 CHAPTER 10 Sketchbook One morning the sisters were sketching by the side of willy water at the remote end of the lake. Gudrun had waded out to a gravelly shoal and was seated, like a Buddhist, staring fixedly at the water-plants that rose succulent from the mud of the low shores. What she could see was mud—soft, oozy, watery mud—and from its festering chill water-plant rose up, thick and cool and fleshy, very straight and turgid, thrusting out their leaves at right angles and having dark, lurid colours—dark green and blotches of black, purple and bronze. But she could feel their turgid fleshy structure as in a sensuous vision. She knew how they rose out of the mud. She knew how they thrust out from themselves, how they stood stiff and succulent against the air. Ursula was watching the butterflies, of which there were dozens near the water, little blue ones, suddenly snapping out of nothingness into a jewel-life—a large, black-and-red one standing upon a flower and breathing with his soft wings, intoxicatingly, breathing pure ethereal sunshine. Two white ones wrestling in the low air, there was a halo round them. Ah! When they came tumbling nearer, they were orange tips, and it was the orange that had made the halo. Ursula rose and drifted away, unconscious like the butterflies. Goodrun, absorbed in a stupor of apprehension of surging water-plants, sat crouched on the shoal, drawing, not looking up for a long time, and then staring unconsciously, absorbedly, at the rigid, naked, succulent stems. Her feet were bare, her hat lay on the bank opposite. She started out of her trance, hearing the knocking of oars. She looked round, there was a boat with a gaudy Japanese parasol and a man in white rowing. The woman was Hermione, and the man was Gerald. She knew it instantly. And instantly she perished in the keen frissant of anticipation. An electric vibration in her veins, intense, much more intense than that which was always humming low in the atmosphere of Beldova. Gerald was her escape from the heavy slough of the pale underworld automatic colliers. He started out of the mud. He was master. She saw his back, the movement of his white loins. But not that, it was the whiteness he seemed to enclose as he bent forwards rowing. He seemed to stoop to something. His glistening, whitish hair seemed like the electricity of the sky. There's Gudrun, came Hermione's voice floating distinct over the water. We will go and speak to her. Do you mind? Gerald looked round and saw the girl standing by the water's edge, looking at him. He pulled the boat towards her magnetically, without thinking of her. In his world, his conscious world, she was still nobody. He knew that Hermione had a curious pleasure in treading down all the social differences, at least apparently, and he left it to her. How do you do, Gudrun, sang Hermione, using the Christian name in the fashionable manner? What are you doing? How do you do, Hermione? I was sketching. Were you? The boat drifted nearer till the keel ground on the bank. May we see? I should like to so much. It was no use resisting Hermione's deliberate intention. Well, said Gudrun reluctantly, for she always hated to have her unfinished work exposed. There's nothing in the least interesting. Isn't there? But let me see, will you? Gudrun reached out the sketchbook. Gerald stretched from the boat to take it, and as he did so, he remembered Gudrun's last words to him, and her face lifted up to him as he sat on the swerving horse. An intensification of pride went over his nerves, because he felt in some way she was compelled by him. The exchange of feeling between them was strong and apart from their consciousness. And as if in a spell, Gudrun was aware of his body, stretching and surging like the marsh fire, stretching towards her, his hand coming straight forward like a stem. Her voluptuous, acute apprehension of him made the blood faint in her veins. Her mind went dim and unconscious. And he rocked on the water perfectly, like the rocking of phosphorescence. He looked round at the boat. It was drifting off a little. He lifted the oar to bring it back. And the exquisite pleasure of slowly arresting the boat in the heavy, soft water was complete as a swoon. That's what you have done," said Hermione, looking searchingly at the plants on the shore and comparing with Gudrun's drawing. Gudrun looked round in the direction of Hermione's long, pointing finger. That is it, isn't it? repeated Hermione, needing confirmation. Yes, said Gudrun automatically, taking no real heed. Let me look," said Gerald, reaching forward for the book. But Hermione ignored him. He must not presume before she had finished. But he, his will as unswarted and as unflinching as hers, stretched forward till he touched the book. A little shock. A storm of revulsion against him shook Hermione unconsciously. She released the book when he had not properly got it, and it tumbled against the side of the boat and bounced into the water. There! sang Hermione with a strange ring of malevolent victory. I'm so sorry! So awfully sorry! Can't you get it, Gerald? This last was said in a note of anxious sneering that made Gerald's veins tingle with fine hate for her. He leaned far out of the boat, reaching down into the water. He could feel his position was ridiculous, his loins exposed behind him. It is of no importance! became the strong, clanging voice of Gudrun. She seemed to touch him, but he reached further. The boat swayed violently. Hermione, however, remained unperturbed. He grasped the book under the water and brought it up, dripping. I'm so dreadfully sorry! Dreadfully sorry! repeated Hermione. I'm afraid it was all my fault! It is of no importance! Really, I assure you, it doesn't matter in the least! said Gudrun loudly with emphasis. Her face flushed scarlet, and she held out her hand impatiently for the wet book to have done with the scene. Gerald gave it to her. He was not quite himself. I'm so dreadfully sorry! repeated Hermione, till both Gerald and Gudrun were exasperated. Is there nothing that can be done? In what way? asked Gudrun, with cool irony. Can't we save the drawings? There was a moment's pause wherein Gudrun made evident all her refutation of Hermione's persistence. I assure you, said Gudrun, with cutting distinctness, the drawings are quite as good as ever they were for my purpose. I want them only for reference. But can't I give you a new book? I wish you'd let me do that. I feel so truly sorry. I feel it was all my fault. As far as I saw, said Gudrun, it wasn't your fault at all. If there was any fault, it was Mr. Cry's. But the whole thing is entirely trivial, and it really is ridiculous to take any notice of it. Gerald watched Gudrun closely whilst she repulsed Hermione. There was a body of cold power in her. He watched her with an insight that amounted to clairvoyance. He saw her a dangerous, hostile spirit that could stand undiminished and unabated. It was so finished and of such perfect gesture, moreover. I'm awfully glad if it doesn't matter, he said, if there's no real harm done. She looked back at him with her fine blue eyes, and signalled full into his spirit, as she said her voice ringing with intimacy almost caressive, now it was addressed to him. Of course it doesn't matter in the least. The bond was established between them in that look, in her tone. In her tone she made the understanding clear. They were of the same kind, he and she. A sort of diabolic freemasonry subsisted between them. Henceforward she knew she had her power over him. Wherever they met they would be secretly associated, and he would be helpless in the association with her. Her soul exalted. Good-bye! I'm so glad you forgive me. Good-bye! Hermione sang her farewell and waved her hand. Gerald automatically took the oar and pushed off. But he was looking all the time with a glimmering, subtly smiling admiration in his eyes, at Gudrun, who stood on the shoal shaking the wet book in her hand. She turned away and ignored the receding boat. But Gerald looked back as he rode, beholding her, forgetting what he was doing. Aren't we going too much to the left? sang Hermione, as she sat ignored under her coloured parasol. Gerald looked round without replying, the oars balanced and glancing in the sun. I think it's all right," he said good-humidly, beginning to row again without thinking of what he was doing. And Hermione disliked him extremely for his good-humoured obliviousness. She was nullified. She could not regain ascendancy. End of Chapter 10. Recording by Ruth Golding. CHAPTER 11. An Island. Meanwhile Ursula had wandered on from willy-water along the course of the bright little stream. The afternoon was full of larks singing. On the bright hillsides was a subdued smolder of gorse, a few forget-me-nots flowered by the water. There was a rousedness and a glancing everywhere. She strayed absorbedly on over the brooks. She wanted to go to the mill-pond above. The big mill-house was deserted, saved for a labourer and his wife, who lived in the kitchen. So she passed through the