CHAPTER XXI.
THRESHOLD
Gudrun was away in London, having a little show of her work, with afriend, and looking round, preparing for flight from Beldover. Comewhat might she would be on the wing in a very short time. She receiveda letter from Winifred Crich, ornamented with drawings.
'Father also has been to London, to be examined by the doctors. It madehim very tired. They say he must rest a very great deal, so he ismostly in bed. He brought me a lovely tropical parrot in faience, ofDresden ware, also a man ploughing, and two mice climbing up a stalk,also in faience. The mice were Copenhagen ware. They are the best, butmice don't shine so much, otherwise they are very good, their tails areslim and long. They all shine nearly like glass. Of course it is theglaze, but I don't like it. Gerald likes the man ploughing the best,his trousers are torn, he is ploughing with an ox, being I suppose aGerman peasant. It is all grey and white, white shirt and greytrousers, but very shiny and clean. Mr Birkin likes the girl best,under the hawthorn blossom, with a lamb, and with daffodils painted onher skirts, in the drawing room. But that is silly, because the lamb isnot a real lamb, and she is silly too.
'Dear Miss Brangwen, are you coming back soon, you are very much missedhere. I enclose a drawing of father sitting up in bed. He says he hopesyou are not going to forsake us. Oh dear Miss Brangwen, I am sure youwon't. Do come back and draw the ferrets, they are the most lovelynoble darlings in the world. We might carve them in holly-wood, playingagainst a background of green leaves. Oh do let us, for they are mostbeautiful.
'Father says we might have a studio. Gerald says we could easily have abeautiful one over the stables, it would only need windows to be put inthe slant of the roof, which is a simple matter. Then you could stayhere all day and work, and we could live in the studio, like two realartists, like the man in the picture in the hall, with the frying-panand the walls all covered with drawings. I long to be free, to live thefree life of an artist. Even Gerald told father that only an artist isfree, 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 wasusing Winifred as his stalking-horse. The father thought only of hischild, he saw a rock of salvation in Gudrun. And Gudrun admired him forhis perspicacity. The child, moreover, was really exceptional. Gudrunwas quite content. She was quite willing, given a studio, to spend herdays at Shortlands. She disliked the Grammar School already thoroughly,she wanted to be free. If a studio were provided, she would be free togo on with her work, she would await the turn of events with completeserenity. And she was really interested in Winifred, she would be quiteglad to understand the girl.
So there was quite a little festivity on Winifred's account, the dayGudrun returned to Shortlands.
'You should make a bunch of flowers to give to Miss Brangwen when shearrives,' Gerald said smiling to his sister.
'Oh no,' cried Winifred, 'it's silly.'
'Not at all. It is a very charming and ordinary attention.'
'Oh, it is silly,' protested Winifred, with all the extreme MAUVAISEHONTE of her years. Nevertheless, the idea appealed to her. She wantedvery much to carry it out. She flitted round the green-houses and theconservatory looking wistfully at the flowers on their stems. And themore she looked, the more she LONGED to have a bunch of the blossomsshe saw, the more fascinated she became with her little vision ofceremony, and the more consumedly shy and self-conscious she grew, tillshe was almost beside herself. She could not get the idea out of hermind. It was as if some haunting challenge prompted her, and she hadnot enough courage to take it up. So again she drifted into thegreen-houses, looking at the lovely roses in their pots, and at thevirginal cyclamens, and at the mystic white clusters of a creeper. Thebeauty, oh the beauty of them, and oh the paradisal bliss, if sheshould 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.
'Daddie--' she said.
'What, my precious?'
But she hung back, the tears almost coming to her eyes, in hersensitive confusion. Her father looked at her, and his heart ran hotwith tenderness, an anguish of poignant love.
'What do you want to say to me, my love?'
'Daddie--!' her eyes smiled laconically--'isn't it silly if I give MissBrangwen some flowers when she comes?'
The sick man looked at the bright, knowing eyes of his child, and hisheart 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 thatqueens in themselves were a silliness. Yet she so wanted her littleromantic occasion.
'Shall I then?' she asked.
'Give Miss Brangwen some flowers? Do, Birdie. Tell Wilson I say you areto have what you want.'
