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恋爱中的女人|Women in Love

Chapter 11 An Island|Chapter 11 An Island

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 劳伦斯] 阅读：[28862]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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此时厄秀拉已离开威利湖，沿着一条明丽的小溪前行。四下里回荡着云雀的鸣啭。阳光洒在山坡上，荆豆丛若隐若现。

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水边开着几丛勿忘我。到处都隐藏着一股躁动情绪。

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她在一条条溪流上留连忘返。后来她想到上面的磨房池去。那儿有一座大磨房，磨房早已荒废，只有一对雇工夫妇住在厨房里。她穿过空荡荡的场院和荒芜的园子，顺着水闸上了岸。她爬上来，来到了那一泓丝绒般光滑的水波旁，看到岸上有个男人正在修理一只平底船。那是伯金，只见他一个人又是拉锯又是钉钉地干着。

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厄秀拉站在水闸旁看着他。他一点都意识不到有人来了。他看上去十分忙碌，象一头活跃而聚精会神的野兽一样。她感到自己应该离开此地，他是不需要她的，他看上去太忙了。

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可她并不想走，于是她就在岸上踱着步，想等他能抬头看到她。

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不一会儿他果然抬起了头。一看到她他就扔下手中的工具走上前来招呼道：

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“你好啊？我紧一紧船上的接缝。告诉我，你觉得这样做对吗？”

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她同他一起并肩前行。

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“你父亲干这个在行，你是他的女儿，因此你能告诉我这样行不行。”

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厄秀拉弯下腰去看修补过的船。

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“没错儿，我是我父亲的女儿，”她说，但她不敢对他做的活儿有所评价。”可我对木工一窍不通啊。看上去做得还行，难道不是吗？”

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“是的。我希望这船不沉就够了，就算沉了也没什么，我还能够上来的，帮我把船推下水好吗？”

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说着两人合力把船推下了水。

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“现在我来划划试试，你看有什么毛病。要是行，我就载你到岛上去。”

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这水塘很大、水面如镜，水很深。塘中间凸起两座覆盖着灌木与树木的小岛。伯金在池中划着船，笨拙地保持着方向。很幸运，小船漂了过去，他抓住了一条柳枝，借着劲儿上了小岛。

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“草木很茂盛，”他看看岛上说，“挺好的，我就去接你来。

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这船有点漏水。”

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不一会儿他又回到她身边。她进了湿漉漉的船舱。

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“这船载咱们俩没问题。”他说完驾船向小岛划去。

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船停泊在一棵柳树下。她躲闪着，不让那些茂盛、散发着怪味的玄参和毒芹碰到自己。可伯金却披荆斩棘地朝前走着。

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“我要砍掉这些，”他说，“那样可就象《保罗与维吉妮》

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一样浪漫了。”

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“我们可以在这儿举行一次华多式①的午餐会了。”厄秀拉热切地叫道。

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①让·安东尼·华多（１６８４—１７２７），以描绘牧歌式作品而著名。

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“我可不喜欢在这儿进华多式午餐。”他说。

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“你只想着你的维吉妮。”她笑道。

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“维吉妮就够了，”他苍然地笑笑，“不过我也不需要她。”

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厄秀拉凝视着他。自从离开布莱德比以后这还是头一次见到他呢。他很瘦削，两腮下凹一脸的可怕表情。

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“你病了吗？”她有点冷漠地问。

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“是的。”他冷冷地回答。

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他们坐在岛上的僻静处，在柳荫下看着水面。

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“你怕吗？”她问。

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“怕什么？”他看着她问。他有一种非人的倔犟，令她不安，令她也失去了自己的主心骨。

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“害一场大病很可怕，不是吗？”她说。

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“当然不愉快，”他说，“至于人是否真怕死，我还说不准。

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从一种意义上说无所谓，从另一种意义上说很可怕。”

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“可你不感到难堪吗？一得病总是很难堪的，病魔太侮辱人了，你不认为是这样吗？”

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他思忖了一会儿说：

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“可能吧，不过人们知道人的生活从一开始就不那么正确，这才是羞辱。跟这个相比，生病就不算什么了。人生病是因为活得不合适。人活不好就要生病，生病就要受辱。”

