 The second part of Chapter 19 of Women in Love. Women in Love by D. H. Lawrence. Chapter 19. Mooney. The second part. The next day, however, he felt wistful and yearning. He thought he had been wrong, perhaps. Perhaps he had been wrong to go to her with an idea of what he wanted. Was it really only an idea? Or was it the interpretation of a profound yearning? If the latter, how was it he was always talking about sensual fulfilment? The two did not agree very well. Suddenly he found himself face-to-face with a situation. It was as simple as this, fatally simple. On the one hand he knew he did not want a further sensual experience, something deeper, darker than ordinary life could give. He remembered the African fetishes he had seen at Halliday so often. There came back to him one, a statuette about two feet high, a tall, slim, elegant figure from West Africa in dark wood, glossy and suave. It was a woman with hair dressed high like a melon-shaped dome. He remembered her vividly. She was one of his soul's sentiments. Her body was long and elegant. Her face was crushed tiny like a beetle's. She had rows of round, heavy collars like a column of coys on her neck. He remembered her, her astonishing, cultured elegance, her diminished beetle face. The astounding long, elegant body on short, ugly legs, with such protuberant buttocks so weighty and unexpected below her slim, long loins. She knew what he himself did not know. She had thousands of years of purely sensual, purely unspiritual knowledge behind her. It must have been thousands of years since her race had died, mystically. That is, since the relation between the senses and the outspoken mind had broken, leaving the experience all in one sort, mystically sensual. Thousands of years ago, that which was imminent in himself, must have taken place in these Africans. The goodness, the holiness, the desire for creation and productive happiness must have lapsed, leaving the single impulse for knowledge in one sort. Mindless progressive knowledge through the senses, knowledge arrested and ending in the senses, basic knowledge in disintegration and dissolution, knowledge such as the beetles have, which live purely within the world of corruption and cold dissolution. This was why her face looked like a beetle's. This was why the Egyptians worshipped the ball-rolling scarab, because of the principle of knowledge in dissolution and corruption. There is a long way we can travel after the death break, after that point when the soul in intense suffering breaks, breaks away from its organic hold like a leaf that falls. We fall from the connection with life and hope. We lapse from pure integral being, from creation and liberty, and we fall into the long, long African process of purely sensual understanding, knowledge in the mystery of dissolution. He realised now that this is a long process, thousands of years it takes after the death of the creative spirit. He realised that there were great mysteries to be unsealed, sensual, mindless, dreadful mysteries far beyond the phallic cult. How far, in their inverted culture, had these West Africans gone beyond phallic knowledge? Very, very far. Birkin recalled again the female figure, the elongated, long, long body, the curious, unexpected, heavy buttocks, the long, imprisoned neck, the face with tiny features like a beetle's. This was far beyond any phallic knowledge, sensual, subtle realities far beyond the scope of phallic investigation. There remained this way, this awful African process, to be fulfilled. It would be done differently by the white races. The white races, having the arctic north behind them, the vast abstraction of ice and snow, would fulfil a mystery of ice-destructive knowledge, snow-abstract annihilation. Whereas the West Africans, controlled by the burning death abstraction of the Sahara, had been fulfilled in sun destruction, the putrescent mystery of sun rays. Was this then all that remained? Was there left now nothing but to break off from the happy creative being? Was the time up? Is our day of creative life finished? Does there remain to us only the strange, awful, afterwards of the knowledge in dissolution, the African knowledge, but different in us, who are blond and blue-eyed from the north? Birkin thought of Gerald. He was one of these strange, white, wonderful demons from the north, fulfilled in the destructive frost mystery. And was he fated to pass away in this knowledge, this one process of frost-knowledge, death by perfect cold? Was he a messenger, an omen of the universal dissolution into whiteness and snow? Birkin was frightened. He was tired, too, when he had reached this length of speculation. Suddenly his strange, strained attention gave way. He could not attend to these mysteries any more. There was another way, the way of freedom. There was the paradisal entry into pure, single being, the individual soul taking precedence over love and desire for union, stronger than any pangs of emotion. A lovely state of free, proud singleness which accepted the obligation of the permanent connection with others, and with the other submits to the yoke and leash of love, but never forfeits its own proud individual singleness, even while it loves and yields. There was the other way, the remaining way, and he must run to follow it. He thought of Ursula, how sensitive and delicate she really was, her skin so over-fine as if one's skin were wanting. She was really so marvellously gentle and sensitive, why did he ever forget it? He must go to her at once. He must ask her to marry him. They must marry at once, and so make a definite pledge, enter into a definite communion. He must set out at once and ask her this moment. There was no moment to spare. He drifted on swiftly to belled over, half unconscious of his own movement. He saw the town on the slope of the hill, not straggling, but as if walled in with the straight final streets of minor's dwellings, making a great square, and it looked like Jerusalem to his fancy. The world was all strange and transcendent. Rosalind opened the door to him. She started slightly as a young girl will, and said, Oh! I'll tell father! with which she disappeared, leaving Birkin in the hall, looking at some reproductions from Picasso, lately introduced by Gudrun. He was admiring the almost wizard sensuous apprehension of the earth, when Will Brangwen appeared, rolling down his shirt-sleeves. Well! said Brangwen, I'll get a coat. And he too disappeared for a moment. Then he returned and opened the door of the drawing-room, saying, You must excuse me, I was just doing a bit of work in the shed. Come inside, will you? Birkin entered and sat down. He looked at the bright reddish face of the other man, at the narrow brow and the very bright eyes, and at the rather sensual lips that unrolled wide and expansive under the black cropped moustache. How curious it was that this was a human being! What Brangwen thought himself to be! How meaningless it was, confronted with the reality of him! Birkin could see only a strange, inexplicable, almost patternless collection of passions and desires and suppressions and traditions and mechanical ideas, all cast unfused and disunited into this slender, bright-faced man of nearly fifty, who was as unresolved now as he was at twenty, and as uncreated. How could he be the parent of Ursula when he was not created himself? He was not a parent. A slip of living flesh had been transmitted through him, but the spirit had not come from him. The spirit had not come from any ancestor. It had come out of the unknown. A child is the child of the mystery, or it is uncreated. The weather is not so bad as it has been, said Brangwen, after waiting a moment. There was no connection between the two men. No, said Birkin. It was full moon two days ago. Oh, you believe in the moon then, affecting the weather? No, I don't think I do. I don't really know enough about it. You know what they say, the moon and the weather may change together, but the change of the moon won't change the weather. Is that it, said Birkin? I hadn't heard it. There was a pause. Then Birkin said, Am I hindering you? I call to see Ursula, really. Is she at home? I don't believe she is. I believe she's gone to the library. I'll just see. Birkin could hear him inquiring in the dining room. No, he said, coming back. But she won't belong. You wanted to speak to her? Birkin looked across at the other man, with curious, calm, clear eyes. As a matter of fact, he said, I wanted to ask her to marry me. A point of light came on the golden brown eyes of the elder man. Oh, he said, looking at Birkin, then dropping his eyes before the calm, steadily watching look of the other. Was she expecting you then? No, said Birkin. No, I didn't know anything of this sort was on foot. Brangwyn smiled awkwardly. Birkin looked back at him and said to himself, I wonder why it should be on foot. Allowed, he said, No, it's perhaps rather sudden. At which, thinking of his relationship with Ursula, he added, But I don't know. Quite sudden, is it? Oh! said Brangwyn, rather baffled and annoyed. In one way, replied Birkin, not in another. There was a moment's pause, after which Brangwyn said, Well, she pleases herself. Oh, yes, said Birkin calmly. A vibration came into Brangwyn's strong voice, as he replied, Though I shouldn't want her to be in too big a hurry, either. It's no good looking round afterwards when it's too late. Oh! it need never be too late, said Birkin, as far as that goes. How do you mean? asked the father. If one repents being married, the marriage is at an end, said Birkin. You think so? Yes. Aye, well, and maybe your way of looking at it. Birkin in silence thought to himself. So it may. As for your way of looking at it, William Brangwyn, it needs a little explaining. I suppose, said Brangwyn, You know what sort of people we are. What sort of a bring-in-up she's had. She thought