Women in Love (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (33 page)

He walked on beside her, a striding, mindless body. But he recovered a little as he went. He suffered badly. He had killed his brother when a boy, and was set apart, like Cain.

They found Birkin and Ursula sitting together by the boats, talking and laughing. Birkin had been teasing Ursula.

“Do you smell this little marsh?” he said, sniffing the air. He was very sensitive to scents, and quick in understanding them.

“It’s rather nice,” she said.

“No,” he replied, “alarming.”

“Why alarming?” she laughed.

“It seethes and seethes, a river of darkness,” he said, “putting forth lilies and snakes, and the ignis fatuus, and rolling all the time onward. That’s what we never take into count—that it rolls onwards.”

“What does?”

“The other river, the black river. We always consider the silver river of life, rolling on and quickening all the world to a brightness, on and on to heaven, flowing into a bright eternal sea, a heaven of angels thronging. But the other is our real reality—”

“But what other? I don’t see any other,” said Ursula.

“It is your reality, nevertheless,” he said; “that dark river of dissolution. You see it rolls in us just as the other rolls—the black river of corruption. And our flowers are of this—our sea-born Aphrodite, all our white phosphorescent flowers of sensuous perfection, all our reality, nowadays.”

“You mean that Aphrodite is really deathly?” asked Ursula.

“I mean she is the flowering mystery of the death-process, yes,” he replied. “When the stream of synthetic creation lapses, we find ourselves part of the inverse process, the blood of destructive creation. Aphrodite is born in the first spasm of universal dissolution—then the snakes and swans and lotus-marsh-flowers-and Gudrun and Gerald—born in the process of destructive creation.”

“And you and me—?” she asked.

“Probably,” he replied. “In part, certainly. Whether we are that, in toto, I don’t yet know.”

“You mean we are flowers of dissolution—neurs du mal?
⁴
I don’t feel as if I were,” she protested.

He was silent for a time.

“I don’t feel as if we were,
altogether,”
he replied. “Some people are pure flowers of dark corruption—lilies. But there ought to be some roses, warm and flamy. You know Herakleitos says ‘a dry soul is best.’
⁵
I know so well what that means. Do you?”

“I’m not sure,” Ursula replied. “But what if people are all flowers of dissolution—when they’re flowers at all—what difference does it make?”

“No difference—and all the difference. Dissolution rolls on, just as production does,” he said. “It is a progressive process—and it ends in universal nothing—the end of the world, if you like. But why isn’t the world as good as the beginning?”

“I suppose it isn’t,” said Ursula, rather angry.

“Oh yes, ultimately,” he said. “It means a new cycle of creation after—but not for us. If it is the end, then we are of the end—neurs du mal if you like. If we are fleurs du mal, we are not roses of happiness, and there you are.”

“But I think I am,” said Ursula. “I think I am a rose of happiness.”

“Ready-made?” he asked ironically.

“No—real,” she said, hurt.

“If we are the end, we are not the beginning,” he said.

“Yes we are,” she said. “The beginning comes out of the end.”

“After it, not out of it. After us, not out of us.”

“You are a devil, you know, really,” she said. “You want to destroy our hope. You
want
us to be deathly.”

“No,” he said, “I only want us to
know
what we are.”

“Ha!” she cried in anger. “You only want us to know death.”

“You’re quite right,” said the soft voice of Gerald, out of the dusk behind.

Birkin rose. Gerald and Gudrun came up. They all began to smoke, in the moments of silence. One after another, Birkin lighted their cigarettes. The match flickered in the twilight, and they were all smoking peacefully by the water-side. The lake was dim, the light dying from off it, in the midst of the dark land. The air all round was intangible, neither here nor there, and there was an unreal noise of banjoes, or such like music.

As the golden swim of light overhead died out, the moon gained brightness, and seemed to begin to smile forth her ascendancy. The dark woods on the opposite shore melted into universal shadow. And amid this universal under-shadow, there was a scattered intrusion of lights. Far down the lake were fantastic pale strings of colour, like beads of wan fire, green and red and yellow. The music came out in a little puff, as the launch, all illuminated, veered into the great shadow, stirring her outlines of half-living lights, puffing out her music in little drifts.