The child smiled a small, subtle, unconscious smile to herself, inanticipation of her way.
'But I won't get them till tomorrow,' she said.
'Not till tomorrow, Birdie. Give me a kiss then--'
Winifred silently kissed the sick man, and drifted out of the room. Sheagain went the round of the green-houses and the conservatory,informing the gardener, in her high, peremptory, simple fashion, ofwhat 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.
'Ay, you've said as much. But what do you want them for, fordecoration, 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 thethings 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 agaudy bunch of flowers in her hand, waited with keen impatience in theschoolroom, looking down the drive for Gudrun's arrival. It was a wetmorning. 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 strangenew fire in her heart. This slight sense of romance stirred her like anintoxicant.
At last she saw Gudrun coming, and she ran downstairs to warn herfather and Gerald. They, laughing at her anxiety and gravity, came withher into the hall. The man-servant came hastening to the door, andthere he was, relieving Gudrun of her umbrella, and then of herraincoat. The welcoming party hung back till their visitor entered thehall.
Gudrun was flushed with the rain, her hair was blown in loose littlecurls, she was like a flower just opened in the rain, the heart of theblossom just newly visible, seeming to emit a warmth of retainedsunshine. 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 vividflush went over her, she was as if blinded for a moment with a flame ofpleasure. Then her eyes, strange and flaming, lifted and looked at thefather, and at Gerald. And again Gerald shrank in spirit, as if itwould be more than he could bear, as her hot, exposed eyes rested onhim. 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 ableto 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, witha strange, suddenly revealed passion, she stooped and kissed Winifred.
Mr Crich went forward with his hand held out to her.
'I was afraid you were 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 voiceseemed to imply that she was glad to get back to Shortlands, her tonewas warm and subtly caressing.
'That is a good thing,' smiled the father. 'You see you are verywelcome here among us.'
Gudrun only looked into his face with dark-blue, warm, shy eyes. Shewas unconsciously carried away by her own power.
'And you look as if you came home in every possible triumph,' Mr Crichcontinued, holding her hand.
'No,' she said, glowing strangely. 'I haven't had any triumph till Icame here.'
'Ah, come, come! We're not going to hear any of those tales. Haven't weread notices in the newspaper, Gerald?'
'You came off pretty well,' said Gerald to her, shaking hands. 'Did yousell 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 MissBrangwen? 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 shehad gone.
'Yes,' replied Gerald briefly, as if he did not like the observation.
Mr Crich liked Gudrun to sit with him for half an hour. Usually he wasashy and wretched, with all the life gnawed out of him. But as soon ashe rallied, he liked to make believe that he was just as before, quitewell and in the midst of life--not of the outer world, but in the midstof a strong essential life. And to this belief, Gudrun contributedperfectly. With her, he could get by stimulation those precioushalf-hours of strength and exaltation and pure freedom, when he seemedto live more than he had ever lived.
She came to him as he lay propped up in the library. His face was likeyellow wax, his eyes darkened, as it were sightless. His black beard,now streaked with grey, seemed to spring out of the waxy flesh of acorpse. Yet the atmosphere about him was energetic and playful. Gudrunsubscribed to this, perfectly. To her fancy, he was just an ordinaryman. Only his rather terrible appearance was photographed upon hersoul, away beneath her consciousness. She knew that, in spite of hisplayfulness, his eyes could not change from their darkened vacancy,they were the eyes of a man who is dead.
'Ah, this is Miss Brangwen,' he said, suddenly rousing as she entered,announced by the man-servant. 'Thomas, put Miss Brangwen a chairhere--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 sherryand a little piece of cake. Thomas--'
'No thank you,' said Gudrun. And as soon as she had said it, her heartsank horribly. The sick man seemed to fall into a gap of death, at hercontradiction. She ought to play up to him, not to contravene him. Inan instant she was smiling her rather roguish smile.
'I don't like sherry very much,' she said. 'But I like almost anythingelse.'
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 manconfidingly.
'You would. Well then Thomas, curacao--and a little cake, or abiscuit?'
'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 studiofor 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 littleidea--' 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 ofthe stables--with sloping rafters. We had thought of converting it intoa studio.'