Birkin to himself, remembering his childhood's corrections, is the cat's mother. Do I know what sort of a bring-in-up she's had? he said, allowed. He seemed to annoy Brangwyn intentionally. Well, he said, she's had everything that's right for a girl to have, as far as possible, as far as we could give it her. I'm sure she has, said Birkin, which caused a perilous full stop. The father was becoming exasperated. There was something naturally irritant to him in Birkin's mere presence. When I don't want to see her going back on it all, he said, in a clanging voice. Why, said Birkin, This monosyllable exploded in Brangwyn's brain like a shot. Why? I don't believe in your newfangled ways and newfangled ideas, in and out like a frog in a galley-pot. It would never do for me. Birkin watched him with steady, emotionless eyes. The radical antagonism in the two men was rousing. Yes, but are my ways and ideas newfangled? asked Birkin. Are they? Brangwyn caught himself up. I'm not speaking of you in particular, he said. What I mean is that my children have been brought up to think and do according to their religion that I was brought up in myself, and I don't want to see them going away from that. There was a dangerous pause, and beyond that asked Birkin. The father hesitated. He was in a nasty position. Eh? What do you mean? All I want to say is that my daughter, he tailed off into silence, overcome by futility. He knew that in some way he was off the track. Of course, said Birkin, I don't want to hurt anybody or influence anybody. Ursula does exactly as she pleases. There was a complete silence, because of the utter failure in mutual understanding. Birkin felt bored. Her father was not a coherent human being. He was a roomful of old echoes. The eyes of the younger man rested on the face of the elder. Brangwyn looked up and saw Birkin looking at him. His face was covered with inarticulate anger and humiliation and sense of inferiority in strength. And as for beliefs, that's one thing, he said. But I'd rather see my daughters dead tomorrow than that they should be at the beck and call of the first man that likes to come and whistle for them. A queer, painful light came into Birkin's eyes. As to that, he said, I only know that it's much more likely that it's I who am at the beck and call of the woman than she at mine. Again there was a pause. The father was somewhat bewildered. I know, he said, she'll please herself, she always has done. I've done my best for them, but that doesn't matter, they've got themselves to please. And if they can help it, they'll please nobody but themselves. But she's a right to consider her mother and me as well. Brangwyn was thinking his own thoughts. And I tell you this much, I would rather bury them than seeing them getting into a lot of loose ways, such as you see everywhere nowadays. I'd rather bury them. Yes, but you see, said Birkin, slowly, rather wearily, bored again by this new turn. They won't give either you or me the chance to bury them because they're not to be buried. Brangwyn looked at him in a sudden flair of impotent anger. Now, Mr Birkin, he said, I don't know what you've come here for and I don't know what you're asking for, but my daughters are my daughters and it's my business to look after them while I can. Birkin's brows knitted suddenly, his eyes concentrated in mockery. But he remained perfectly stiff and still. There was a pause. I've nothing against your marrying Ursula, Brangwyn began at length. It's got nothing to do with me, she'll do as she likes, me or no me. Birkin turned away, looking out of the window and letting go his consciousness. After all, what good was this? It was hopeless to keep it up. He would sit on till Ursula came home, then speak to her, then go away. He would not accept trouble at the hands of her father, it was all unnecessary, and he himself need not have provoked it. The two men sat in complete silence, Birkin almost unconscious of his own whereabouts. He had come to ask her to marry him. Well then, he would wait on and ask her. As the watchy said, whether she accepted or not, he did not think about it. He would say what he had come to say, and that was all he was conscious of. He accepted the complete insignificance of this household for him. But everything now was as if fated, he could see one thing ahead and no more. From the rest he was absolved entirely from the time being. It had to be left to fate and chance to resolve the issues. At length they heard the gate, they saw her coming up the steps with a bundle of books under her arm. Her face was bright and abstracted, as usual, with the abstraction that look of being not quite there, not quite present to the facts of reality that galled her father so much. She had a maddening faculty of assuming a light of her own which excluded the reality, and within which she looked radiant as if in sunshine. They heard her go into the dining-room and drop her armful of books on the table. Did you bring me that girl's own? cried Rosalind. Yes, I brought it, but I forgot which one it was you wanted. You would! cried Rosalind angrily. It's right for a wonder! Then they heard her say something in a lowered tone. Where? cried Ursula. Again her sister's voice was muffled. Oranguin opened the door and called in his strong brazen voice. Ursula! She appeared in a moment wearing her hat. Oh, how do you do? She cried seeing Birkin, and all dabbled as if taken by surprise. He wondered at her knowing she was aware of his presence. She had her queer, radiant, breathless manner, as if confused by the actual world unreal to it, having a complete, bright world of herself alone. Have I interrupted a conversation? she asked. No, only a complete silence, said Birkin. Oh! said Ursula vaguely absent. Their presence was not vital to her. She was withheld. She did not take them in. It was a subtle insult that never fails to exasperate her father. Mr. Birkin came to speak to you, not to me, said her father. Oh! Did he? She exclaimed vaguely, as if it did not concern her. Then recollecting herself, she turned to him rather radiantly, but still quite superficially, and said, Was it anything special? I hope so, he said, ironically. To propose to you, according to all accounts, said her father. Oh! said Ursula. Oh! mocked her father, imitating her. Have you nothing more to say? She winced, as if violated. Did you really come to propose to me? She asked of Birkin, as if it were a joke. Yes, he said. I suppose I came to propose. He seemed to fight shy of the last word. Did you? She cried with her vague radiance. He might have been saying anything whatsoever. She seemed pleased. Yes, he answered. I wanted to—I wanted you to agree to marry me. She looked at him. His eyes were flickering with mixed lights, wanting something of her, yet not wanting it. She shrank a little, as if she were exposed to his eyes, and as if it were a pain to her. She darkened. Her soul clouded over. She turned aside. She had been driven out of her own radiant single world. When she dreaded contact, it was almost unnatural to her at these times. Yes, she said vaguely, in a doubting, absent voice. Birkin's heart contracted swiftly, in a sudden fire of bitterness. It all meant nothing to her. He had been mistaken again. She was in some self-satisfied world of her own. He and his hopes were accidentals, violations to her. It drove her father to a pitch of mad exasperation. He had had to put up with this all his life from her. Well, what do you say? He cried. She winced. Then she glanced down at her father, half frightened, and she said, I didn't speak, did I? As if she were afraid she might have committed herself. No, said her father, exasperated. But you didn't look like an idiot. You've got your wits, haven't you? She ebbed away in silent hostility. I've got my wits. What does that mean? She repeated in a sullen voice of antagonism. You heard what was asked, you didn't you? cried her father in anger. Of course I heard. Well then, can't you answer? thundered her father. Why should I? At the impertinence of this retort he went stiff, but he said nothing. No, said Birkin, to help out the occasion, there's no need to answer at once. You can say when you like. Her eyes flashed with a powerful light. Why should I say anything? She cried. You do this off your own bat, it has nothing to do with me. Why do you both want to bully me? Bully you! Bully you! cried her father in bitter, rancorous anger. Bully you! Why, it's a pity you can't be bullied into some sense and decency. Bully you! You'll see to that you self-willed creature! She stood, suspended in the middle of the room, her face glimmering and dangerous. She was set in satisfied defiance. Birkin looked up at her. He too was angry. But none is bullying you, he said, in a very soft, dangerous voice also. Oh, yes! She cried. You both want to force me into something. That is an illusion of yours, he said ironically. Illusion! cried her father, a self-opinionated fool, that's what she is. Birkin rose, saying, however, we'll leave it for the time being. And without another word, he walked out of the house. You fool! You fool! Her father cried to her with extreme bitterness. She left the room and went upstairs, singing to herself. But she was terribly fluttered as after some dreadful fight. From her window she could see Birkin going up the road. He went in such a blithe drift of rage that her mind wandered over him. He was ridiculous, but she was afraid of him. She was as if escaped from some danger. Her father sat below powerless in humiliation and shagra. It was as if he were possessed with all the devils after one of these unaccountable conflicts with Ursula. He hated her as if his only reality were in hating her to the last degree he had all hell in his heart. But he went away to escape himself. He knew he must despair, yield, give in to despair and have done. Ursula's face