empty farmyard, and through the wilderness of a garden, and mounted the bank by the sloose. When she got to the top, to see the old, velvety surface of the pond before her, she noticed a man on the bank, tinkering with a punt. It was Birkin soaring and hammering away. She stood at the head of the sloose, looking at him. He was unaware of anybody's presence. He looked very busy, like a wild animal, active and intent. She felt she ought to go away. He would not want her. He seemed to be so much occupied. But she did not want to go away. Therefore, she moved along the bank till he would look up. Which he soon did. The moment he saw her, he dropped his tools and came forward, saying, How do you do? I'm making the punt watertight. Tell me if you think it is right. She went along with him. You're your father's daughter, so you can tell me if it will do, he said. She bent to look at the patched punt. I'm sure I am my father's daughter, she said, fearful of having to judge, but I don't know anything about carpentry. It looks right, don't you think? Yes, I think. I hope it won't let me to the bottom, that's all. Though even so, it isn't a great matter. I should come up again. Help me to get it into the water, will you? With combined efforts, they turned over the heavy punt and set it afloat. Now, he said, I'll try it, and you can watch what happens. Then, if it carries, I'll take you over to the island. Do! she cried, watching anxiously. The pond was large and had that perfect stillness and the dark luster of very deep water. There were two small islands overgrown with bushes and a few trees towards the middle. Birkin pushed himself off and veered clumsily in the pond. Luckily the punt drifted so that he could catch hold of a willow-bow and pull it to the island. Rather overgrown, he said, looking into the interior, but very nice. I'll come and fetch you. The boat leaks a little. In a moment he was with her again and she stepped into the wet punt. It'll float us all right, he said, and manoeuvred again to the island. They landed under a willow tree. She shrank from the little jungle of rank plants before her evil-smelling figwort and hemlock, but he explored into it. I shall mow this down, he said, and then it will be romantic, like pole a virgini. Yes, one could have lovely Watto picnics here, cried Ursula with enthusiasm. His face darkened. I don't want Watto picnics here, he said. Only your virgini, she laughed. Virgini enough, he smiled wryly. No, I don't want her either. Ursula looked at him closely. She had not seen him since Bredalby. He was very thin and hollow with a ghastly look in his face. You have been ill, haven't you? she asked, rather repulsed. Yes, he replied coldly. They had sat down under the willow tree and were looking at the pond from their retreat on the island. Has it made you frightened? she asked. What of? he asked, turning his eyes to look at her. Something in him, inhuman and unmitigated, disturbed her and shook her out of her ordinary self. It is frightening to be very ill, isn't it? she said. It isn't pleasant, he said. Whether one is really afraid of death or not, I have never decided. In one mood, not a bit. In another, very much. But doesn't it make you feel ashamed? I think it makes one so ashamed to be ill. Illness is so terribly humiliating, don't you think? He considered for some minutes. Maybe, he said. Though one knows all the time one's life isn't really right at the source, that's the humiliation. I don't see that the illness counts so much after that. One is ill because one doesn't live properly, can't. It's the failure to live that makes one ill and humiliates one. But do you fail to live? she asked, almost jeering. Ah, yes. I don't make much of a success of my days. One seems always to be bumping one's nose against the blank wall ahead. Ursula laughed. She was frightened, and when she was frightened she always laughed and pretended to be jaunty. Your poor nose! she said, looking at that feature of his face. No wonder he's ugly, he replied. She was silent for some minutes, struggling with her own self-deception. It was an instinct in her to deceive herself. But I'm happy. I think life is awfully jolly, she said. Good, he answered, with a certain cold indifference. She reached for a bit of paper which had wrapped a small piece of chocolate she had found in her pocket, and began making a boat. He watched her without heeding her. There was something strangely pathetic and tender in her moving, unconscious fingertips that were agitated and hurt, really. I do enjoy things. Don't you? she asked. Oh yes, but it infuriates me that I can't get right at the really growing part of me. I feel all tangled and messed up, and I can't get straight anyhow. I don't know what really to do. One must do something somewhere. Why should you always be doing? she retorted. It is so plebeian. I think it is much better to be really patrician, and to do nothing but just be oneself, like a walking flower. I quite agree, he said, if one has burst into blossom. But I can't get my flower to blossom anyhow. Now, either it is blighted in the bud, or has got the smotherfly, or it isn't nourished. Curse it, it isn't even a bud. It's a contravene knot. Again she laughed. He was so very fretful and exasperated. But she was anxious and puzzled. How was one to get out anyhow? There must be a way out somewhere. There was a silence wherein she wanted to cry. She reached for another bit of chocolate paper, and began to fold another boat. And why is it, she asked at length, that there is no flowering, no dignity of human life now. The whole idea is dead. Humanity itself is dry rotten really. There are myriads of human beings hanging on the bush, and they look very nice and rosy. You're healthy young men and women. But they're apples of Sodom, as a matter of fact. Dead sea fruit, gall apples. It isn't true that they have any significance. Their insides are full of bitter, corrupt ash. But there are good people, protested Ursula. Good enough for the life of today. But mankind is a dead tree, covered with fine, brilliant galls of people. Ursula could not help stiffening herself against this. It was too picturesque and final. But neither could she help making him go on. And if it is so, why is it, she asked hostile. They were rousing each other to a fine passion of opposition. Why? Why are people all balls of bitter dust? Because they won't fall off the tree when they're ripe. They hang on to their old positions when the position is over-past, till they become infested with little worms and dry rot. There was a long pause. His voice had become hot and very sarcastic. Ursula was troubled and bewildered. They were both oblivious of everything but their own immersion. But even if everybody is wrong, where are you right? She cried. Where are you any better? I? I'm not right. He cried back. At least my only rightness lies in the fact that I know it. I detest what I am outwardly. I loathe myself as a human being. Humanity is a huge aggregate lie, and a huge lie is less than a small truth. Humanity is less, far less than the individual, because the individual may sometimes be capable of truth. And humanity is a tree of lies. And they say that love is the greatest thing. They persist in saying this. They're foul liars. And just look at what they do. Look at all the millions of people who repeat every minute that love is the greatest and charity is the greatest. And see what they are doing all the time. By their works ye shall know them, for dirty liars and cowards who dents stand by their own actions much less by their own words. But, said Ursula sadly, that doesn't alter the fact that love is the greatest, does it? What they do doesn't alter the truth of what they say, does it? Completely. Because if what they say were true, then they couldn't help fulfilling it. But they maintain a lie. And so they run a muck at last. It's a lie to say that love is the greatest. You might as well say that hate is the greatest, since the opposite of everything balances. What people want is hate. Hate and nothing but hate. And in the name of righteousness and love they get it. They distill themselves with nitroglycerine, all the lot of them, out of very love. It's the lie that kills. If we want hate, let us have it. Death, murder, torture, violent destruction, let us have it. But not in the name of love. But I abhor humanity. I wish it was swept away. It could go, and there would be no absolute loss, if every human being perished tomorrow. The reality would be untouched. No, it would be better. The real tree of life would then be rid of the most ghastly, heavy crop of dead sea fruit. The intolerable burden of myriad simulacra of people, an infinite weight of mortal lies. So you'd like everybody in the world destroyed? Said Ursula. I should indeed. And the world empty of people. Yes, truly. You yourself, don't you find it a beautiful, clean thought? A world empty of people, just uninterrupted grass and a hair sitting up. The pleasant sincerity of his voice made Ursula pause to consider