookingdown all the time at the face of the other man, waiting for something.But Birkin turned his face aside.

  'All right then, go to sleep,' said Gerald, and he laid his handaffectionately on the other man's shoulder, and went away.

  In the morning when Gerald awoke and heard Birkin move, he called out:'I still think I ought to give the Pussum ten pounds.'

  'Oh God!' said Birkin, 'don't be so matter-of-fact. Close the accountin your own soul, if you like. It is there you can't close it.'

  'How do you know I can't?'

  'Knowing you.'

  Gerald meditated for some moments.

  'It seems to me the right thing to do, you know, with the Pussums, isto pay them.'

  'And the right thing for mistresses: keep them. And the right thing forwives: live under the same roof with them. Integer vitae scelerisquepurus--' said Birkin.

  'There's no need to be nasty about it,' said Geral
d.

  'It bores me. I'm not interested in your peccadilloes.'

  'And I don't care whether you are or not--I am.'

  The morning was again sunny. The maid had been in and brought thewater, and had drawn the curtains. Birkin, sitting up in bed, lookedlazily and pleasantly out on the park, that was so green and deserted,romantic, belonging to the past. He was thinking how lovely, how sure,how formed, how final all the things of the past were--the lovelyaccomplished past--this house, so still and golden, the park slumberingits centuries of peace. And then, what a snare and a delusion, thisbeauty of static things--what a horrible, dead prison Breadalby reallywas, what an intolerable confinement, the peace! Yet it was better thanthe sordid scrambling conflict of the present. If only one might createthe future after one's own heart--for a little pure truth, a littleunflinching application of simple truth to life, the heart cried outceaselessly.

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

  'You be interested in what you can, Gerald. Only I'm not interestedmyself,' said Birkin.

  'What am I to do at all, then?' came Gerald's voice.

  'What you like. What am I to do myself?'

  In the silence Birkin could feel Gerald musing this fact.

  'I'm blest if I know,' came the good-humoured answer.

  'You see,' said Birkin, 'part of you wants the Pussum, and nothing butthe Pussum, part of you wants the mines, the business, and nothing butthe business--and there you are--all in bits--'

  'And part of me wants something else,' said Gerald, in a queer, quiet,real voice.

  'What?' said Birkin, rather surprised.

  'That's what I hoped you could tell me,' said Gerald.

  There was a silence for some time.

  'I can't tell you--I can't find my own way, let alone yours. You mightmarry,' Birkin replied.

  'Who--the Pussum?' asked Gerald.

  'Perhaps,' said Birkin. And he rose and went to the window.

  'That is your panacea,' said Gerald. 'But you haven't even tried it onyourself yet, and you are sick enough.'

  'I am,' said Birkin. 'Still, I shall come right.'

  'Through marriage?'

  'Yes,' Birkin answered obstinately.

  'And no,' added Gerald. 'No, no, no, my boy.'

  There was a silence between them, and a strange tension of hostility.They always kept a gap, a distance between them, they wanted always tobe free each of the other. Yet there was a curious heart-strainingtowards each other.

  'Salvator femininus,' said Gerald, satirically.

  'Why not?' said Birkin.

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

  'A woman,' said Birkin.

  'Good,' said Gerald.

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

  She lifted her face, and said, in her amused sing-song:

  'Good morning! Did you sleep well? I'm so glad.'

  And she turned away, ignoring them. Birkin, who knew her well, saw thatshe intended to discount his existence.

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

  Even Alexander was rather authoritative where Hermione was cool. Hetook his tone from her, inevitably. Birkin sat down and looked at thetable. He was so used to this house, to this room, to this atmosphere,through years of intimacy, and now he felt in complete opposition to itall, it had nothing to do with him. How well he knew Hermione, as shesat there, erect and silent and somewhat bemused, and yet so potent, sopowerful! He knew her statically, so finally, that it was almost like amadness. It was difficult to believe one was not mad, that one was nota figure in the hall of kings in some Egyptian tomb, where the dead allsat immemorial and tremendous. How utterly he knew Joshua Mattheson,who was talking in his harsh, yet rather mincing voice, endlessly,endlessly, always with a strong mentality working, always interesting,and yet always known, everything he said known beforehand, howevernovel it was, and clever. Alexander the up-to-date host, so bloodlesslyfree-and-easy, Fraulein so prettily chiming in just as she should, thelittle Italian Countess taking notice of everybody, only playing herlittle game, objective and cold, like a weasel watching everything, andextracting her own amusement, never giving herself in the slightest;then Miss Bradley, heavy and rather subservient, treated with cool,almost amused contempt by Hermione, and therefore slighted byeverybody--how known it all was, like a game with the figures set out,the same figures, the Queen of chess, the knights, the pawns, the samenow as they were hundreds of years ago, the same figures moving roundin one of the innumerable permutations that make up the game. But thegame is known, its going on is like a madness, it is so exhausted.