closed. She completed herself against them all. Becoiling upon herself she became hard and self-completed like a jewel. She was bright and invulnerable, quite free and happy, perfectly liberated in her self-possession. Her father had to learn not to see her blithe obliviousness or it would have sent him mad. She was so radiant with all things in her possession of perfect hostility. She would go on now for days like this, in this bright, frank state of seemingly pure spontaneity, so essentially oblivious of the existence of anything but herself, but so ready and facile in her interest. Ah, it was a bitter thing for a man to be near her, and her father cursed his fatherhood. But he must learn not to see her, not to know. She was perfectly stable in resistance when she was in this state, so bright and radiant and attractive in her pure opposition, so very pure, and yet mistrusted by everybody, disliked on every hand. It was her voice, curiously clear and repellent that gave her away. Only Gudrun was in accord with her. It was at these times that the intimacy between the two sisters was most complete, as if their intelligence were one. They felt a strong, bright bond of understanding between them, surpassing everything else. And during all these days of blind, bright abstraction and intimacy of his two daughters, the father seemed to breathe an air of death, as if he were destroyed in his very being. He was irritable to madness. He could not rest. His daughters seemed to be destroying him. But he was inarticulate and helpless against them. He was forced to breathe the air of his own death. He cursed them in his soul and only wanted that they should be removed from him. They continued radiant in their easy, female transcendency, beautiful to look at. They exchanged confidences. They were intimate in their revelations to the last degree, giving each other at last every secret. They withheld nothing. They told everything till they were over the border of evil. And they armed each other with knowledge. They extracted the subtlest flavours from the apple of knowledge. It was curious how their knowledge was complementary, that of each to that of the other. Ursula saw her men as sons, pitied their yearning, and admired their courage, and wandered over them, as a mother wanders over her child, with a certain delight in their novelty. But to Gudrun they were the opposite camp. She feared them, and despised them, and respected their activities even ever much. Of course, she said easily, there is a quality of life in Birkin which is quite remarkable. There is an extraordinary rich spring of life in him, really amazing, the way he can give himself to things. But there are so many things in life that he simply doesn't know. Either he is not aware of their existence at all, or he dismisses them as merely negligible, things which are vital to the other person. In a way he is not clever enough, he is too intense in spots. Yes! cried Ursula, too much of a preacher, he is really a priest, exactly. He can't hear what anybody else has to say, he simply cannot hear, his own voice is so loud. Yes! He cries you down! He cries you down, repeated Gudrun, and by mere force of violence. And of course it is hopeless, nobody is convinced by violence, it makes talking to him impossible, and living with him I should think would be more than impossible. You don't think one could live with him? asked Ursula. I think it would be too wearing, too exhausting, one would be shouted down every time and rushed into his way without any choice. He would want to control you entirely. He cannot allow that there is any other mind than his own. And then the real clumsiness of his mind is its lack of self-criticism, no, I think it would be perfectly intolerable. Yes! assented Ursula vaguely. She only half agreed with Gudrun. The nuisance is, she said, that one would find almost any man intolerable after a fortnight. It's perfectly dreadful, said Gudrun, but Birkin, he is too positive. He couldn't bear it if you called your soul your own, of him that is strictly true. Yes! said Ursula, you must have his soul. Exactly. And what can you conceive more deadly? This was all so true that Ursula felt jarred to the bottom of her soul with ugly distaste. She went on with the discord jarring and jolting through her in the most barren of misery. Then there started a revulsion from Gudrun. She finished life off so thoroughly. She made things so ugly and so final. As a matter of fact, even if it were, as Gudrun said about Birkin, other things were true as well. But Gudrun would draw two lines under him and cross him out, like an account that is settled. There he was, summed up, paid for, settled, done with. And it was such a lie. His finality of Gudrun's, this dispatching of people and things in a sentence, it was all such a lie. Ursula began to revolt from her sister. One day, as they were walking along the lane, they saw a robin sitting on the top twig of a bush, singing shrilly. The sisters stood to look at him, an ironical smile flickered on Gudrun's face. Doesn't he feel important? smiled Gudrun. Doesn't he? exclaimed Ursula, with a little ironical grimace. Isn't he a little Lloyd George of the air? Isn't he, little Lloyd George of the air, that's just what they are? cried Gudrun in delight. Then for days Ursula saw the persistent, obtrusive birds, astout, short politicians lifting up their voices from the platform, little men who must make themselves heard at any cost. But even from this there came the revulsion. Some yellow hammers suddenly shot along the road in front of her. And they looked to her so uncanny and inhuman, like flaring yellow barbs shooting through the air on some weird living errand, that she said to herself, after all, it is impudence to call the little Lloyd George's. They are really unknown to us, they are the unknown forces. It is impudence to look at them as if they were the same as human beings. They are of another world. How stupid anthropomorphism is. Humanism is really impudent, insolent, making herself the measure of everything, making everything come down to human standards. Rupert is quite right. Human beings are boring, painting the universe with their own image. The universe is non-human, thank God. It seemed to her irreverence, destructive of all true life to make little Lloyd George's of the birds. It was such a lie towards the robins, and such a defamation, yet she had done it herself. But under Gudrun's influence, so she exonerated herself. So she withdrew again from Gudrun, and from that which she stood for. She turned in spirit towards Birkin again. She had not seen him since the fiasco of his proposal. She did not want to, because she did not want the question of her acceptance thrust upon her. She knew what Birkin meant when he asked her to marry him, vaguely, without putting it into speech, she knew. She knew what kind of love, what kind of surrender he wanted. And she was not at all sure that this was the kind of love that she herself wanted. She was not at all sure that it was this mutual unison in separateness that she wanted. She wanted unspeakable intimacies. She wanted to have him utterly, finally, to have him as her own, oh so unspeakably, in intimacy. To drink him down, oh, like a life-draft. She made great professions to herself, of her willingness to warm his foot-soles between her breasts after the fashion of the nauseous Meredith poem. But only on condition that he, her lover, loved her absolutely, with complete self-abandon. And subtly enough she knew he would never abandon himself finally to her. He did not believe in final self-abandonment. He said it openly. It was his challenge. She was prepared to fight him for it, for she believed in an absolute surrender to love. She believed that love far surpassed the individual. He said the individual was more than love, or than any relationship. For him the bright single soul accepted love as one of its conditions, a condition of its own equilibrium. She believed that love was everything. Man must render himself up to her. He must be quaffed to the dregs by her. Let him be her man utterly. And she, in return, would be his humble slave, whether she wanted it or not. End of chapter 19, recording by Ruth Golding. Chapter 20 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 20 Gladiatorial After the fiasco of the proposal, Birkin had hurried blindly away from Beldover, in a whirl of fury. He felt he had been a complete fool, that the whole scene had been a farce of the first water. But that did not trouble him at all. He was deeply mockingly angry that Ursula persisted always in this old cry, Why do you want to bully me? And in her bright, insolent abstraction. He went straight to Shortland, there he found Gerald standing with his back to the fire in the library, as motionless as a man is, who is completely and emptily restless, utterly hollow. He had done all the work he wanted to do, and now there was nothing. He could go out in the car, he could run to town, but he did not want to go out in the car, he did not want to run to town, he did not want to call on the Thurlbys, he was suspended motionless in an agony of inertia, like a machine that is without power. This was very bitter to Gerald, who had never known what boredom was, who had gone from activity to activity, never at a loss. Now, gradually, everything seemed to be stopping in him. He did not want any more to do the things that offered. Being dead within him, just refused to respond to any suggestion. He cast over in his mind what it would be possible to do, to save himself from this misery of nothingness, relieve the stress of this hollowness. And there were only three things left that would rouse him, make him live. One was to drink or smoke hashish, the other was to be soothed by Birkin, and the third was women. And there was no one for the moment to drink with, nor was