her own proposition. And really it was attractive. A clean, lovely, humanless world. It was the really desirable. Her heart hesitated and exalted. But still she was dissatisfied with him. But she objected. You'd be dead yourself, so what good would it do you? I would die like a shot to know that the earth would really be cleaned of all the people. It is the most beautiful and freeing thought. Then there would never be another foul humanity created for a universal defilement. No, said Ursula. There would be nothing. What? Nothing? Just because humanity was wiped out? You flatter yourself. There'd be everything. But how if there were no people? Do you think that creation depends on man? It merely doesn't. There are the trees and the grass and birds. I much prefer to think of the lock rising up in the morning upon a humanless world. Man is a mistake. He must go. Oh, there is the grass and hairs and adders and the unseen hosts, actual angels that go about freely when a dirty humanity doesn't interrupt them, and good pure-tissued demons. Very nice. It pleased Ursula what he said. Pleased her very much as a fantasy. Of course it was only a pleasant fancy. She herself knew too well the actuality of humanity, its hideous actuality. She knew it could not disappear so cleanly and conveniently. It had a long way to go yet. A long and hideous way. Her subtle feminine demoniacal soul knew it well. If only man was swept off the face of the earth, creation would go on so marvellously with a new start, non-human. Man is one of the mistakes of creation, like the ichthyosauri. If only he were gone again, think what lovely things would come out of the liberated days. Things straight out of the fire. But man will never be gone, she said, with insidious diabolical knowledge of the horrors of persistence. The world will go with him. Ah, no, he answered, not so. I believe in the proud angels and the demons that are our forerunners. They will destroy us because we are not proud enough. The ichthyosauri were not proud. They crawled and floundered as we do. And besides, look at elderflowers and bluebells. They are a sign that pure creation takes place, even the butterfly. But humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar stage. It rots in the chrysalis. It never will have wings. It is anti-creation, like monkeys and baboons. Ursula watched him as he talked. There seemed a certain impatient fury in him all the while, and at the same time a great amusement in everything and a final tolerance. And it was this tolerance, she mistrusted, not the fury. She saw that all the while, in spite of himself, he would have to be trying to save the world. And this knowledge, whilst it comforted her heart somewhere with a little self-satisfaction, stability, yet filled her with a certain sharp contempt and hate of him. She wanted him to herself. She hated the Salvatore Mundi touch. It was something diffused and generalized about him, which she could not stand. He would behave in the same way, say the same things, give himself as completely to anybody who came along, anybody and everybody who liked to appeal to him. It was despicable, a very insidious form of prostitution. But, she said, you believe in individual love, even if you don't believe in loving humanity. I don't believe in love at all. That is, any more than I believe in hate or in grief. Love is one of the emotions, like all the others. Love is one of the emotions, like all the others. And so it is all right whilst you feel it. But I can't see how it becomes an absolute. It is just part of human relationships, no more. And it is only part of any human relationship. And why one should be required always to feel it, any more than one always feels sorrow or distant joy I cannot conceive. Love isn't a desideratum. It is an emotion you feel or you don't feel, according to circumstance. Then why do you care about people at all? she asked, if you don't believe in love. Why do you bother about humanity? Why do I? Because I can't get away from it. Because you love it, she persisted. It irritated him. If I do love it, he said, it is my disease. But it is a disease you don't want to be cured of, she said, with some cold sneering. He was silent now, feeling she wanted to insult him. And if you don't believe in love, what do you believe in? She asked, mocking. Simply in the end of the world, and grass. He was beginning to feel a fool. I believe in the unseen hosts, he said. And nothing else. You believe in nothing visible except grass and birds. Your world is a poor show. Perhaps it is, he said, cool and superior now he was offended, assuming a certain insufferable aloof superiority, and withdrawing into his distance. Ursula disliked him. But also she felt she had lost something. She looked at him as he sat crouched on the bank. There was a certain priggish Sunday school stiffness over him. Priggish and detestable. And yet at the same time, the moulding of him was so quick and attractive, it gave such a great sense of freedom. The moulding of his brows, his chin, his whole physique. Something so alive somewhere in spite of the look of sickness. And it was this duality and feeling which he created in her, that made a fine hate of him quicken in her bowels. There was his wonderful, desirable life rapidity, the rare quality of an utterly desirable man. And there was at the same time this ridiculous, mean effacement into a salvatore mundi and a Sunday school teacher, a prigg of the stiffest type. He looked up at her. He saw her face strangely incandled, as if suffused from within by a powerful, sweet fire. His soul was arrested in wonder. She was incandled in her own living fire. Arrested in wonder and in pure, perfect attraction, he moved towards her. She sat like a strange queen, almost supernatural, in her glowing, smiling richness. The point about love, he said, his consciousness quickly adjusting itself, is that we hate the word because we have vulgarized it. It ought to be prescribed to booed from utterance for many years, till we get a new, better idea. There was a beam of understanding between them. But it always means the same thing. She said. Ah, God, no! Let it not mean that any more. He cried. Let the old meanings go. Still, it is love. She persisted. A strange, wicked, yellow light shone at him in her eyes. He hesitated, baffled, withdrawing. No, he said. It isn't. Spoken like that, never in the world, you've no business to utter the word. I must leave it to you to take it out of the arc of the covenant at the right moment, she mocked. Again they looked at each other. She suddenly sprang up, turned her back to him and walked away. He too rose slowly and went to the water's edge, where, crouching, he began to amuse himself unconsciously. Picking a daisy, he dropped it on the pond, so that the stem was a keel. The flower floated like a little water lily, staring with its open face up to the sky. It turned slowly round in a slow, slow, dervish dance as it veered away. He watched it, then dropped another daisy into the water, and after that another, and sat watching them with bright, absolved eyes, crouching near on the bank. Ursula turned to look. A strange feeling possessed her, as if something were taking place. But it was all intangible, and some sort of contraption. The troll was being put on her. She could not know. She could only watch the brilliant little discs of the daisies veering slowly in travel on the dark, lustrous water. The little flotilla was drifting into the light, a company of white specks in the distance. Do let us go to the shore to follow them, she said, afraid of being any longer imprisoned on the island, and they pushed off in the punt. She was glad to be on the free land again. She went along the bank towards the sluice. The daisies were scattered broadcast on the pond, tiny, radiant things, like an exaltation, points of exaltation here and there. Why did they move her so strongly and mystically? Look, he said, your boat of purple paper is escorting them, and they are a convoy of rafts. Some of the daisies came slowly towards her, hesitating, making a shy, bright little cotylion on the dark, clear water. Their gay, bright candour moved her so much as they came near that she was almost in tears. Why are they so lovely? she cried. Why do I think them so lovely? They're nice flowers, he said, her emotional tones putting a constraint on him. You know that a daisy is a company of florets, a concourse, become individual. Don't the botanists put it highest in the line of development? I believe they do. The compositor, yes, I think so, said Ursula, who was never very sure of anything. Things she knew perfectly well at one moment seemed to become doubtful the next. Explain it so, then, he said. The daisy is a perfect little democracy, so it's the highest of flowers, hence its charm. No, she cried. No, never. It isn't democratic. No, he admitted. It's the golden mob of the proletariat surrounded by a showy white fence of the idle rich. How hateful your hateful social orders, she cried. Quite. It's a daisy. We'll