'How VERY nice that would be!' cried Gudrun, with excited warmth. Thethought 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 isneeded, if she is to work at all seriously. One must have one'sworkshop, otherwise one never ceases to be an amateur.'
'Is that so? Yes. Of course, I should like you to share it withWinifred.'
'Thank you SO much.'
Gudrun knew all these things already, but she must look shy and verygrateful, as if overcome.
'Of course, what I should like best, would be if you could give up yourwork at the Grammar School, and just avail yourself of the studio, andwork there--well, as much or as little as you liked--'
He looked at Gudrun with dark, vacant eyes. She looked back at him asif full of gratitude. These phrases of a dying man were so complete andnatural, coming like echoes through his dead mouth.
'And as to your earnings--you don't mind taking from me what you havetaken from the Education Committee, do you? I don't want you to be aloser.'
'Oh,' said Gudrun, 'if I can have the studio and work there, I can earnmoney enough, really I can.'
'Well,' he said, pleased to be the benefactor, 'we can see about allthat. You wouldn't mind spending your days here?'
'If there were a studio to work in,' said Gudrun, 'I could ask fornothing better.'
'Is that so?'
He was really very pleased. But already he was getting tired. She couldsee the grey, awful semi-consciousness of mere pain and dissolutioncoming over him again, the torture coming into the vacancy of hisdarkened eyes. It was not over yet, this process of death. She rosesoftly saying:
'Perhaps you will sleep. I must look for Winifred.'
She went out, telling the nurse that she had left him. Day by day thetissue of the sick man was further and further reduced, nearer andnearer the process came, towards the last knot which held the humanbeing in its unity. But this knot was hard and unrelaxed, the will ofthe dying man never gave way. He might be dead in nine-tenths, yet theremaining tenth remained unchanged, till it too was torn apart. Withhis will he held the unit of himself firm, but the circle of his powerwas ever and ever reduced, it would be reduced to a point at last, thenswept away.
To adhere to life, he must adhere to human relationships, and he caughtat every straw. Winifred, the butler, the nurse, Gudrun, these were thepeople who meant all to him, in these last resources. Gerald, in hisfather's presence, stiffened with repulsion. It was so, to a lessdegree, with all the other children except Winifred. They could not seeanything but the death, when they looked at their father. It was as ifsome subterranean dislike overcame them. They could not see thefamiliar face, hear the familiar voice. They were overwhelmed by theantipathy of visible and audible death. Gerald could not breathe in hisfather'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 finalirritation through the soul of the dying man.
The studio was made ready, Gudrun and Winifred moved in. They enjoyedso much the ordering and the appointing of it. And now they need hardlybe in the house at all. They had their meals in the studio, they livedthere safely. For the house was becoming dreadful. There were twonurses in white, flitting silently about, like heralds of death. Thefather was confined to his bed, there was a come and go of SOTTO-VOCEsisters and brothers and children.
Winifred was her father's constant visitor. Every morning, afterbreakfast, she went into his room when he was washed and propped up inbed, to spend half an hour with him.
'Are you better, Daddie?' 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 thiswas very dear to him.
She ran in again as a rule at lunch time, to tell him the course ofevents, and every evening, when the curtains were drawn, and his roomwas 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, justthe same as when he was going about. So that Winifred, with a child'ssubtle instinct for avoiding the painful things, behaved as if nothingserious was the matter. Instinctively, she withheld her attention, andwas happy. Yet in her remoter soul, she knew as well as the adultsknew: perhaps better.
Her father was quite well in his make-belief with her. But when shewent away, he relapsed under the misery of his dissolution. But stillthere were these bright moments, though as his strength waned, hisfaculty for attention grew weaker, and the nurse had to send Winifredaway, to save him from exhaustion.