  There was Gerald, an amused look on his face; the game pleased him.There was Gudrun, watching with steady, large, hostile eyes; the gamefascinated her, and she loathed it. There was Ursula, with a slightlystartled look on her face, as if she were hurt, and the pain were justoutside her consciousness.

  Suddenly Birkin got up and went out.

  'That's enough,' he said to himself involuntarily.

  Hermione knew his motion, though not in her consciousness. She liftedher heavy eyes and saw him lapse suddenly away, on a sudden, unknowntide, and the waves broke over her. Only her indomitable will remainedstatic and mechanical, she sat at the table making her musing, strayremarks. But the darkness had covered her, she was like a ship that hasgone down. It was finished for her too, she was wrecked in thedarkness. Yet the unfailing mechanism of her will worked on, she hadthat activity.

  'Shall we bathe this morning?' she said, suddenly looking at them all.

  'Splendid,' said Joshua. 'It is a perfect morning.'

  'Oh, it is beautiful,' said Fraulein.

  'Yes, let us bathe,' said the Italian woman.

  'We have no bathing suits,' said Gerald.

  'Have mine,' said Alexander. 'I must go to church and read the lessons.They expect me.'

  'Are you a Christian?' asked the Italian Countess, with suddeninterest.

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

  'They are so beautiful,' said Fraulein daintily.

  'Oh, they are,' cried Miss Bradley.

  They all trailed out on to the lawn. It was a sunny, soft morning inearly summer, when life ran in the world subtly, like a reminiscence.The church bells were ringing a little way off, not a cloud was in thesky, the swans were like lilies on the water below, the peacocks walkedwith long, prancing steps across the shadow and into the sunshine ofthe grass. One wanted to swoon into the by-gone perfection of it all.

  'Good-bye,' called Alexander, waving his gloves cheerily, and hedisappeared behind the bushes, on his way to church.

  'Now,' said Hermione, 'shall we all bathe?'

  'I won't,' said Ursula.

  'You don't want to?' said Hermione, looking at her slowly.

  'No. I don't want to,' said Ursula.

  'Nor I,' said Gudrun.

  'What about my suit?' asked Gerald.

  'I don't know,' laughed Hermione, with an odd, amused intonation. 'Willa handkerchief do--a large handkerchief?'

  'That will do,' said Gerald.

  'Come along then,' sang Hermione.

  The first to run across the lawn was the little Italian, small and likea cat, her white legs twinkling as she went, ducking slightly her head,that was tied in a gold silk kerchief. She tripped through the
gate anddown the grass, and stood, like a tiny figure of ivory and bronze, atthe water's edge, having dropped off her towelling, watching the swans,which came up in surprise. Then out ran Miss Bradley, like a large,soft plum in her dark-blue suit. Then Gerald came, a scarlet silkkerchief round his loins, his towels over his arms. He seemed to flaunthimself a little in the sun, lingering and laughing, strolling easily,looking white but natural in his nakedness. Then came Sir Joshua, in anovercoat, and lastly Hermione, striding with stiff grace from out of agreat mantle of purple silk, her head tied up in purple and gold.Handsome was her stiff, long body, her straight-stepping white legs,there was a static magnificence about her as she let the cloak floatloosely away from her striding. She crossed the lawn like some strangememory, and passed slowly and statelily towards the water.

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

  Gerald had dived in, after Sir Joshua, and had swum to the end of thepond. There he climbed out and sat on the wall. There was a dive, andthe little Countess was swimming like a rat, to join him. They both satin the sun, laughing and crossing their arms on their breasts. SirJoshua swam up to them, and stood near them, up to his arm-pits in thewater. Then Hermione and Miss Bradley swam over, and they sat in a rowon the embankment.

  'Aren't they terrifying? Aren't they really terrifying?' said Gudrun.'Don't they look saurian? They are just like great lizards. Did youever see anything like Sir Joshua? But really, Ursula, he belongs tothe primeval world, when great lizards crawled about.'

  Gudrun looked in dismay on Sir Joshua, who stood up to the breast inthe water, his long, greyish hair washed down into his eyes, his neckset into thick, crude shoulders. He was talking to Miss Bradley, who,seated on the bank above, plump and big and wet, looked as if she mightroll and slither in the water almost like one of the slitheringsealions in the Zoo.

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

  They all dropped into the water, and were swimming together like ashoal of seals. Hermione was powerful and unconscious in the water,large and slow and powerful. Palestra was quick and silent as a waterrat, Gerald wavered and flickered, a white natural shadow. Then, oneafter the other, they waded out, and went up to the house.

  But Gerald lingered a moment to speak to Gudrun.

  'You don't like the water?' he said.