leave it alone. Do. Let it be a dark horse for once, she said. If anything can be a dark horse to you, she added satirically. They stood aside, forgetful. As if a little stunned they both were motionless, barely conscious. The little conflict into which they had fallen had torn their consciousness and left them like two impersonal forces there in contact. He became aware of the lapse. He wanted to say something to get on to a new, more ordinary footing. You know, he said, that I am having rooms here at the mill. Then do you think we can have some good times? What are you, she said, ignoring all his implication of admitted intimacy. He adjusted himself at once, became normally distant. If I find I can live sufficiently by myself, he continued, I shall give up my work altogether. It has become dead to me. I don't believe in the humanity I pretend to be part of. I don't care as straw for the social ideals I live by. I hate the dying organic form of social mankind. So it can't be anything but trumpery to work at education. I shall drop it as soon as I am clear enough, tomorrow perhaps, and be by myself. Have you enough to live on? asked Ursula. Yes, I've about four hundred a year. That makes it easy for me. There was a pause. And what about Hermione? asked Ursula. That's over, finally. A pure failure and never could have been anything else. But you still know each other. We could hardly pretend to be strangers, could we? There was a stubborn pause. But isn't that a half measure? asked Ursula at length. I don't think so, he said. You'll be able to tell me if it is. Again there was a pause of some minute's duration. He was thinking. One must throw everything away, everything, let everything go, to get the one last thing one wants, he said. What thing, she asked in challenge. I don't know. Freedom together, he said. She had wanted him to say love. There was heard a loud barking of the dogs below. He seemed disturbed by it. She did not notice. Only she thought he seemed uneasy. As a matter of fact, he said, in rather a small voice, I believe that is Hermione come now, with Gerald cry. She wanted to see the rooms before they are furnished. I know, said Ursula, she will super intend the furnishing for you. Probably. Does it matter? Oh no, I should think not, said Ursula. Though personally I can't bear her. I think she is alive, you like. You who are always talking about life. Then she ruminated for a moment. When she broke out. Yes, and I do mind if she furnishes your rooms. I do mind. I mind that you keep her hanging on at all. He was silent now, frowning. Perhaps, he said, I don't want her to furnish the rooms here, and I don't keep her hanging on. Only, I needn't be churlish to her, need I? At any rate, I shall have to go down and see them now. You'll come, won't you? I don't think so, she said, coldly and irresolutely. Won't you? Yes, do. Come and see the rooms as well. Do come. End of Chapter 11. Recording by Ruth Golding Chapter 12 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ruth Golding Women in Love by D. H. Lawrence Chapter 12 Carpeting He set off down the bank, and she went unwillingly with him, yet she would not have stayed away either. We know each other well, you and I, already, he said. She did not answer. In the large, darkish kitchen of the mill, the Libra's wife was talking shrilly to her man named Gerald, who stood, he in white, and she in a glistening bluish fula, strangely luminous in the dusk of the room. Whilst from the cages on the walls a dozen or more canaries sang at the top of their voices. The cages were all placed round a small square window at the back, where the sunshine came in, a beautiful beam filtering through green leaves of a tree. The voice of Mrs. Salmon shrilled against the noise of the birds, which rose ever more wild and triumphant, and the woman's voice went up and up against them, and the birds replied with wild animation. Here's Robert! shouted Gerald in the midst of the din. He was suffering badly, being very sensitive in the ear. Oh, then birds! they won't let you speak! shrilled the Libra's wife in disgust. I'll cover them up! and she darted here and there, throwing a duster, an apron, a towel, a tablecloth over the cages of the birds. Now will you stop it and let a body speak for your row? she said, still in a voice that was too high. The party watched her. Soon the cages were covered. They had a strange funereal look, but from under the towels all defiant trills and bobbling still shook out. You won't go on, said Mrs. Salmon reassuringly. They'll go to sleep now. Really? said Hermione politely. Really? said Hermione politely. They will, said Gerald. They will go to sleep automatically, and now the impression of evening is produced. Are they so easily deceived? cried Ursula. Oh, yes, replied Gerald. Don't you know the story of Thab, who when he was a boy put a hen's head under her wing and she straight away went to sleep? It's quite true. And did that make him a naturalist? asked Birkin. Probably, said Gerald. Meanwhile Ursula was peeping under one of the cloths. There sat the canary in the corner, bunched and fluffed up for sleep. How ridiculous! she cried. It really thinks the night has come. How absurd! Really, how can one have any respect for a creature that is so easily taken in? Yes, sang Hermione, coming also to look. She put her hand on Ursula's arm and chuckled a low laugh. Yes, oh, doesn't he look comical? she chuckled, like a stupid husband. Then, with her hand still on Ursula's arm, she drew her away, saying, in her mild sing-song, How did you come here? We saw Gudrun, too. I came to look at the pond, said Ursula, and I found Mr Birkin there. Did you? This is quite a Brangwin land, isn't it? I'm afraid I hoped so, said Ursula. I ran here for refuge when I saw you down the lake, just footing off. Did you? And now we've run you to earth. Hermione's eyelids lifted with an uncanny movement, amused but overwrought. She had always her strange, wrapped look, unnatural and irresponsible. I was going on, said Ursula. Mr Birkin wanted me to see the rooms. Isn't it delightful to live here? It's perfect. Yes, said Hermione abstractively. Then she turned right away from Ursula, ceased to know her existence. How do you feel, Rupert? She sang in a new affectionate tone to Birkin. Very well, he replied. Were you quite comfortable? The curious, sinister, wrapped look was on Hermione's face. She shrugged her bosom in a convulsed movement, and seemed like one half in a trance. Quite comfortable, he replied. There was a long pause, whilst Hermione looked at him for a long time. From under her heavy, drugged eyelids. And you think you'll be happy here? She said at last. I'm sure I shall. I'm sure I shall do anything for him as I can, said the labourer's wife. And I'm sure our master will, so I hope he'll find himself comfortable. Hermione turned and looked at her slowly. Thank you so much, she said, and then she turned completely away again. She recovered her position, and lifting her face towards him, and addressing him exclusively. She said, Have you measured the rooms? No, he said. I've been mending the pond. Shall we do it now? She said slowly, balanced and dispassionate. Have you got a tape measure, Mrs. Salmon? He said, turning to the woman. Yes, sir, I think I can find one. Replied the woman, bustling immediately to a basket. This is the only one I've got, if it will do. Hermione took it, though it was offered to him. Thank you so much, she said. It will do very nicely. Thank you so much. Then she turned to Birkin, saying with a little gay movement, Shall we do it now, Rupert? What about the others? They'll be bored, he said reluctantly. Do you mind? said Hermione, turning to Ursula and Gerald vaguely. Not in the least, they replied. Which room shall we do first? she said, turning again to Birkin, with the same gaiety, now she was going to do something with him. We'll take them as they come, he said. Shall I be getting your teas ready while you do that? said the labourer's wife, also gay because she had something to do. Would you, said Hermione, turning to her with the curious motion of intimacy that seemed to envelop the woman, draw her almost to Hermione's breast, and which left the others standing apart? I should be so glad. Where shall we have it? Where would you like it? shall it be in here or out on the grass? Where shall we have tea? sang Hermione to the company at lodge. On the bank by the pond, and we'll carry the things up if you'll just get them ready, Mrs. Salmon, said Birkin. All right, said the pleased woman. The party moved down the passage into the front room. It was empty, but clean and sunny. There was a window looking onto the tangled front garden. This is the dining room, said Hermione. We'll measure it this way, Rupert. You go down there. Can't I do it for you? said Gerald, coming to take the end of the tape. No, thank you! cried Hermione, stooping to the ground in her bluish, brilliant fula. It was a great joy to her to do things, and to have the ordering of the job with Birkin. He obeyed her subduedly. Ursula and Gerald looked on. It was a peculiarity of Hermione's that at every moment she had won intimate, and turned all the rest of those present into onlookers. This raised her into a state of triumph. They measured and discussed in the dining room, and Hermione decided what the floor coverings must be. It sent her into a strange convulsed anger to be thwarted. Birkin always let her have her way for the moment. Then they moved across through the hall to the other front room, that was a little smaller than the first. This is the study, said Hermione. Rupert, I have a rug that I want you to have for here. Will you let me give it to you? Do I want to give it to you? What is it like? he asked ungraciously. You haven't seen it. It is chiefly rose red, then blue, a metallic mid-blue, and a very soft dark blue. I think you would like it. Do you think you would? It sounds very nice, he replied. What is it, Oriental, with a pile? Yes, Persian. It is made of camel's hair, silky. I think it is called Burgamos. 