there a woman, and he knew Birkin was out. So there was nothing to do but to bear the stress of his own emptiness. When he saw Birkin, his face lit up in a sudden, wonderful smile. I'd God, Rupert, he said, I'd just come to the conclusion that nothing in the world mattered except somebody to take the edge of one's being alone, the right somebody. The smile in his eyes was very astonishing, as he looked at the other man. It was the pure gleam of relief. His face was pallid and even haggard. The right woman, I suppose you mean, said Birkin spitefully. Of course, the choice! Failing that, an amusing man! He laughed as he said it. Birkin sat down near the fire. What were you doing? he asked. I? Nothing. I'm in a bad way just now. Birkin's on edge, and I can neither work nor play. I don't know whether it's a sign of old age, I'm sure. You mean you're bored? Bored? I don't know, I can't apply myself, and I feel the devil is either very present inside me or dead. Birkin glanced up and looked in his eyes. You should try hitting something, he said. Gerald smiled. Perhaps, he said, so long as it was something worth hitting. Quite said Birkin in his soft voice. There was a long pause during which each could feel the presence of the other. One has to wait, said Birkin. God, waiting! What are we waiting for? Some old Johnny says there are three cures for ennui. Sleep, drink and travel, said Birkin. All cold eggs, said Gerald. In sleep you dream, in drink you curse, and in travel you yell at a porter. No, work and love are the two. When you're not at work you should be in love. Be it then, said Birkin. Give me the object, said Gerald. The possibilities of love exhaust themselves. Do they? And then what? Then you die, said Gerald. So you ought, said Birkin. I don't see it, replied Gerald. He took his hands out of his child's pockets and reached for a cigarette. He was tense and nervous. He lit the cigarette over a lamp, reaching forward and drawing steadily. He was dressed for dinner as usual in the evening, although he was alone. There's a third one, even to your two, said Birkin. Work, love and fighting. You forget the fight. I suppose I do, said Gerald. Did you ever do any boxing? No, I don't think I did, said Birkin. I— Gerald lifted his head and blew the smoke slowly into the air. Why, said Birkin? Nothing. I thought we might have a round. It is perhaps true that I want something to hit. It's a suggestion. So you think you might as well hit me, said Birkin. You? Well, perhaps, in a friendly kind of way, of course. Quite, said Birkin, bitingly. Gerald stood leaning back against the mantelpiece. He looked down at Birkin, and his eyes flashed with a sort of terror, like the eyes of a stallion that a bloodshot and overraught turned glancing backwards in a stiff terror. I feel that if I don't watch myself I shall find myself doing something silly," he said. Why not do it? said Birkin, coldly. Gerald listened with quick impatience. He kept glancing down at Birkin, as if looking for something from the other man. I used to do some Japanese wrestling, said Birkin. A chap lived in the same house with me in Heidelberg, and he taught me a little. But I was never much good at it. You did! exclaimed Gerald. That's one of the things I've never ever seen done. You mean Jujitsu, I suppose? Yes. But I am no good at those things. They don't interest me. They don't. They do me. What's the start? I'll show you what I can, if you like, said Birkin. You will. A queer, smiling look tightened Gerald's face for a moment, as he said, Well, I'd like it very much. Then we'll try Jujitsu. And you can't do much in a starched shirt. Then let us strip and do it properly. Wait a minute. He rang the bell and waited for the butler. Bring a couple of sandwiches and a siphon, he said to the man. And then don't trouble me any more to-night, or let anybody else. The man went. Gerald turned to Birkin with his eyes lighted. And you used to wrestle with a jab, he said. Did you strip? Sometimes. You did. What was he like, then, as a wrestler? Good, I believe. I am no judge. He was very quick and slippery and full of electric fire. It is a remarkable thing what a curious sort of fluid force they seem to have in them, those people. Not like a human grip. Like a polyp. Gerald nodded. I should imagine so, he said, to look at them. They repel me, rather. Repel and attract both. They are very repulsive when they are cold and they look grey. But when they are hot and roused, there is a definite attraction, a curious kind of full electric fluid, like eels. Well, yes, probably. The man brought in the tray and set it down. Don't come in any more, said Gerald. The door closed. Well, then, said Gerald, shall we strip and begin? Will you have a drink first? No, I don't want one. Neither do I. Gerald fastened the door and pushed the furniture aside. The room was large, there was plenty of space, it was thickly carpeted. Then he quickly threw off his clothes and waited for Birkin. The latter, white and thin, came over to him. Birkin was more a presence than a visible object. Gerald was aware of him completely, but not really visually. As Gerald himself was concrete and noticeable, a piece of pure, final substance. Now, said Birkin, I will show you what I learned and what I remember. You let me take you so." And his hands closed on the naked body of the other man. In another moment he had Gerald swung over lightly and balanced against his knee head downwards. Relaxed, Gerald sprang to his feet with eyes glittering. That's smart, he said. Now try again. So the two men began to struggle together. They were very dissimilar. Birkin was tall and narrow. His bones were very thin and fine. Gerald was much heavier and more plastic. His bones were strong and round. His limbs were rounded. All his contours were beautifully and fully moulded. He seemed to stand with a proper, rich weight on the face of the earth, whilst Birkin seemed to have the centre of gravitation in his own middle. And Gerald had a rich, frictional kind of strength, rather mechanical, but sudden and invincible, whereas Birkin was abstract as to be almost intangible. He impinged invisibly upon the other man, scarcely seeming to touch him like a garment, and then suddenly piercing in a tense fine grip that seemed to penetrate into the very quick of Gerald's being. They stopped, they discussed methods, they practised grips and throws, they became accustomed to each other, to each other's rhythm, they got a kind of mutual physical understanding. And then again they had a real struggle. They seemed to drive their white flesh deeper and deeper against each other, as if they would break into a oneness. Birkin had a great subtle energy that would press upon the other man with an uncanny force, weigh him like a spell put upon him. Then it would pass, and Gerald would heave free with white, heaving, dazzling movements. So the two men entwined and wrestled with each other, working nearer and nearer. Both were white and clear, but Gerald flushed smart red where he was touched, and Birkin remained white and tense. He seemed to penetrate into Gerald's more solid, more diffuse bulk, to interfuse his body through the body of the other, as if to bring it subtly into subjection, always seizing with some rapid necromantic foreknowledge every motion of the other flesh, converting and counteracting it, playing upon the limbs and trunk of Gerald like some hard wind. It was, as if Birkin's whole physical intelligence, interpenetrated into Gerald's body, as if his fine, sublimated energy entered into the flesh of the fuller man, like some potency, casting a fine net of prison through the muscles into the very depths of Gerald's physical being. So they wrestled swiftly, rapturously, intent and mindless at last, two essential white figures working into a tighter, closer oneness of struggle, with a strange octopus-like knotting and flashing of limbs in the subdued light of the room. A tense white knot of flesh gripped in silence between the walls of old brown books. Now and again came a sharp gasp of breath, or a sound like a sigh, then the rapid thudding of movement on the thickly carpeted floor, then the strange sound of flesh escaping under flesh. Then in the white interlaced knot of violent living being that swayed silently there was no head to be seen, only the swift tight limbs, the solid white backs, the physical junction of two bodies clenched into oneness. Then would appear the gleaming ruffled head of Gerald as the struggle changed. Then for a moment the done-coloured shadow-like head of the other man would lift up from the conflict, the eyes wide and dreadful and cyclous. At length Gerald lay back inert on the carpet, his breast rising in great slow panting, whilst Birkin kneeled over him almost unconscious. Birkin was much more exhausted. He caught little short breaths, he could scarcely breathe any more. The earth seemed to tilt and sway, and a complete darkness was coming over his mind. He did not know what happened. He slid forward quite unconscious over Gerald, and Gerald did not notice. Then he was half-conscious again, aware only of the strange tilting and sliding of the world. The world was sliding. Everything was sliding off into the darkness, and he was sliding endlessly, endlessly away. He came to consciousness again, hearing an immense knocking outside. What could be happening? What was it? The great hammer-stroke resounding through the house. He did not know. And then it came to him that it was his own heart beating. But that seemed impossible. The noise was outside. No, it was inside himself. It was his own heart. And the beating was painful, so strained, surcharged. He wondered if Gerald heard it. He did not know whether he was standing, or lying, or falling. When he realised that he had fallen prostrate upon Gerald's body, he wondered, he was surprised. But he sat up, steadying himself