  She looked at him with a long, slow inscrutable look, as he stoodbefore her negligently, the water standing in beads all over his skin.

  'I like it very much,' she replied.

  He paused, expecting some sort of explanation.

  'And you swim?'

  'Yes, I swim.'

  Still he would not ask her why she would not go in then. He could feelsomething ironic in her. He walked away, piqued for the first time.

  'Why wouldn't you bathe?' he asked her again, later, when he was oncemore the properly-dressed young Englishman.

  She hesitated a moment before answering, opposing his persistence.

  'Because I didn't like the crowd,' she replied.

  He laughed, her phrase seemed to re-echo in his consciousness. Theflavour of her slang was piquant to him. Whether he would or not, shesignified the real world to him. He wanted to come up to her standards,fulfil her expectations. He knew that her criterion was the only onethat mattered. The others were all outsiders, instinctively, whateverthey might be socially. And Gerald could not help it, he was bound tostrive to come up to her criterion, fulfil her idea of a man and ahuman-being.

  After lunch, when all the others had withdrawn, Hermione and Gerald andBirkin lingered, finishing their talk. There had been some discussion,on the whole quite intellectual and artificial, about a new state, anew world of man. Supposing this old social state WERE broken anddestroyed, then, out of the chaos, what then?

  The great social idea, said Sir Joshua, was the SOCIAL equality of man.No, said Gerald, the idea was, that every man was fit for his ownlittle bit of a task--let him do that, and then please himself. Theunifying principle was the work in hand. Only work, the business ofproduction, held men together. It was mechanical, but then society WASa mechanism. Apart from work they were isolated, free to do as theyliked.

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

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

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

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

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

  'Exactly,' said Gerald. 'Between me and a woman, the social questiondoes not enter. It is my own affair.'

  'A ten-pound note on it,' said Birkin.

  'You don't admit that a woman is a social being?' asked Ursula ofGerald.

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

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

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

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

  Gerald knitted his brows in momentary irritation.

  'Was I laughing?' he said.

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

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

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

  'But I, myself, who am myself, what have I to do with equality with anyother man or woman? In the spirit, I am as separate as one star is fromanother, as different in quality and quantity. Establish a state onTHAT. One man isn't any better than another, not because they areequal, but because they are intrinsically OTHER, that there is no termof comparison. The minute you begin to compare, one man is seen to befar better than another, all the inequality you can imagine is there bynature. I want every man to have his share in the world's goods, sothat I am rid of his importunity, so that I can tell him: "Now you'vegot what you want--you've got your fair share of the world's gear. Now,you one-mouthed fool, mind yourself and don't obstruct me."'

  Hermion
e was looking at him with leering eyes, along her cheeks. Hecould feel violent waves of hatred and loathing of all he said, comingout of her. It was dynamic hatred and loathing, coming strong and blackout of the unconsciousness. She heard his words in her unconsciousself, CONSCIOUSLY she was as if deafened, she paid no heed to them.

  'It SOUNDS like megalomania, Rupert,' said Gerald, genially.

  Hermione gave a queer, grunting sound. Birkin stood back.

  'Yes, let it,' he said suddenly, the whole tone gone out of his voice,that had been so insistent, bearing everybody down. And he went away.

  But he felt, later, a little compunction. He had been violent, cruelwith poor Hermione. He wanted to recompense her, to make it up. He hadhurt her, he had been vindictive. He wanted to be on good terms withher again.

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

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

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

  Terribly shocks ran over her body, like shocks of electricity, as ifmany volts of electricity suddenly struck her down. She was aware ofhim sitting silently there, an unthinkable evil obstruction. Only thisblotted out her mind, pressed out her very breathing, his silent,stooping back, the back of his head.

  A terrible voluptuous thrill ran down her arms--she was going to knowher voluptuous consummation. Her arms quivered and were strong,immeasurably and irresistibly strong. What delight, what delight instrength, what delirium of pleasure! She was going to have herconsummation of voluptuous ecstasy at last. It was coming! In utmostterror and agony, she knew it was upon her now, in extremity of bliss.Her hand closed on a blue, beautiful ball of lapis lazuli that stood onher desk for a paper-weight. She rolled it round in her hand as sherose silently. Her heart was a pure flame in her breast, she was purelyunconscious in ecstasy. She moved towards him and stood behind him fora moment in ecstasy. He, closed within the spell, remained motionlessand unconscious.

  Then swiftly, in a flame that drenched down her body like fluidlightning and gave her a perfect, unutterable consummation, unutterablesatisfaction, she brought down the ball of jewel stone with all herforce, crash on his head. But her fingers were in the way and deadenedthe blow. Nevertheless, down went his head on the table on which hisbook lay, the stone slid aside and over his ear, it was one convulsionof pure bliss for her, lit up by the crushed pain of her fingers. Butit was not somehow complete. She lifted her arm high to aim once more,straight down on the head that lay dazed on the table. She must smashit, it must be smashed before her ecstasy was consummated, fulfilledfor ever. A thousand lives, a thousand deaths mattered nothing now,only the fulfilment of this perfect ecstasy.