12 feet by 7. Do you think it will do? It would do, he said. But why should you give me an expensive rug? I can manage perfectly well with my old Oxford Turkish. But may I give it to you? Do let me. How much did it cost? She looked at him and said, I don't remember. It was quite cheap. He looked at her, his face set. I don't want to take it, Hermione, he said. Do let me give it to the rooms, she said, going up to him and putting her hand on his arm lightly, pleadingly. I shall be so disappointed. You know I don't want you to give me things, he repeated helplessly. I don't want to give you things, she said teasingly. But will you have this? All right, he said, defeated. And she triumphed. They went upstairs. There were two bedrooms to correspond with the rooms downstairs. One of them was half furnished, and Birkin had evidently slept there. Hermione went round the room carefully, taking in every detail, as if absorbing the evidence of his presence in all the inanimate things. She felt the bed and examined the coverings. Are you sure you were quite comfortable? she said, pressing the pillow. Perfectly, he replied coldly. And were you warm? There is no down quilt. I'm sure you need one. You mustn't have a great pressure of clothes. I've got one, he said. It is coming down. They measured the rooms and lingered over every consideration. Ursula stood at the window and watched the woman carrying the tea up the bank to the pond. She hated the palaver Hermione made. She wanted to drink tea. She wanted anything but this fuss and busyness. At last they all mounted the grassy bank to the picnic. Hermione poured out tea. She ignored now Ursula's presence. And Ursula, recovering from her ill humour, turned to Gerald saying, Oh, I hated you so much the other day, Mr. Cry. What for? said Gerald, wincing slightly away. For treating your horse so badly. Oh, I hated you so much. What did he do? sang Hermione. He made his lovely sensitive Arab horse stand with him at the railway crossing, whilst a horrible lot of trucks went by. And the poor thing she was in a perfect frenzy. A perfect agony. It was the most horrible sight you can imagine. Why did you do it, Gerald? asked Hermione, calm and interrogative. She must learn to stand. What use is she to me in this country if she shies and goes off every time an engine whistles? But why inflict unnecessary torture? said Ursula. Why make her stand all that time at the crossing? You might just as well have ridden back up the road and saved all that horror. Her sides were bleeding where you'd spurred her. It was too horrible. Gerald stiffened. I have to use her, he replied. And if I'm going to be sure of her at all, she'll have to learn to stand noises. Why should she? cried Ursula in a passion. She is a living creature. Why should she stand anything, just because you choose to make her? She has as much right to her own being as you have to yours. There I disagree, said Gerald. I consider that mare is there for my use, not because I bought her, but because that is the natural order. It is more natural for a man to take a horse and use it as he likes, than for him to go down on his knees to it, begging it to do as it wishes, and to fulfill its own marvellous nature. Ursula was just breaking out when Hermione lifted her face and began in her musing sing-song. I do think. I do really think we must have the courage to use the lower animal life for our needs. I do think there is something wrong when we look on every living creature as if it were ourselves. I do feel that it is false to project our own feelings on every animate creature. It is a lack of discrimination, a lack of criticism. Quite, said Birkin, sharply, nothing is so detestable as the mordlin attributing of human feelings and consciousness to animals. Yes, said Hermione, wearily. We must really take a position. Either we are going to use the animals, or they will use us. That's a fact, said Gerald. A horse has got a will like a man, though it has no mind, strictly. And if your will isn't master, then the horse is master of you. And this is a thing I can't help. I can't help being master of the horse. If only we could learn how to use our will, said Hermione, we could do anything. The will can cure anything and put anything right, that I am convinced of. If only we use the will properly, intelligibly. What do you mean by using the will properly? said Birkin. A very great doctor taught me, she said, addressing Ursula and Gerald vaguely. He told me, for instance, that to cure one's self of a bad habit, one should force one's self to do it, when one would not do it. Make one's self do it, and then the habit would disappear. How do you mean, said Gerald? If you bite your nails, for example, then when you don't want to bite your nails, bite them. Make yourself bite them. And you would find the habit was broken. Is that so, said Gerald? Yes. And in so many things I have made myself well. I was a very queer and nervous girl, and by learning to use my will, simply by using my will I made myself right. Ursula looked all the while at Hermione as she spoke in her slow, dispassionate and yet strangely tense voice. A curious thrill went over the younger woman. Some strange dark convulsive power was in Hermione, fascinating and repelling. It is fatal to use the will like that! cried Birkin harshly. Disgusting! Such a will is an obscenity! Hermione looked at him for a long time, with her shadowed, heavy eyes. Her face was soft and pale and thin, almost phosphorescent. Her jaw was lean. I'm sure it isn't, she said at length. There always seemed an interval, a strange split between what she seemed to feel and experience, and what she actually said and thought. She seemed to catch her thoughts at length from off the surface of a maelstrom of chaotic black emotions and reactions, and Birkin was always filled with repulsion. She caught so infallibly, her will never failed her. Her voice was always dispassionate and tense and perfectly confident. Yet she shuddered with a sense of nausea, a sort of seasickness that always threatened to overwhelm her mind. But her mind remained unbroken, her will was still perfect. It almost sent Birkin mad, that he would never, never dare to break her will, and let loose the maelstrom of her subconsciousness, and see her in her ultimate madness. Yet he was always striking at her. And of course, he said to Gerald, horses haven't got a complete will like human beings. A horse has no one will. Every horse strictly has two wills. With one will it wants to put itself in the human power completely, and with the other it wants to be free, wild. The two wills sometimes lock, you know that, if you've ever felt a horse bolt while you've been driving it. I have felt a horse bolt while I was driving it, said Gerald, but it didn't make me know it had two wills, I only knew it was frightened. Hermione had ceased to listen. She simply became oblivious when these subjects were started. Why should a horse want to put itself in the human power? asked Ursula. That is quite incomprehensible to me. I don't believe it ever wanted it. Yes, it did. It's the last perhaps highest love impulse. Resign your will to the higher being, said Birkin. What curious notions you have of love, jeered Ursula. And woman is the same as horses. Two wills act in opposition inside her. With one will she wants to subject herself utterly. With the other she wants to bolt and pitch her rider to perdition. Then I'm a bolter, said Ursula, with a burst of laughter. It's a dangerous thing to domesticate even horses, let alone women, said Birkin. The dominant principal has some rare antagonists. Good thing too, said Ursula. Quite, said Gerald, with a faint smile. There's more fun. Her money could bear no more. She rose, saying in her easy sing-song. Isn't the evening beautiful? I get filled sometimes with such a great sense of beauty that I feel I can hardly bear it. Ursula, to whom she had appealed, rose with her, moved to the last impersonal depths. And Birkin seemed to her almost