with his hand, and waiting for his heart to become stiller and less painful. It hurt very much, and took away his consciousness. Gerald, however, was still less conscious than Birkin. They waited dimly, in a sort of not being, for many uncounted, unknown minutes. Panted Gerald, I didn't have to be rough with you. I had to keep back my force. Birkin heard the sound as if his own spirit stood behind him, outside him, and listened to it. His body was in a trance of exhaustion. His spirit heard thinly. His body could not answer. Only he knew his heart was getting quieter. He was divided entirely between his spirit, which stood outside and knew, and his body, that was a plunging, unconscious stroke of blood. I could have thrown you using violence, panted Gerald. But you beat me right enough. Yes, said Birkin, hardening his throat and producing the words in the tension there. You're much stronger than I. You could beat me easily. Then he relaxed again to the terrible plunging of his heart and his blood. It surprised me, panted Gerald, what strength you've got, almost supernatural. For a moment, said Birkin, he still heard as if it were his own disembodied spirit hearing, standing at some distance behind him. It drew nearer, however, his spirit, and the violent striking of blood in his chest was sinking quieter, allowing his mind to come back. He realised that he was leaning with all his weight on the soft body of the other man. It startled him, because he thought he had withdrawn. He recovered himself and sat up. But he was still vague and unestablished. He put out his hand to steady himself. It touched the hand of Gerald that was lying out on the floor. And Gerald's hand closed warm and sudden over Birkin's. They remained exhausted and breathless. The one hand clasped closely over the other. It was Birkin whose hand, in swift response, had closed in a strong warm clasp over the hand of the other. Gerald's clasp had been sudden and momentaneous. The normal consciousness, however, was returning, ebbing back. Birkin could breathe almost naturally again. Gerald's hand slowly withdrew. Birkin slowly, dayzedly, rose to his feet and went towards the table. He poured out a whisky and soda. Gerald also came for a drink. It was a real set, too, wasn't it? said Birkin, looking at Gerald with darkened eyes. God, yes, said Gerald. He looked at the delicate body of the other man and added, It wasn't too much for you, was it? No. One ought to wrestle and strive and be physically close. It makes one sane. You do think so? I do, don't you? Yes, said Gerald. There were long spaces of silence between their words. The wrestling had some deep meaning to them. An unfinished meaning. We are mentally, spiritually intimate, therefore we should be more or less physically intimate, too. It is more whole. Certainly it is, said Gerald, then he laughed pleasantly, adding, It's rather wonderful to me. He stretched out his arms handsomely. Yes, said Birkin, I don't know why one should have to justify oneself. No, the two men began to dress. I also think that you're beautiful, said Birkin to Gerald, and that is enjoyable, too. One should enjoy what is given. You think I'm beautiful? How do you mean physically? asked Gerald, his eyes glistening. Yes, you have a northern kind of beauty, like light refracted from snow and a beautiful plastic form. Yes, that is there to enjoy as well. We should enjoy everything. Gerald laughed in his throat and said, Certainly one way of looking at it. I can say this much. I feel better. It has certainly helped me. Is this the Brudershaft you wanted? Perhaps. Do you think this pledges anything? I don't know, laughed Gerald. At any rate, one feels freer and more open now, and that is what we want. Certainly, said Gerald. They drew to the fire with the decanters and the glasses and the food. I always eat a little before I go to bed, said Gerald. I sleep better. I should not sleep so well, said Birkin. No? There you are. We're not alike. I'll put a dressing gown on. Birkin remained alone, looking at the fire. His mind had reverted to Ursula. She seemed to return again into his consciousness. Gerald came down wearing a gown of broad-barred thick blackened green silk, brilliant and striking. You are very fine, said Birkin, looking at the full robe. It was a kaftan in Bacara, said Gerald. I like it. I like it too. Birkin was silent, thinking how scrupulous Gerald was in his attire. How expensive, too. He wore silk socks and studs of fine workmanship, and silk under-clothing and silk braces. Curious. This was another of the differences between them. Birkin was careless and unimaginative about his own appearance. Of course you, said Gerald, as if he had been thinking. There's something curious about you. You're curiously strong. One doesn't expect it, it's rather surprising. Birkin laughed. He was looking at the handsome figure of the other man, blond and comely in the rich robe. And he was half thinking of the difference between it and himself, so different, as far perhaps apart as man from woman, yet in another direction. But really it was Ursula. It was the woman who was gaining ascendance over Birkin's being at this moment. Gerald was becoming dim again, lapsing out of him. Do you know, he said suddenly, I went and proposed to Ursula Brangwyn tonight that she should marry me. He saw the blank shining wonder come over Gerald's face. You did! Yes. But formally speaking first to her father as it should be in the world, no, that was accident or mischief. Gerald only stared in wonder, as if he did not grasp. You don't mean to say that you seriously went and asked her father to let you marry her? Yes, said Birkin. I did. What, had you spoken to her before about it then? No, not a word. I suddenly thought I would go there and ask her, and her father happened to come instead of her, so I asked him first. If you could have her, concluded Gerald, yes, that, and you didn't speak to her? Yes, she came in afterwards, so it was put to her as well. It was! And what did she say then? You're an engaged man. No, she only said she didn't want to be bullied into answering. She what? Said she didn't want to be bullied into answering. Said she didn't want to be bullied into answering? Why? What did she mean by that? Birkin raised his shoulders. Can't say, he answered. Didn't want to be bothered just then, I suppose? Really so, and what did you do then? I walked out of the house and came here. You came straight here? Yes. Gerald stared in amazement and amusement, he could not take it in. But is this really true as you say it now? Word for word. It is! He leaned back in his chair, filled with delight and amusement. Well, that's good, he said. And so you came here to rattle with your good angel, did you? Did I? Said Birkin. Well, it looks like it, isn't that what you did? Now Birkin could not follow Gerald's meaning. And what's going to happen, said Gerald? We're going to keep open the proposition, so to speak. I suppose so. I vowed to myself I would see them all to the devil, but I suppose I shall ask her again in a little while. Gerald watched him steadily. So you fond of her then? He asked. I think I love her. Said Birkin. His face going very still and fixed. Gerald glistened for a moment with pleasure, as if it were something done specially to please him. Then his face assumed a fitting gravity, and he nodded his head slowly. You know, he said, I always believed in love, true love, but where does one find it nowadays? I don't know, said Birkin. Very rarely, said Gerald. Then after a pause, I've never felt it myself, not what I should call love. I've gone after women and been keen enough over some of them, but I've never felt love. I don't believe I've ever felt as much love for a woman as I have for you, not love. You understand what I mean? Yes, I'm sure you've never loved a woman. You feel that, do you? And you think I ever shall? You understand what I mean? He put his hand to his breast, closing his fists there, as if he would draw something out. I mean that I can't express what it is, but I know it. What is it then? asked Birkin. You see, I can't put into words. I mean, at any rate, something abiding, something that can't change. His eyes were bright and puzzled. Now, do you think I shall ever feel that for a woman? he said anxiously. Birkin looked at him and shook his head. I don't know, he said. I could not say. Gerald had been on the key-vieve as awaiting his fate. Now he drew back in his chair. No, he said, and neither do I. And neither do I. We are different, you and I, said Birkin. I can't tell your life. No, said Gerald. No more can I. And I'll tell you, I begin to doubt it, that you will ever love a woman. Well, yes, what you would truly call love. You doubt it? Well, I begin to. There was a long pause. Life has all kinds of things, said Birkin. There isn't only one road. Yes, I believe that too. I believe it. And mind you, I don't care how it is with me. I don't care how it is. So long as I don't feel. He paused and a blank barren look passed over his face to express his feeling. So long as I feel I've lived somehow and I don't care how it is, but I want to feel that. Fulfilled, said Birkin. Well, perhaps it is fulfilled. I don't use the same words as you. It is the same. End of Chapter 20. Recording by Ruth Golding. Chapter 21 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 21. Threshold. Gudrun was away in London, having a little show of her work with a friend, and looking round, preparing for flight from Beldover. Come what might, she would be on the wing in a very short time. She received a letter from Winifred Crye, ornamented with drawings. Father also has been to London to be examined by the doctors. It made him very tired. They say he must rest a very great deal, so he is mostly in bed. He brought me a lovely tropical parrot in Fiance of Dresdenware, also a man plowing, and