All were lighting up. Here and there, close against the faint water, and at the far end of the lake, where the water lay milky in the last whiteness of the sky, and there was no shadow, solitary, frail flames of lanterns floated from the unseen boats. There was a sound of oars, and a boat passed from the pallor into the darkness under the wood, where her lanterns seemed to kindle into fire, hanging in ruddy lovely globes. And again, in the lake, shadowy red gleams hovered in reflection about the boat. Everywhere were these noiseless ruddy creatures of fire drifting near the surface of the water, caught at by rarest, scarce visible reflections.

Birkin brought the lanterns from the bigger boat, and the four shadowy white figures gathered round, to light them. Ursula held up the first, Birkin lowered the light from the rosy, glowing cup of his hands, into the depths of the lantern. It was kindled, and they all stood back to look at the great blue moon of light that hung from Ursula’s hand, casting a strange gleam on her face. It flickered, and Birkin went bending over the well of light. His face shone out like an apparition, so unconscious, and again, something demoniacal. Ursula was dim and veiled, looming over him.

“That is all right,” said his voice softly.

She held up the lantern. It had a flight of storks streaming through a turquoise sky of light, over a dark earth.

“This is beautiful,” she said.

“Lovely,” echoed Gudrun, who wanted to hold one also, and lift it up full of beauty.

“Light one for me,” she said. Gerald stood by her, incapacitated. Birkin lit the lantern she held up. Her heart beat with anxiety, to see how beautiful it would be. It was primrose yellow, with tall straight flowers growing darkly from their dark leaves, lifting their heads into the primrose day, while butterflies hovered about them, in the pure clear light.

Gudrun gave a little cry of excitement, as if pierced with delight.

“Isn’t it beautiful, oh, isn’t it beautiful!”

Her soul was really pierced with beauty, she was translated beyond herself. Gerald leaned near to her, into her zone of light, as if to see. He came close to her, and stood touching her, looking with her at the primrose-shining globe. And she turned her face to his, that was faintly bright in the light of the lantern, and they stood together in one luminous union, close together and ringed round with light, all the rest excluded.

Birkin looked away, and went to light Ursula’s second lantern. It had a pale ruddy sea-bottom, with black crabs and seaweed moving sinuously under a transparent sea, that passed into flamy ruddiness above.

“You’ve got the heavens above, and the waters under the earth,” said Birkin to her.

“Anything but the earth itself,” she laughed, watching his live hands that hovered to attend to the light.

“I’m dying to see what my second one is,” cried Gudrun, in a vibrating rather strident voice, that seemed to repel the others from her.

Birkin went and kindled it. It was of a lovely deep blue colour, with a red floor, and a great white cuttle-fish flowing in white soft streams all over it. The cuttle-fish had a face that stared straight from the heart of the light, very fixed and coldly intent.

“How truly terrifying!” exclaimed Gudrun, in a voice of horror. Gerald, at her side, gave a low laugh.

“But isn’t it really fearful!” she cried in dismay.

Again he laughed, and said:

“Change it with Ursula, for the crabs.”

Gudrun was silent for a moment.

“Ursula,” she said, “could you bear to have this fearful thing?”

“I think the colouring is
lovely,”
said Ursula.

“So do I,” said Gudrun. “But could you
bear
to have it swinging to your boat? Don’t you want to destroy it at
once?”

“Oh no,” said Ursula. “I don’t want to destroy it.”

“Well do you mind having it instead of the crabs? Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Gudrun came forward to exchange lanterns.

“No,” said Ursula, yielding up the crabs and receiving the cuttlefish.

Yet she could not help feeling rather resentful at the way in which Gudrun and Gerald should assume a right over her, a precedence.

“Come then,” said Birkin. “I’ll put them on the boats.”

He and Ursula were moving away to the big boat.

“I suppose you’ll row me back, Rupert,” said Gerald, out of the pale shadow of the evening.

“Won’t you go with Gudrun in the canoe?” said Birkin. “It’ll be more interesting.”

There was a moment’s pause. Birkin and Ursula stood dimly, with their swinging lanterns, by the water’s edge. The world was all illusive.

“Is that all right?” said Gudrun to him.

“It’ll suit
me
very well,” he said. “But what about you, and the rowing? I don’t see why you should pull me.”