a monster of hateful arrogance. She went with Hermione along the bank of the pond, talking of beautiful soothing things, picking the gentle cow slips. Wouldn't you like a dress? said Ursula to Hermione, of this yellow spotted with orange, a cotton dress. Yes, said Hermione, stopping and looking at the flower, letting the thought come home to her and soothes her. Wouldn't it be pretty? I should love it! And she turned smiling to Ursula in a feeling of real affection. But Gerald remained with Birkin, wanting to probe him to the bottom, to know what he meant by the dual will in horses. A flicker of excitement danced on Gerald's face. Hermione and Ursula strayed on together, united in a sudden bond of deep affection and closeness. I really do not want to be forced into all this criticism and analysis of life. I really do want to see things in their entirety, with their beauty left to them, and their wholeness, their natural holiness. Don't you feel it? Don't you feel you can't be tortured into any more knowledge? said Hermione, stopping in front of Ursula and turning to her with clenched fists thrust downwards. Yes, said Ursula, I do. I'm sick of all this poking and prying. I'm so glad you are. Sometimes, said Hermione, again stopping, arrested in her progress and turning to Ursula. Sometimes I wonder if I ought to submit to all this realisation. If I'm not being weak in rejecting it. But I feel I can't. I can't. It seems to destroy everything. All the beauty and the true holiness is destroyed, and I feel I can't live without them. And it would be simply wrong to live without them, cried Ursula. No, it is so irreverent to think that everything must be realised in the head. Really something must be left to the Lord. There always is and always will be. Yes, said Hermione, reassured like a child. It should, shouldn't it? And roop it. She lifted her face to the sky and amused. He can only tear things to pieces. He really is like a boy who must pull everything to pieces to see how it is made. And I can't think it is right. It does seem so irreverent as you say. Like tearing open a bud to see what the flower will be like, said Ursula. Yes. And that kills everything, doesn't it? It doesn't allow any possibility of flowering. Of course not, said Ursula. It is purely destructive. It is, isn't it? Hermione looked long and slow at Ursula, seeming to accept confirmation from her. Then the two women were silent. As soon as they were in accord, they began mutually to mistrust each other. In spite of herself, Ursula felt herself recoiling from Hermione. It was all she could do to restrain her revulsion. They returned to the men, like two conspirators who have withdrawn to come to an agreement. Birkin looked up at them. Ursulae hated him for his cold watchfulness. But he said nothing. Shall we be going? said Hermione. Rupert, you're coming to Shortland to dinner. Will you come at once? Will you come now, with us? I'm not dressed, replied Birkin. And you know Gerald stickles the convention. I don't stickle for it, said Gerald. But if you'd got as sick as I have a rowdy go-as-you-please in the house, you'd prefer it if people were peaceful and conventional, at least at meals. All right, said Birkin. But can't we wait for you while you dress? persisted Hermione. If you like. He rose to go indoors. Ursulae said she would take her leave. She said, turning to Gerald, I must say that however man is lord of the beast in the fowl, I still don't think he has any right to violate the feelings of the inferior creation. I still think it would have been much more sensible and nice of you, if you'd trotted back up the road while the train went by, and been considerate. I see, said Gerald, smiling, but somewhat annoyed. I must remember another time. They all think I'm an interfering female, thought Ursulae to herself as she went away. But she was in arms against them. She ran home plunged in thought. She had been very much moved by Hermione. She had really come into contact with her, so that there was a sort of league between the two women. And yet she could not bear her. But she put the thought away. She's really good, she said to herself. She really wants what is right. And she tried to feel at one with Hermione, and to shut off from Birkin. She was strictly hostile to him. But she was held to him by some bond, some deep principle. This at once irritated her, and saved her. Only now and again violent little shudders would come over her, out of her subconsciousness. And she knew it was the fact that she had stated her challenge to Birkin, and he had, consciously or unconsciously, accepted. It was a fight to the death between them. Or to new life. Though in what the conflict lay, no one could say. End of Chapter 12. Recording by Ruth Golding. Chapter 13 of Women in Love. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ruth Golding. Women in Love by D. H. Lawrence. Chapter 13. Me know. The days went by, and she received no sign. Was he going to ignore her? Was he going to take no further notice of her secret? A dreary weight of anxiety and acrid bitterness settled on her. And yet Ursula knew she was only deceiving herself, and that he would proceed. She said no word to anybody. Then, sure enough, there came a note from him, asking if she would come to tea with Gudrun, to his rooms in town. Why does he ask Gudrun as well? She asked herself at once. Does he want to protect himself? Or does he think I would not go alone? She was tormented by the thought that he wanted to protect himself. But at the end of all, she only said to herself, I don't want Gudrun to be there, because I want him to say something more to me. So I shan't tell Gudrun anything about it, and I shall go alone. Then I shall know. She found herself sitting on the tram-car, mounting up the hill going out of the town, to the place where he had his lodging. She seemed to have passed into a kind of dream-world, absolved from the conditions of actuality. She watched the sordid streets of the town go by beneath her, as if she were a spirit disconnected from the material universe. What had it all to do with her? She was palpitating and formless within the flux of the ghost life. She could not consider any more what anybody would say of her, or think about her. People had passed out of her range. She was absolved. She had fallen strange and dim out of the sheaths of the material life, as a berry falls from the only world it has ever known, down out of the sheath onto the real unknown. Birkin was standing in the middle of the room when she was shown in by the landlady. He, too, was moved outside himself. She saw him agitated and shaken, a frail, unsubstantial body, silent like the node of some violent force that came out from him and shook her almost into a swoon. You are alone, he said. Yes, Gudrun could not come. He instantly guessed why. And they were both seated in silence in the terrible tension of the room. She was aware that it was a pleasant room, full of light and very restful in its form, aware also of a fuchsia tree with dangling scarlet and purple flowers. How nice the fuchsias are, she said, to break the silence. Aren't they? Did you think I had forgotten what I said? A swoon went over Ursula's mind. I don't want you to remember it, if you don't want to, she struggled to say through the dark mist that covered her. There was silence for some moments. No, he said. It isn't that. Only if we are going to know each other we must pledge ourselves forever. If we are going to make a relationship, even a friendship, there must be something final and infallible about it. There was a clang of mistrust and almost anger in his voice. She did not answer. Her heart was too much contracted. She could not have spoken. Seeing she was not going to reply, he continued almost bitterly, giving himself away. I can't say it is love I have to offer. And it isn't love I want. It is something much more impersonal and harder and rarer. There was a silence out of which she said, You mean you don't love me? She suffered furiously saying that. Yes, if you like to put it like that, though perhaps that isn't true, I don't know. At any rate, I don't feel the emotion of love for you know, and I don't want to, because it gives out in the last issues. Love gives out in the last issues, she asked, feeling numb to the lips. Yes, it does. At the very last one is alone, beyond the influence of love. There is a real impersonal me that is beyond love, beyond any emotional relationship. So it is with you. But we want to delude ourselves that love is the root, it isn't. It is only the branches. The root is beyond love, a naked kind of isolation, an isolated me that does not meet and mingle, never can. She watched him with wide troubled eyes. His face was incandescent in its abstract earnestness. And you mean you can't love, she asked in trepidation. Yes, if you like, I have loved, but there is a beyond where there is not love. She could not submit to this. She felt it's wounding over her, but she could not submit. But how do you know if you have never