two mice climbing up a stalk also in Fiance. The mice were Copenhagenware. They are the best, but mice don't shine so much. Otherwise they are very good. Their tails are slim and long. They all shine nearly like glass. Of course, it is the glaze, but I don't like it. Gerald likes the man plowing the best. His trousers are torn. He is plowing with an ox, being I suppose a German peasant. It is all grey and white, white shirt and grey trousers, but very shiny and clean. Mr. Birkin likes the girl best, under the Hawthorne blossom, with a lamb, and with daffodils painted on her skirts, in the drawing-room, but that is silly, because the lamb is not a real lamb, and she is silly too. Dear Miss Brangwen, are you coming back soon? You are very much missed here. I enclose a drawing of Father sitting up in bed. He says he hopes you are not going to forsake us. Oh, dear Miss Brangwen, I am sure you won't. Do come back and draw the ferrets. They are the most lovely noble darlings in the world. We might carve them in hollywood. Playing against a background of green leaves. Oh, do let us, for they are most beautiful. Father says we might have a studio. Gerald says we could easily have a beautiful one over the stables. It would only need windows to be put in the slant of the roof, which is a simple matter. Then you could stay here all day and work, and we could live in the studio like two real artists, like the man in the picture in the hall with the frying pan, and the walls all covered with drawings. I long to be free, to live the free life of an artist. Even Gerald told Father that only an artist is free, because he lives in a creative world of his own. Gudrun caught the drift of the family intentions in this letter. Gerald wanted her to be attached to the household at Shortlands. He was using Winifred as his stalking horse. The father thought only of his child. He saw a rock of salvation in Gudrun, and Gudrun admired him for his perspicacity. The child, moreover, was really exceptional. Gudrun was quite content. She was quite willing, given a studio, to spend her days at Shortlands. She disliked the grammar school already thoroughly. She wanted to be free. If a studio were provided, she would be free to go on with her work. She would await the turn of events with complete serenity. And she was really interested in Winifred. She would be quite glad to understand the girl. So there was quite a little festivity on Winifred's account, the day Gudrun returned to Shortlands. You should make a bunch of flowers to give to Miss Brangwen when she arrives. Gerald said, smiling to his sister. Oh, no! cried Winifred. It's silly. Not at all. It's a very charming and ordinary attention. Oh, it is silly! protested Winifred, with all the extreme mauvaire's aunt of her years. Nevertheless, the idea appealed to her. She wanted very much to carry it out. She flitted round the greenhouses and the conservatory, looking wistfully at the flowers on their stems. And the more she looked, the more she longed to have a bunch of the blossoms she saw, the more fascinated she became with her little vision of ceremony, and the more consumedly shy and self-conscious she grew till she was almost beside herself. She could not get the idea out of her mind. It was as if some haunting challenge prompted her, and she had not enough courage to take it up. So again she drifted into the greenhouses, looking at the lovely roses in their pots, and at the virginal cyclomans, and at the mystic white clusters of a creeper. The beauty, all the beauty of them, and all the paradisal bliss if she should have a perfect bouquet, and could give it to Gudrun the next day. Her passion and her complete indecision almost made her ill. At last she slid to her father's side. Daddy! she said. What my precious! But she hung back, the tears almost coming to her eyes in her sensitive confusion. Her father looked at her, and his heart ran hot with tenderness, an anguish of poignant love. What do you want to say to me, my love? Daddy! her eyes smiled laconically. Isn't it silly if I give Miss Brangwyn some flowers when she comes? The sick man looked at the bright, knowing eyes of his child, and his heart burned with love. No, darling, that's not silly. It's what they do to Queens. This was not very reassuring to Winifred. She half suspected that Queens and themselves were a silliness, yet she so wanted her little romantic occasion. Shall I, then? she asked. Give Miss Brangwyn some flowers. Do, birdie, tell Wilson I say you're to have what you want. The child smiled a small, subtle, unconscious smile to herself, in anticipation of her way. But I won't get them till to-morrow, she said. Not till to-morrow, birdie. Give me a kiss, then. Winifred silently kissed the sick man and drifted out of the room. She again went the round of the greenhouses and the conservatory, informing the gardener in her high, peremptory, simple fashion of what she wanted, telling him all the blooms she had selected. What do you want these for? Wilson asked. I want them, she said. She wished servants did not ask questions. Aye, you've said as much, but what do you want them for, for decoration or to send away or what? I want them for a presentation bouquet. A presentation bouquet? Who's coming, then, the Duchess of Portland? No. Oh, not her. Well, you'll have a rare poppy show if you put all the things you've mentioned into your bouquet. Yes, I want a rare poppy show. You do. Then there's no more to be said. The next day Winifred in a dress of silvery velvet and holding a gaudy bunch of flowers in her hand, weighted with keen impatience in the schoolroom, looking down the drive for Gudrun's arrival. It was a wet morning. Under her nose was the strange fragrance of hot-house flowers. The bunch was like a little fire to her. She seemed to have a strange new fire in her heart. This slight sense of romance stirred her like an intoxicant. At last she saw Gudrun coming, and she ran downstairs to warn her father and Gerald. They, laughing at her anxiety and gravity, came with her into the hall. The man-servant came hastening to the door, and there he was, relieving Gudrun of her umbrella and then of her raincoat. The welcoming party hung back, till their visitor entered the hall. Gudrun was flushed with the rain. Her hair was blown in loose little curls. She was like a flower just opened in the rain. The heart of the blossom just newly visible, seeming to emit a warmth of retained sunshine. Gerald winced in spirit, seeing her so beautiful and unknown. She was wearing a soft blue dress, and her stockings were of dark red. Winifred advanced with odd stately formality. We are so glad you've come back, she said. These are your flowers. She presented the bouquet. Mine! cried Gudrun. She was suspended for a moment, then a vivid flush went over her. She was, as if blinded for a moment, with a flame of pleasure. Then her eyes, strange and flaming, lifted and looked at the father and at Gerald. And again Gerald shrank in spirit, as if it would be more than he could bear as her hot exposed eyes rested on him. There was something so revealed. She was revealed beyond bearing to his eyes. He turned his face aside, and he felt he would not be able to avert her. And he writhed under the imprisonment. Gudrun put her face into the flowers. But how beautiful they are, she said in a muffled voice. Then with a strange, suddenly revealed passion she stooped and kissed Winifred. Mr. Cry went forward with his hand held out to her. I was afraid you're going to run away from us, he said playfully. Gudrun looked up at him with a luminous, roguish, unknown face. Really! she replied. No, I didn't want to stay in London. Her voice seemed to imply that she was glad to get back to Shortland's. Her tone was warm and subtly caressing. That is a good thing, smiled the father. You see, you are very welcome here among us. Gudrun only looked into his face with dark, blue, warm, shy eyes. She was unconsciously carried away by her own power. And you look as if you came home in every possible triumph. Mr. Cry continued, holding her hand. No, she said, glowing strangely. I haven't had any triumph till I came here. Ah, come, come. We're not going to hear any of those tales. Haven't we read notices in the newspaper, Gerald? You came off pretty well, said Gerald to her, shaking hands. Did you sell anything? No, she said not much. Just as well, he said. She wondered what he meant. But she was all aglow with her reception, carried away by this little flattering ceremonial on her behalf. Winifred, said the father, have you a pair of shoes for Miss Brangwyn? You had better change at once. Gudrun went out with her bouquet in her hand. Quite a remarkable young woman, said the father to Gerald when she had gone. Yes, replied Gerald briefly, as if he did not like the observation. Mr. Cry liked Gudrun to sit with him for half an hour. Usually he was ashy and wretched with all the life gnawed out of him. But as soon as he rallied, he liked to make believe that he was just as before, quite well and in the midst of life. Not of the outer world, but in the midst of a strong essential life. And to this belief Gudrun contributed perfectly. With her, he could get by stimulation those precious half hours of strength and exaltation and pure freedom, when he seemed to live more than he had ever lived. She came to him as he lay propped up in the library. His face was like yellow wax, his eyes darkened as it were cyclous. His black beard, now streaked with grey, seemed to spring out of the waxy flesh of a corpse. Yet the atmosphere about him was energetic and playful. Gudrun subscribed to this perfectly. To her fancy, he was just an ordinary man. Only his rather terrible appearance was photographed upon her soul, away beneath her consciousness. She knew that in spite of his playfulness, his eyes could not change from their darkened vacancy. They