  She was not swift, she could only move slowly. A strong spirit in himwoke him and made him lift his face and twist to look at her. Her armwas raised, the hand clasping the ball of lapis lazuli. It was her lefthand, he realised again with horror that she was left-handed.Hurriedly, with a burrowing motion, he covered his head under the thickvolume of Thucydides, and the blow came down, almost breaking his neck,and shattering his heart.

  He was shattered, but he was not afraid. Twisting round to face her hepushed the table over and got away from her. He was like a flask thatis smashed to atoms, he seemed to himself that he was all fragments,smashed to bits. Yet his movements were perfectly coherent and clear,his soul was entire and unsurprised.

  'No you don't, Hermione,' he said in a low voice. 'I don't let you.'

  He saw her standing tall and livid and attentive, the stone clenchedtense in her hand.

  'Stand away and let me go,' he said, drawing near to her.

  As if pressed back by some hand, she stood away, watching him all thetime without changing, like a neutralised angel confronting him.

  'It is not good,' he said, when he had gone past her. 'It isn't I whowill die. You hear?'

  He kept his face to her as he went out, lest she should strike again.While he was on his guard, she dared not move. And he was on his guard,she was powerless. So he had gone, and left her standing.

  She remained perfectly rigid, standing as she was for a long time. Thenshe staggered to the couch and lay down, and went heavily to sleep.When she awoke, she remembered what she had done, but it seemed to her,she had only hit him, as any woman might do, because he tortured her.She was perfectly right. She knew that, spiritually, she was right. Inher own infallible purity, she had done what must be done. She wasright, she was pure. A drugged, almost sinister religious expressionbecame permanent on her face.

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

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

  But they were too soft. He went through the long grass to a clump ofyoung fir-trees, that were no higher than a man. The soft sharp boughsbeat upon him, as he moved in keen pangs against them, threw littlecold showers of drops on his belly, and beat his loins with theirclusters of soft-sharp needles. There was a thistle which pricked himvividly, but not too much, because all his movements were toodiscriminate and soft. To lie down and roll in the sticky, cool younghyacinths, to lie on one's belly and cover one's back with handfuls offine wet grass, soft as a breath, soft and more delicate and morebeautiful than the touch of any woman; and then to sting one's thighagainst the living dark bristles of the fir-boughs; and then to feelthe light whip of the hazel on one's shoulders, stinging, and then toclasp the silvery birch-trunk against one's breast, its smoothness, itshardness, its vital knots and ridges--this was good, this was all verygood, very satisfying. Nothing else would do, nothing else wouldsatisfy, except this coolness and subtlety of vegetation travellinginto one's blood. How fortunate he was, that there was this lovely,subtle, responsive vegetation, waiting for him, as he waited for it;how fulfilled he was, how happy!

  As he dried himself a little with his handkerchief, he thought aboutHermione and the blow. He could feel a pain on the side of his head.But after all, what did it matter? What did Hermione matter, what didpeople matter altogether? There was this perfect cool loneliness, solovely and fresh and unexplored. Really, what a mistake he had made,thinking he wanted people, thinking he wanted a woman. He did not wanta woman--not in the least. The leaves and the primroses and the tre
es,they were really lovely and cool and desirable, they really came intothe blood and were added on to him. He was enrichened now immeasurably,and so glad.

  It was quite right of Hermione to want to kill him. What had he to dowith her? Why should he pretend to have anything to do with humanbeings at all? Here was his world, he wanted nobody and nothing but thelovely, subtle, responsive vegetation, and himself, his own livingself.

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

  He climbed out of the valley, wondering if he were mad. But if so, hepreferred his own madness, to the regular sanity. He rejoiced in hisown madness, he was free. He did not want that old sanity of the world,which was become so repulsive. He rejoiced in the new-found world ofhis madness. It was so fresh and delicate and so satisfying.

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

  He was aware of the pain in his head becoming more and more difficultevery minute. He was walking now along the road to the nearest station.It was raining and he had no hat. But then plenty of cranks went outnowadays without hats, in the rain.

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

  He had better send a note to Hermione: she might trouble about him, andhe did not want the onus of this. So at the station, he wrote saying:

  I will go on to town--I don't want to come back to Breadalby for thepresent. But it is quite all right--I don't want you to mind havingbiffed me, in the least. Tell the others it is just one of my moods.You were quite right, to biff me--because I know you wanted to. Sothere's the end of it.

  In the train, however, he felt ill. Every motion was insufferable pain,and he was sick. He dragged himself from the station into a cab,feeling his way step by step, like a blind man, and held up only by adim will.

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