really loved, she asked. It is true what I say. There is a beyond in you, in me, which is further than love, beyond the scope, as stars are beyond the scope of vision, some of them. Then there is no love, cried Ursula. Ultimately no. There is something else, but ultimately there is no love. Ursula was given over to this statement for some moments. Then she half rose from her chair, saying in a final repellent voice, then let me go home. What am I doing here? There is the door, he said. You are a free agent. He was suspended finely and perfectly in this extremity. She hung motionless for some seconds. Then she sat down again. If there is no love, what is there? She cried, almost jeering. Something, he said, looking at her, battling with his soul with all his might. What! He was silent for a long time, unable to be in communication with her while she was in this state of opposition. There is, he said, in a voice of pure abstraction, a final me which is stark and impersonal and beyond responsibility. So there is a final you. And it is there I would want to meet you, not in the emotional loving plane, but there beyond, where there is no speech and no terms of agreement. There we are two stark unknown beings, two utterly strange creatures. I would want to approach you and you me. And there could be no obligation because there is no standard for action there. Because no understanding has been reaped from that plane. It is quite inhuman. So there can be no calling to book in any form whatsoever, because one is outside the pale of all that is accepted and nothing known applies. One can only follow the impulse, taking that which lies in front, and responsible for nothing, asked for nothing, giving nothing, only each taking according to the primal desire. Ursula listened to this speech her mind dumb and almost senseless, what he said was so unexpected and so untoward. It is just purely selfish, she said. If it is pure yes, but it isn't selfish at all because I don't know what I want of you. I deliver myself over to the unknown in coming to you. I am without reserves or defences stripped entirely into the unknown. Only there needs the pledge between us that we will both cast off everything, cast off ourselves even, and cease to be, so that that which is perfectly ourselves can take place in us. She pondered along her own line of thought. But it is because you love me that you want me, she persisted. No, it isn't. It is because I believe in you, if I do believe in you. Aren't you sure? She laughed, suddenly hurt. He was looking at her steadfastly, scarcely heeding what she said. Yes, I must believe in you, or else I shouldn't be here saying this, he replied. But that is all the proof I have. I don't feel any very strong belief at this particular moment. She disliked him for this sudden relapse into weariness and faithlessness. But don't you think me good-looking? She persisted in a mocking voice. He looked at her to see if he felt that she was good-looking. I don't feel that you're good-looking, he said. Not even attractive, she mocked, bitingly. He knitted his brows in sudden exasperation. Don't you see that it's not a question of visual appreciation in the least, he cried. I don't want to see you. I've seen plenty of women. I'm sick and weary of seeing them. I want a woman I don't see. I'm sorry I can't oblige you by being invisible, she laughed. Yes, he said. You are invisible to me if you don't force me to be visually aware of you. But I don't want to see you or hear you. What did you ask me to tea for, then? she mocked. But he would take no notice of her. He was talking to himself. I want to find you, where you don't know your own existence, the use that your common self denies utterly. But I don't want your good looks, and I don't want your womanly feelings, and I don't want your thoughts nor opinions nor your ideas. They are all baggattels to me. You are very conceited, monsieur, she mocked. How do you know what my womanly feelings are, all my thoughts or my ideas? You don't even know what I think of you now. Nor do I care in the slightest. I think you're very silly. I think you want to tell me you love me and you go all this way round to do it. All right, he said, looking up with sudden exasperation. Now go away, then, and leave me alone. I don't want any more of your meritorious persiflage. Is it really persiflage? she mocked, a face really relaxing into laughter. She interpreted it that he had made a deep confession of love to her. But he was so absurd in his words also. They were silent for many minutes. She was pleased and elated like a child. His concentration broke. He began to look at her simply and naturally. What I want is a strange conjunction with you, he said quietly. Not meeting and mingling, you are quite right. But an equilibrium, a pure balance of two single beings as the stars balance each other. She looked at him. He was very earnest and earnestness was always rather ridiculous, commonplace to her. It made her feel unfree and uncomfortable. Yet she liked him so much. But why drag in the stars? Isn't this rather sudden? she mocked. He began to laugh. Best to read the terms of the contract before we sign, he said. A young grey cat that had been sleeping on the sofa jumped down and stretched, rising on its long legs and arching its slim back. Then it sat considering for a moment erect and kingly. And then, like a dart, it had shot out of the room through the open window-doors and into the garden. What's he after? said Birkin, rising. The young cat trotted lordly down the path waving his tail. He was an ordinary tabby with white paws, a slender young gentleman. A crouching, fluffy, brownish grey cat was stealing up the side of the fence. The minnow walked statelyly up to her with manly nonchalance. She crouched before him and pressed herself on the ground in humility. A fluffy, soft outcast, looking up at him with wild eyes that were green and lovely as great jewels. He looked casually down on her, so she crept a few inches further, proceeding on her way to the back door, crouching in a wonderful, soft, self-abliterating manner and moving like a shadow. He, going statelyly on his slim legs, walked after her, then suddenly, for pure excess, he gave her a light cuff with his paw on the side of her face. She ran off a few steps, like a blown leaf along the ground, then crouched unobtrusively in submissive, wild patience. The minnow pretended to take no notice of her. He blinked his eyes superbly at the landscape. In a minute she drew herself together and moved softly, a fleecy, brown grey shadow, a few paces forward. She began to quicken her pace. In a moment she would be gone like a dream when the young grey lord sprang before her and gave her a light, handsome cuff. She subsided at once, submissively. She is a wild cat, said Birkin. She has come in from the woods. The eyes of the stray cat flared round for a moment, like great green fires staring at Birkin. Then she had rushed in a soft, swift rush, halfway down the garden. There she paused to look round. The minnow turned his face in pure superiority to his master and slowly closed his eyes, standing in statuesque young perfection. The wild cat's round, green, wandering eyes were staring all the while, like uncanny fires. Then again, like a shadow, she slid towards the kitchen. In a lovely springing leap, like a wind, the minnow was upon her and had boxed her twice very definitely with a white, delicate fist. She sank and slid back, unquestioning. He walked after her and cuffed her once or twice, leisurely, with sudden little blows of his magic white paws. Now why does he do that? cried Ursula in indignation. They are on intimate terms, said Birkin. And is that why he hits her? Yes, laughed Birkin. I think he wants to make it quite obvious to her. Isn't it horrid of him? she cried, and going out into the garden she called to the minnow. Stop it! Don't bully! Stop hitting her! The stray cat vanished, like a swift, invisible shadow. The minnow glanced at Ursula, then looked from her disdainfully to his master. Are you a bully, minnow? Birkin asked. The young, slim cat looked at him and slowly narrowed its eyes. Then it glanced away at the landscape, looking into the distance as if completely oblivious of the two human beings. Minnow, said Ursula, I don't like you. You're a bully like all males. No, said Birkin, he is justified. He is not a bully. He is only insisting to the poor stray that she shall acknowledge him as a sort of fate, her own fate. Because you can see she is fluffy and promiscuous as the wind. I'm with him entirely. He wants superfine stability. Yes, I know, cried Ursula. He wants his own way. I know what your fine words work down to. Bossiness, I call it. Bossiness. The young cat again glanced at Birkin in disdain of the noisy woman. I quite agree with you, Michotto, said Birkin to the cat. Keep your male dignity and your higher understanding. Again the minnow narrowed his eyes as if he were looking at the sun. Then suddenly affecting to have no connection at all with the two