were the eyes of a man who is dead. Ah, this is Miss Brangwynne, he said, suddenly rousing as she entered announced by the man-servant. Thomas, put Miss Brangwynne a chair here, that's right. He looked at her soft, fresh face with pleasure. It gave him the illusion of life. Now you will have a glass of sherry and a little piece of cake. Thomas? No, thank you, said Gudrun. And as soon as she had said it, her heart sank horribly. The sick man seemed to fall into a gap of death at her contradiction. She ought to play up to him, not contravene him. In an instant she was smiling her rather roguish smile. I don't like sherry very much, she said, but I like almost anything else. The sick man caught at this straw instantly. Not sherry, no, something else. What then? What is there, Thomas? Port wine? Curacao? I would love some curacao, said Gudrun, looking at the sick man confidingly. You would, well then, Thomas, curacao, and a little cake, or a biscuit? A biscuit, said Gudrun. She did not want anything, but she was wise. Yes. He waited till she was settled with her little glass and her biscuit. Then he was satisfied. You have heard the plan, he said, with some excitement, for a studio for Winifred over the stables. No, exclaimed Gudrun in mock wonder. Oh, I thought Winnie wrote it to you in her letter. Oh, yes, of course, but I thought perhaps it was only her own little idea. Gudrun smiled subtly, indulgently. The sick man smiled also, elated. Oh, no, it is a real project. There is a good room under the roof of the stables, with sloping rafters. We had thought of converting it into a studio. How very nice that would be, cried Gudrun, with excited warmth. The thought of the rafters stirred her. You think it would? Well, it can be done. But how perfectly splendid for Winifred! Of course it is just what is needed if she is to work at all seriously. One must have one's workshop, otherwise one never ceases to be an amateur. Is that so? Yes. Of course, I should like you to share it with Winifred. Thank you so much. Thank you so much. Gudrun knew all these things already, but she must look shy and very grateful as if overcome. Of course, what I should like best would be if you could give up your work at the grammar school and just avail yourself of the studio and work there, well, as much or as little as you liked. He looked at Gudrun with dark, vacant eyes. She looked back at him as if full of gratitude. These phrases of a dying man were so complete and natural, coming like echoes through his dead mouth. And as to your earnings, you don't mind taking from me what you have taken from the Education Committee, do you? I don't want you to be a loser. Oh, said Gudrun, if I can have the studio and work there, I can earn money enough, really I can. Well, he said, pleased to be the benefactor. We can see about all that. You wouldn't mind spending your days here? If there were a studio to work in, said Gudrun, I could ask for nothing better. Is that so? He was really very pleased, but already he was getting tired. She could see the grey, awful, semi-consciousness of mere pain and dissolution coming over him again, the torture coming into the vacancy of his darkened eyes. It was not over yet, this process of death. She rose softly, saying, perhaps you will sleep. I must look for Winifred. She went out, telling the nurse that she had left him. Day by day, the tissue of the sick man was further and further reduced. Nearer and nearer the process came, towards the last knot which held the human being in its unity. But this knot was hard and unrelaxed. The will of the dying man never gave way. He might be dead in nine-tenths, yet the remaining tenth remained unchanged, till it, too, was torn apart. With his will he held the unit of himself firm, but the circle of his power was ever and ever reduced. It would be reduced to a point at last, then swept away. To adhere to life he must adhere to human relationships, and he caught at every straw. Winifred, the butler, the nurse, Gudrun—these were the people who meant all to him in these last resources. Gerald, in his father's presence, stiffened with repulsion. It was so to a less degree with all the other children except Winifred. They could not see anything but the death when they looked at their father. It was as if some subterranean dislike overcame them. They could not see the familiar face, hear the familiar voice. They were overwhelmed by the antipathy of visible and audible death. Gerald could not breathe in his father's presence. He must get out at once. And so, in the same way, the father could not bear the presence of his son. It sent a final irritation through the soul of the dying man. The studio was made ready. Gudrun and Winifred moved in. They enjoyed so much the ordering and the appointing of it. And now they need hardly be in the house at all. They had their meals in the studio. They lived there safely, for the house was becoming dreadful. There were two nurses in white, flitting silently about, like heralds of death. The father was confined to his bed. There was a come and go of Sotovoce's sisters and brothers and children. Winifred was her father's constant visitor. Every morning, after breakfast, she went into his room when he was washed and propped up in bed to spend half an hour with him. Are you better, daddy? She asked him invariably. And invariably he answered, Yes, I think I'm a little better, pet. She held his hand in both her own, lovingly and protectively. And this was very dear to him. She ran in again as a rule at lunchtime to tell him the course of events, and every evening, when the curtains were drawn and his room was cosy, she spent a long time with him. Gudrun was gone home. Winifred was alone in the house. She liked best to be with her father. They talked and prattled at random. He always, as if he were well, just the same as when he was going about, so that Winifred, with a child's subtle instinct for avoiding the painful things, behaved as if nothing serious was the matter. Instinctively, she withheld her attention and was happy. Yet, in her remota soul, she knew as well as the adults knew, perhaps better. Her father was quite well in his make-belief with her. But when she went away, he relapsed under the misery of his dissolution. But still there were these bright moments, though as his strength wamed, his faculty for attention grew weaker, and the nurse had to send Winifred away to save him from exhaustion. He never admitted that he was going to die. He knew it was so. He knew it was the end. Yet, even to himself, he did not admit it. He hated the fact mortally. His will was rigid. He could not bear being overcome by death. For him there was no death. And yet, at times, he felt a great need to cry out and to wail and complain. He would have liked to cry aloud to Gerald, so that his son should be horrified out of his composure. Gerald was instinctively aware of this, and he recoiled to avoid any such thing. This uncleanness of death repelled him too much. One should die quickly like the Romans, one should be master of one's fate in dying as in living. He was convulsed in the clasp of this death of his fathers, as in the coils of the Great Serpent of Leocoon. The Great Serpent had got the father and the son was dragged into the embrace of horrifying death along with him. He resisted always, and in some strange way, he was a tower of strength to his father. The last time the dying man asked to see Gudrun, he was grey with near death. Yet, he must see someone, he must, in the intervals of consciousness, catch into connection with the living world, lest he should have to accept his own situation. Fortunately he was most of his time dazed and half gone, and he spent many hours dimly thinking of the past, as it were dimly reliving his old experiences. But there were times, even to the end, when he was capable of realising what was happening to him in the present, the death that was on him. And these were the times when he called in outside help, no matter whose. For to realise this death that he was dying was a death beyond death, never to be born, it was an admission never to be made. Gudrun was shocked by his appearance, and by the dark and almost disintegrated eyes that still were unconquered and firm. Well, he said in his weakened voice, and how are you and Winifred getting on? Oh, very well indeed, replied Gudrun. There were slight dead gaps in the conversation, as if the ideas called up were only elusive straws floating on the dark chaos of the sick man's dying. The studio answers all right, he said. Splendid, it couldn't be more beautiful and perfect, said Gudrun. She waited for what he would say next. And you think Winifred has the makings of a sculptor? It was strange how hollow the words were, meaningless. I'm sure she has, she will do good things one day. Ah, then her life won't be altogether wasted, you think? Gudrun was rather surprised. Sure it won't, she exclaimed softly. That's right. Again Gudrun waited for what he would say. You find life pleasant, it is good to live, isn't it? He asked, with a pitiful faint smile that was almost too much for Gudrun. Yes, she smiled, she would lie at random. I get a pretty good time, I believe. That's right. A happy nature is a great asset. Again Gudrun smiled, though her soul was dry with repulsion. Did one have to die like this? Having the life extracted forcibly from one, whilst one smiled and made conversation to the end, was there no other way? Must one go through all the horror of this victory over death, the triumph of the integral will that would not be broken till it disappeared utterly? One must, it was the only way. She admired the self-possession and the control of the dying man exceedingly, but she loathed the death itself. She was glad the everyday world held good and she need not recognise anything beyond. You are quite all right here, nothing we can do for