He never admitted that he was going to die. He knew it was so, he knewit was the end. Yet even to himself he did not admit it. He hated thefact, mortally. His will was rigid. He could not bear being overcome bydeath. For him, there was no death. And yet, at times, he felt a greatneed to cry out and to wail and complain. He would have liked to cryaloud to Gerald, so that his son should be horrified out of hiscomposure. Gerald was instinctively aware of this, and he recoiled, toavoid any such thing. This uncleanness of death repelled him too much.One should die quickly, like the Romans, one should be master of one'sfate in dying as in living. He was convulsed in the clasp of this deathof his father's, as in the coils of the great serpent of Laocoon. Thegreat serpent had got the father, and the son was dragged into theembrace of horrifying death along with him. He resisted always. And insome 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 neardeath. Yet he must see someone, he must, in the intervals ofconsciousness, catch into connection with the living world, lest heshould have to accept his own situation. Fortunately he was most of histime dazed and half gone. And he spent many hours dimly thinking of thepast, as it were, dimly re-living his old experiences. But there weretimes even to the end when he was capable of realising what washappening to him in the present, the death that was on him. And thesewere the times when he called in outside help, no matter whose. For torealise this death that he was dying was a death beyond death, never tobe borne. It was an admission never to be made.
Gudrun was shocked by his appearance, and by the darkened, almostdisintegrated eyes, that still were unconquered and firm.
'Well,' he said in his weakened voice, 'and how are you and Winifredgetting on?'
'Oh, very well indeed,' replied Gudrun.
There were slight dead gaps in the conversation, as if the ideas calledup were only elusive straws floating on the dark chaos of the sickman'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, witha pitiful faint smile that was almost too much for Gudrun.
'Yes,' she smiled--she would lie at random--'I get a pretty good time Ibelieve.'
'That's right. A happy nature is a great asset.'
Again Gudrun smiled, though her soul was dry with repulsion. Did onehave to die like this--having the life extracted forcibly from one,whilst one smiled and made conversation to the end? Was there no otherway? Must one go through all the horror of this victory over death, thetriumph of the integral will, that would not be broken till itdisappeared utterly? One must, it was the only way. She admired theself-possession and the control of the dying man exceedingly. But sheloathed 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 youfind wrong in your position?'
'Except that you are too good to me,' said Gudrun.
'Ah, well, the fault of that lies with yourself,' he said, and he felta little exultation, that he had made this speech.
He was still so strong and living! But the nausea of death began tocreep back on him, in reaction.
Gudrun went away, back to Winifred. Mademoiselle had left, Gudrunstayed a good deal at Shortlands, and a tutor came in to carry onWinifred's education. But he did not live in the house, he wasconnected with the Grammar School.
One day, Gudrun was to drive with Winifred and Gerald and Birkin totown, in the car. It was a dark, showery day. Winifred and Gudrun wereready and waiting at the door. Winifred was very quiet, but Gudrun hadnot noticed. Suddenly the child asked, in a voice of unconcern:
'Do you think my father's going to die, Miss Brangwen?'
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 movedaway into the drive. Gudrun watched the isolated figure, and her heartstood 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,' he said.
Gudrun looked at him. Their eyes met; and they exchanged a sardonicunderstanding.
'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, shereplied:
'Oh--better dance than wail, certainly.'
'So I think.'
And they both felt the subterranean desire to let go, to fling awayeverything, and lapse into a sheer unrestraint, brutal and licentious.A strange black passion surged up pure in Gudrun. She felt strong. Shefelt her hands so strong, as if she could tear the world asunder withthem. She remembered the abandonments of Roman licence, and her heartgrew hot. She knew she wanted this herself also--or something,something equivalent. Ah, if that which was unknown and suppressed inher were once let loose, what an orgiastic and satisfying event itwould be. And she wanted it, she trembled slightly from the proximityof the man, who stood just behind her, suggestive of the same blacklicentiousness that rose in herself. She wanted it with him, thisunacknowledged frenzy. For a moment the clear perception of thispreoccupied her, distinct and perfect in its final reality. Then sheshut it off completely, saying:
'We might as well go down to the lodge after Winifred--we can get inthe care there.'
'So we can,' he answered, going with her.
They found Winifred at the lodge admiring the litter of purebred whitepuppies. The girl looked up, and there was a rather ugly, unseeing castin her eyes as she turned to Gerald and Gudrun. She did not want to seethem.
'Look!' she cried. 'Three new puppies! Marshall says this one seemsperfect. Isn't it a sweetling? But it isn't so nice as its mother.' Sheturned to caress the fine white bull-terrier bitch that stood uneasilynear her.