people, he went trotting off with assumed spontaneity and gaiety. His tail erect, his white feet blithe. Now he will find the bell salvage once more and entertain her with his superior wisdom laughed Birkin. Ursula looked at the man who stood in the garden with his hair blowing and his eyes smiling ironically. And she cried. Oh, it makes me so cross, this assumption of male superiority. And it is such a lie. One wouldn't mind if there were any justification for it. The wild cat, said Birkin, doesn't mind. She perceives that it is justified. Does she? cried Ursula, and tell it to the horse marines. To them also. It is just like Gerald cry with his horse, a lust for bullying a real villa tourmarte. So base, so petty. I agree that the villa tourmarte is a base and petty thing. But with the minnow it is the desire to bring this female cat into a pure stable equilibrium, a transcendent and abiding rapport with the single male. Whereas without him, as you see, she is a mere stray, a fluffy sporadic bit of chaos. It is a volunteer to Pouvoir, if you like. A will to ability, taking Pouvoir as a verb. Ah, sophistries, it's the old Adam. Oh yes, Adam kept Eve in the indestructible paradise when he kept her single with himself, like a star in its orbit. Yes, yes! cried Ursula, pointing her finger at him. There you are, a star in its orbit, a satellite, a satellite of Mars. That's what she is to be. There, there you've given yourself away. You want a satellite, Mars and his satellite, you've said it, you've said it, you've dished yourself. He stood smiling in frustration and amusement and irritation and admiration and love. She was so quick and so lambent, like discernible fire, and so vindictive and so rich in her dangerous, flamey sensitiveness. I've not said it at all, he replied, if you will give me a chance to speak. No, no, she cried. I won't let you speak. You've said it, a satellite. You're not going to wriggle out of it. You've said it. You'll never believe now that I haven't said it, he answered. I neither implied nor indicated nor mentioned a satellite, nor intended a satellite, never. You prefaricator! she cried in real indignation. Tea is ready, sir, said the landlady from the doorway. They both looked at her, very much as the cats had looked at them a little while before. Thank you, Mrs. Akin. An interrupted silence fell over the two of them, a moment of breach. Come and have tea, he said. Yes, I should love it, she replied, gathering herself together. They sat facing each other across the tea table. I did not say nor imply a satellite. I meant two single, equal stars, balanced in conjunction. You gave yourself away! You gave away your little game completely, she cried, beginning at once to eat. He saw that she would take no further heed of his expostulation, so he began to pour the tea. What good things to eat, she cried. Take your own sugar, he said. He handed her her cup. He had everything so nice, such pretty cups and plates, painted with mauve luster and green, also shapely bowls and glass plates, and old spoons, on a woven cloth of pale gray and black and purple. It was very rich and fine, but Ursula could see her Mayonnaise influence. Your things are so lovely, she said, almost angrily. I like them. It gives me real pleasure to use things that are attractive in themselves, pleasant things. And Mrs. Dakin is good. She thinks everything is wonderful for my sake. Really, said Ursula, landlady, the better than wives nowadays. They certainly care a great deal more. It is much more beautiful and complete here now than if you were married. But think of the emptiness within, he laughed. No, she said. I'm jealous that men have such perfect landladies and such beautiful lodgings. There is nothing left them to desire. In the housekeeping way, we'll hope not. It is disgusting people marrying for a home. Still, said Ursula, a man has very little need for a woman now. Has he? In outer things, maybe, except to share his bed and bear his children. But essentially there is just the same need as there ever was. Only nobody takes the trouble to be essential. How essential, she said. I do think, he said, that the world is only held together by the mystic conjunction, the ultimate unison between people, a bond. And the immediate bond is between man and woman. But it's such old hat, said Ursula. Why should love be a bond? No, I'm not having any. If you are walking westward, he said, you forfeit the northern and eastward and southern direction. If you admit a unison, you forfeit all the possibilities of chaos. But love is freedom, she declared. Don't can't to me, he replied. Love is a direction which excludes all other directions. It's a freedom together, if you like. No, she said. Love includes everything. Sentimental can't, he replied. You want the state of chaos, that's all. It is ultimate nihilism, this freedom in love business, this freedom which is love and love which is freedom. As a matter of fact, if you enter into a pure unison, it is irrevocable, and it is never pure until it is irrevocable. And when it is irrevocable, it is one way, like the path of a star. She cried bitterly, it is the old dead morality. No, he said. It is the law of creation. One is committed. One must commit oneself to a conjunction with the other for ever. But it is not selfless. It is a maintaining of the self in mystic balance and integrity. Like a star balanced with another star. I don't trust you when you drag in the stars, she said. If you were quite true, it wouldn't be necessary to be so far-fetched. Don't trust me then, he said, angry. It is enough that I trust myself. And that is where you make another mistake, she replied. You don't trust yourself. You don't fully believe yourself what you are saying. You don't really want this conjunction, otherwise you wouldn't talk so much about it, you'd get it. He was suspended for a moment, arrested. How, he said. By just loving, she retorted in defiance. He was still a moment in anger. Then he said, I tell you, I don't believe in love like that. I tell you, you want love to administer to your egoism, to subserve you. Love is a process of subservience with you, and with everybody. I hate it. No, she cried, pressing back her head like a cobra, her eyes flashing. It is a process of pride. I want to be proud. Proud and subservient, proud and subservient. I know you, he retorted, dryly. Proud and subservient, then subservient to the proud. I know you and your love. It is a tic-tac, tic-tac, a dance of opposites. Are you sure, she mocked wickedly, what my love is? Yes, I am, he retorted. So cocksure, she said. How can anybody ever be right who is so cocksure? It shows you a role. He was silent in Chagra. They had talked and struggled till they were both wearied out. Tell me about yourself and your people, he said. And she told him about the Brangwins, and about her mother, and about Skrebensky, her first love, and about her later experiences. He sat very still, watching her as she talked. And he seemed to listen with reverence. Her face was beautiful, and full of baffled light, as she told him all the things that had hurt her, or perplexed her so deeply. He seemed to warm and comfort his soul at the beautiful light of her nature. If she really could pledge herself, he thought to himself with passionate insistence but hardly any hope. Yet a curious little irresponsible laughter appeared in his heart. We have all suffered so much, he mocked, ironically. She looked up at him, and a flash of wild gaiety went over her face, a strange flash of yellow light coming from her eyes. Haven't we? She cried in a high, reckless cry. It is almost absurd, isn't it? Quite absurd, he said, suffering bores me any more. So it does me! He was almost afraid of the mocking, recklessness of her splendid face. Here was one who would go to the whole lengths of heaven or hell, whichever she had to go. And he mistrusted her. He was afraid of a woman capable of such abandon, such dangerous thoroughness of destructivity. Yet he chuckled within himself also. She came over to him and put her hand on his shoulder, looking down at him with strange golden-lighted eyes. Very tender. But with a curious, devilish look lurking underneath. Say you love me. Say my love to me, she pleaded. He looked back into her eyes and saw. His face flickered with sardonic comprehension. I love you right enough, he said grimly. But I want it to be something else. But why? But why? she insisted, bending her wonderful, luminous face to him. Why isn't it enough? Because we can go one better, he said, putting his arms round her. No, we can't, she said, in a strong, voluptuous voice of yielding. We can only love each other. Say my love to me. Say it. Say it. She put her arms round his neck. He enfolded her and kissed her subtly, murmuring in a subtle voice of love and irony and submission. Yes, my love, yes, my love. Let love be enough, then. I love you, then. I love you. I'm bored by the rest. Yes, she murmured, nestling, very sweet and close to him. End of chapter 13, Recording by Ruth Golding