you, nothing you find wrong in your position. He said that you are too good to me, said Gudrun. Ah, well, the fault of that lies with yourself, he said, and he felt a little exultation that he had made this speech. He was still so strong and living, but the nausea of death began to creep back on him in reaction. Gudrun went away back to Winifred. Mamzell had left, Gudrun stayed a good deal at Shortland's, and a tutor came in to carry on Winifred's education, but he did not live in the house, he was connected with the grammar school. One day Gudrun was to drive with Winifred and Gerald and Birkin to town in the car. It was a dark, showery day. Winifred and Gudrun were ready and waiting at the door, Winifred was very quiet, but Gudrun had not noticed. Suddenly the child asked, in a voice of unconcern, Do you think my father's going to die, Miss Brangwyn? Gudrun started. I don't know, she replied. Don't you truly? Nobody knows for certain, he may die, of course. The child pondered a few moments, then she asked, But do you think he will die? It was put almost like a question in geography or science, insistent, as if she would force an admission from the adult. The watchful, slightly triumphant child was almost diabolical. Do I think he will die, repeated Gudrun. Yes, I do. But Winifred's large eyes were fixed on her, and the girl did not move. He is very ill, said Gudrun. A small smile came over Winifred's face, subtle and sceptical. I don't believe he will, the child asserted mockingly, and she moved away into the drive. Gudrun walked the isolated figure, and her heart stood still. Winifred was playing with a little rivulet of water, absorbedly, as if nothing had been said. I've made a proper dam, she said, out of the moist distance. Gerald came to the door from out of the hall behind. It is just as well she doesn't choose to believe it. It is just as well she doesn't choose to believe it, he said. Gudrun looked at him, their eyes met, and they exchanged a sardonic understanding. Just as well, said Gudrun. He looked at her again, and a fire flickered up in his eyes. Best to dance while Rome burns, since it must burn, don't you think? he said. She was rather taken aback. But gathering herself together, she replied, Oh, better dance than wail, certainly. So I think. And they both felt the subterranean desire to let go, to fling away everything, and lapse into a sheer unrestraint, brutal and licentious. A strange black passion surged up pure in Gudrun. She felt strong. She felt her hands so strong, as if she could tear the world asunder with them. She remembered the abandonments of Roman license, and her heart grew hot. She knew she wanted this herself also, or something, something equivalent. Ah, if that which was unknown and suppressed in her were once let loose, what an orgiastic and satisfying event it would be. And she wanted it. She trembled slightly from the proximity of the man who stood just behind her, suggestive of the same black licentiousness that rose in herself. She wanted it with him, this unacknowled frenzy. For a moment the clear perception of this preoccupied her, distinct and perfect in its final reality. Then she shut it off completely, saying, We might as well go down to the lodge after Winifred. We can get in the car there. So we can," he answered, going with her. They found Winifred at the lodge, admiring the litter of pure-bred white puppies. The girl looked up, and there was a rather ugly, unseeing cast in her eyes as she turned to Gerald and Gudrun. She did not want to see them. Look! she cried, Three new puppies! Marshall says this one seems perfect. Isn't it a sweetling? But it isn't so nice as its mother. She turned to caress the fine white bull terrier bitch that stood uneasily near her. My dearest lady cry, she said, You are beautiful as an angel on earth. Angel, angel! Don't you think she's good enough and beautiful enough to go to heaven, Gudrun? They will be in heaven, won't they? And especially my darling lady cry. Mrs. Marshall, I say. Yes, Miss Winifred, said the woman appearing at the door. Oh, do call this one Lady Winifred if she turns out perfect, will you? Do tell Marshall to call it Lady Winifred. I'll tell him. But I'm afraid that's a gentleman puppy, Miss Winifred. Oh, no! There was the sound of a car. There's Rupert! cried the child, and she ran to the gate. Birkin, driving his car, pulled up outside the lodge gate. We're ready! cried Winifred. I want to sit in front with you, Rupert, may I? I'm afraid you'll fidget about and fall out, he said. No, I won't. I do want to sit in front next to you. It makes my feet so lovely and warm from the engines. Birkin helped her up, amused at sending Gerald to sit by Gudrun in the body of the car. Have you any news, Rupert? Gerald called as they rushed along the lanes. News exclaimed Birkin. Yes. Gerald looked at Gudrun, who sat by his side, and he said, his eyes narrowly laughing. I want to know whether I ought to congratulate him, but I can't get anything definite out of him. Gudrun flushed deeply. Congratulate him on what? she asked. There was some mention of an engagement. At least he said something to me about it. Gudrun flushed darkly. You mean with Ursula, she said in challenge. Yes, that is so, isn't it? I don't think there's any engagement, said Gudrun coldly. That's so. Still no developments, Rupert? he called. Were, matrimonial? No. How's that? called Gudrun. Birkin glanced quickly round. There was irritation in his eyes also. Why, he replied, what do you think of it, Gudrun? Oh, she cried, determined to fling her stone also into the pool since they had begun. I don't think she wants an engagement. Naturally, she's a bird that prefers the bush. Gudrun's voice was clear and gong-like. It reminded Rupert of her father's so strong and vibrant. And I, said Birkin, his face playful but yet determined, I want a binding contract and am not keen on love, particularly free love. They were both amused. Why this public avowal? Gerald seemed suspended a moment in amusement. Love isn't good enough for you? he called. No, shouted Birkin. Ha! Well, that's being over-refined, said Gerald, and the car ran through the mud. What's the matter, really? said Gerald, turning to Gudrun. This was an assumption of a sort of intimacy that irritated Gudrun almost like an affront. It seemed to her that Gerald was deliberately insulting her and infringing on the decent privacy of them all. What is it? she said in her high, repellent voice. Don't ask me. I know nothing about ultimate marriage, I assure you, or even penultimate. Only the ordinary unwarrantable brand, replied Gerald. Just so, same here. I'm no expert on marriage and degrees of ultimateness. Seems to be a bee that buzzes loudly in Rupert's bonnet. Exactly, but that is his trouble, exactly. Instead of wanting a woman for herself, he wants his ideas fulfilled, which, when it comes to actual practice, is not good enough. Oh, no! Best go slack for what's womanly in woman like a bullet a gate. Then he seemed to glimmer in himself. You think love is the ticket, dear? he asked. Certainly, while it lasts, you only can't insist on permanency, came Gudrun's voice strident above the noise. Marriage or no marriage, ultimate or penultimate, or just so-so. Take the love as you find it. As you please or as you don't please, she echoed. Marriage is a social arrangement, I take it, and has nothing to do with the question of love. His eyes were flickering on her all the time. She felt as if he were kissing her freely and malevolently. It made the colour burn in her cheeks, but her heart was quite firm and unfailing. You think Rupert is off his head a bit? Gerald asked. Her eyes flashed with acknowledgement. As regards a woman, yes, she said, I do. There is such a thing as two people being in love for the whole of their lives, perhaps. But marriage is neither here nor there, even then. If they are in love, well and good. If not, why break eggs about it? Yes, said Gerald. That's how it strikes me. But what about Rupert? I can't make out. Neither can he nor anybody. He seems to think that if you marry, you can get through marriage into a third heaven or something, or very vague. Very! And who wants a third heaven? As a matter of fact, Rupert has a great yearning to be safe, to tie himself to the mast. Yes, it seems to me he's mistaken there, too, said Gudrun. I'm sure a mistress is more likely to be faithful than a wife, just because she's her own mistress. No, he says he believes that a man and wife can go further than any other two beings, but where is not explained? They can know each other, heavenly and hellish, but particularly hellish, so perfectly, that they go beyond heaven and hell into—there it all breaks down—into nowhere. Into paradise, he says, laughed Gerald. Gudrun shrugged her shoulders. Je m'en fiche of your paradise, she said. Not being a Mohammedan, said Gerald. Birkin sat motionless, driving the car, quite unconscious of what they said. And Gudrun, sitting immediately behind him, felt a sort of ironic pleasure in thus exposing him. He says, she added, with a grimace of irony, that you can find an eternal equilibrium in marriage if you accept the unison and still leave yourself separate. Don't try to fuse. Doesn't inspire me, said Gerald. That's just it, said Gudrun. I believe in love, in a real abandon, if you're capable of it, said Gerald. So do I, said she. And so does Rupert, too, though he is always shouting. No, said Gudrun. He won't abandon himself to the other person. You can't be sure of him. That's the trouble, I think. Yet he wants marriage. Marriage, a prie? Le paradis, mocked Gudrun. Birkin, as he drove, felt a creeping of the spine, as if somebody was threatening his neck. But he shrugged with indifference. It began to rain. Here was a change. He stopped the car and got down to put up the hood. End of chapter 21, recording by Ruth Golding.