“Why not?” he said. “I can pull you as well as I could pull Ursula.”

By her tone he could tell she wanted to have him in the boat to herself, and that she was subtly gratified that she should have power over them both. He gave himself, in a strange, electric submission.

She handed him the lanterns, whilst she went to fix the cane at the end of the canoe. He followed after her, and stood with the lanterns dangling against his white-flannelled thighs, emphasising the shadow around.

“Kiss me before we go,” came his voice softly from out of the shadow above.

She stopped her work in real, momentary astonishment.

“But why?” she exclaimed, in pure surprise.

“Why?” he echoed, ironically.

And she looked at him fixedly for some moments. Then she leaned forward and kissed him, with a slow, luxurious kiss, lingering on the mouth. And then she took the lanterns from him, while he stood swooning with the perfect fire that burned in all his joints.

They lifted the canoe into the water, Gudrun took her place, and Gerald pushed off.

“Are you sure you don’t hurt your hand, doing that?” she asked, solicitous. “Because I could have done it
perfectly.”

“I don’t hurt myself,” he said in a low, soft voice, that caressed her with inexpressible beauty.

And she watched him as he sat near her, very near to her, in the stern of the canoe, his legs coming towards hers, his feet touching hers. And she paddled softly, lingeringly, longing for him to say something meaningful to her. But he remained silent.

“You like this, do you?” she said, in a gentle, solicitous voice.

He laughed shortly.

“There is a space between us,” he said, in the same low, unconscious voice, as if something were speaking out of him. And she was as if magically aware of their being balanced in separation, in the boat. She swooned with acute comprehension and pleasure.

“But I’m very near,” she said caressively, gaily.

“Yet distant, distant,” he said.

Again she was silent with pleasure, before she answered, speaking with a reedy, thrilled voice:

“Yet we cannot very well change, whilst we are on the water.” She caressed him subtly and strangely, having him completely at her mercy.

A dozen or more boats on the lake swung their rosy and moon-like lanterns low on the water, that reflected as from a fire. In the distance, the steamer twanged and thrummed and washed with her faintly-splashing paddles, trailing her strings of coloured lights, and occasionally lighting up the whole scene luridly with an effusion of fireworks, Roman candles and sheafs of stars and other simple effects, illuminating the surface of the water, and showing the boats creeping round, low down. Then the lovely darkness fell again, the lanterns and the little threaded lights glimmered softly, there was a muffled knocking of oars and a waving of music.

Gudrun paddled almost imperceptibly. Gerald could see, not far ahead, the rich blue and the rose globes of Ursula’s lanterns swaying softly cheek to cheek as Birkin rowed, and iridescent, evanescent gleams chasing in the wake. He was aware, too, of his own delicately coloured lights casting their softness behind him.

Gudrun rested her paddle and looked round. The canoe lifted with the lightest ebbing of the water. Gerald’s white knees were very near to her.

“Isn’t it beautiful!” she said softly, as if reverently.

She looked at him, as he leaned back against the faint crystal of the lantern-light. She could see his face, although it was a pure shadow. But it was a piece of twilight. And her breast was keen with passion for him, he was so beautiful in his male stillness and mystery. It was a certain pure effluence of maleness, like an aroma from his softly, firmly moulded contours, a certain rich perfection of his presence, that touched her with an ecstasy, a thrill of pure intoxication. She loved to look at him. For the present she did not want to touch him, to know the further, satisfying substance of his living body. He was purely intangible, yet so near. Her hands lay on the paddle like slumber, she only wanted to see him, like a crystal shadow, to feel his essential presence.

“Yes,” he said vaguely. “It is very beautiful.”

He was listening to the faint near sounds, the dropping of waterdrops from the oar-blades, the slight drumming of the lanterns behind him, as they rubbed against one another, the occasional rustling of Gudrun’s full skirt, an alien land noise. His mind was almost submerged, he was almost transfused, lapsed out for the first time in his life, into the things about him. For he always kept such a keen attentiveness, concentrated and unyielding in himself Now he had let go, imperceptibly he was melting into oneness with the whole. It was like pure, perfect sleep, his first great sleep of life. He had been so insistent, so guarded, all his life. But here was sleep, and peace, and perfect lapsing out.