'My dearest Lady Crich,' she said, 'you are beautiful as an angel onearth. Angel--angel--don't you think she's good enough and beautifulenough to go to heaven, Gudrun? They will be in heaven, won't they--andESPECIALLY my darling Lady Crich! 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, MissWinifred.'
'Oh NO!' There was the sound of a car. 'There's Rupert!' cried thechild, 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 solovely and warm, from the engines.'
Birkin helped her up, amused at sending Gerald to sit by Gudrun in thebody of the car.
'Have you any news, Rupert?' Gerald called, as they rushed along thelanes.
'News?' exclaimed Birkin.
'Yes,' Gerald looked at Gudrun, who sat by his side, and he said, hiseyes narrowly laughing, 'I want to know whether I ought to congratulatehim, 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 somethingto 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 so? Still no developments, Rupert?' he called.
'Where? 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 wasclear and gong-like. It reminded Rupert of her father's, so strong andvibrant.
'And I,' said Birkin, his face playful but yet determined, 'I want abinding contract, and am not keen on love, particularly free love.'
They were both amused. WHY this public avowal? Gerald seemed suspendeda 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 ranthrough the mud.
'What's the matter, really?' said Gerald, turning to Gudrun.
This was an assumption of a sort of intimacy that irritated Gudrunalmost like an affront. It seemed to her that Gerald was deliberatelyinsulting her, and infringing on the decent privacy of them all.
'What is it?' she said, in her high, repellent voice. 'Don't ask me!--Iknow nothing about ULTIMATE marriage, I assure you: or evenpenultimate.'
'Only the ordinary unwarrantable brand!' replied Gerald. 'Just so--samehere. I am no expert on marriage, and degrees of ultimateness. It seemsto be a bee that buzzes loudly in Rupert's bonnet.'
'Exactly! But that is his trouble, exactly! Instead of wanting a womanfor herself, he wants his IDEAS fulfilled. Which, when it comes toactual practice, is not good enough.'
'Oh no. Best go slap for what's womanly in woman, like a bull at agate.' Then he seemed to glimmer in himself. 'You think love is theticket, do you?' he asked.
'Certainly, while it lasts--you only can't insist on permanency,' cameGudrun's voice, strident above the noise.
'Marriage or no marriage, ultimate or penultimate or just so-so?--takethe love as you find it.'
'As you please, or as you don't please,' she echoed. 'Marriage is asocial arrangement, I take it, and has nothing to do with the questionof love.'
His eyes were flickering on her all the time. She felt as is he werekissing her freely and malevolently. It made the colour burn in hercheeks, but her heart was quite firm and unfailing.
'You think Rupert is off his head a bit?' Gerald asked.
Her eyes flashed with acknowledgment.
'As regards a woman, yes,' she said, 'I do. There IS such a thing astwo people being in love for the whole of their lives--perhaps. Butmarriage 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 thatif you marry you can get through marriage into a third heaven, orsomething--all very vague.'
'Very! And who wants a third heaven? As a matter of fact, Rupert has agreat 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 amistress is more likely to be faithful than a wife--just because she isher OWN mistress. No--he says he believes that a man and wife can gofurther than any other two beings--but WHERE, is not explained. Theycan know each other, heavenly and hellish, but particularly hellish, soperfectly that they go beyond heaven and hell--into--there it allbreaks down--into nowhere.'
'Into Paradise, he says,' laughed Gerald.
Gudrun shrugged her shoulders. 'FE M'EN FICHE of your Paradise!' shesaid.
'Not being a Mohammedan,' said Gerald. Birkin sat motionless, drivingthe car, quite unconscious of what they said. And Gudrun, sittingimmediately behind him, felt a sort of ironic pleasure in thus exposinghim.
'He says,' she added, with a grimace of irony, 'that you can find aneternal equilibrium in marriage, if you accept the unison, and stillleave 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,' saidGerald.
'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. Youcan't be sure of him. That's the trouble I think.'
'Yet he wants marriage! Marriage--ET PUIS?'
'Le paradis!' mocked Gudrun.
Birkin, as he drove, felt a creeping of the spine, as if somebody wasthreatening his neck. But he shrugged with indifference. It began torain. Here was a change. He stopped the car and got down to put up thehood.