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“你活得不好吗？”她几乎嘲讽地问。

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“是的，我一天天地过，并没什么所为。人似乎总在碰南墙。”

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厄秀拉笑了。她感到害怕，每当她感到害怕时，她就笑并装作得意洋洋的样子。

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“那你的鼻子可就倒霉了！”她望着他的脸说。

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“怪不得挺丑的。”他回答说。

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她沉默了片刻，与自己的自欺欺人作着斗争。她有一种自欺欺人的本能。

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“可我挺幸福——我觉得生活太愉快了。”她说。

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“那好哇。”他挺冷漠地回答。

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她伸手在口袋里摸到一小张包巧克力的纸，开始叠一只小船。他漫不经心地看着她。她的举动中透着某种楚楚动人处，很温柔，手指毫无意识地动着。

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“我真地生活得不错，你呢？”她问。

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“那当然！可我就是不能活得顺心，真恼火。我觉得一切都盘根错节乱了套，让你理不清个头绪。我不知道该做点什么。人总要在什么地方做点什么。”

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“可你为什么总要做什么呢？”她反问，“这太庸俗了。我觉得最好作一个高雅的人，不要做什么；只顾完善自我，就象一朵自由开放的花朵。”

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“我很同意你的说法，”他说，“要是人能开花就好了。可我就是无法让我的蓓蕾开放。可它也不枯萎或窒息，它并不缺营养。该死的，它压根儿不是什么花蕾，而是一个背时的疙瘩罢了。”

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她又笑了，这令他十分恼火。可她既焦虑又迷惑。一个人怎么才能有出路呢？总该有个出路吧。

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沉默，这沉默简直让她想哭一场。她又摸出一张包巧克力的纸，叠起另外一只纸船来。

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“可是为什么，”她终于说，“为什么现在人的生命不会开花，为什么人的生命没了尊严？”

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“整个观念已经死了。人类本身已经枯萎腐烂，真的。有许许多多的人依赖在灌木丛上，他们看上去很象样儿，很漂亮，是一群健康的男女。可他们都是索德姆城①的苹果，是死海边的苦果。他们没有一丁点意义——他们的内心满是苦灰。”

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①死海边一城市，上帝以其居民罪恶重大降大火烧之。

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“可还是有好人的。”厄秀拉为自己辩解道。

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“对今日的生活来说是够好的。可是人类是一株爬满苦果的死树。”

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厄秀拉忍不住要反对这种说法，它太图解化，也太绝对了。可她又无法阻挡他说下去。

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“如果是这样的话，能说上是为什么吗？”她怀有敌意地问。他们俩开始发火了。

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“为什么，为什么人们都是些苦灰团？那是因为他们成熟了还不离开这棵树。他们仍旧呆在旧的位置上，直到长了蛆虫、干枯、腐烂为止。”

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他们沉默了好一阵子。他的声音变得火辣辣的，语言甚是尖刻。厄秀拉心烦意乱又深感震惊。他们都沉思着，忘记了一切。

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“就算别人都错了吧，你哪儿对呢？”她叫道，“你哪儿比别人强？”

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“我？我并不正确啊，”他回击她，“我正确之处是我懂得我不正确。我讨厌我的外形。我厌恶自己是个人。人类是一个聚合在一起的大谎言，一个大谎言还不如一个小小的真理。人类比个人要渺小，渺小得多，因为个人有时还会正确，而人类则是一株谎言之树。他们说爱是最伟大的事，他们坚持这样说，真是可恶的骗子，可你看看他们的所做所为吧！看看吧，成千上万的人在重复说爱是最伟大的，博爱是最伟大的，可看看他们做的都是些什么事吧。看他们做的事我们就知道他们是一帮龌龊的骗子和胆小鬼，他们的话是经不住行动检验的。”

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“可是，”厄秀拉沮丧地说，“可这并不能改变爱是最伟大的这一事实，你说呢？他们的所为并不能改变他们所说的话含有真理。你说呢？”

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“会的，如果他们说的是真理，他们就会情不自禁地实践它。可他们一直在说谎，所以他们最终会胡作非为。说什么爱是最伟大的，这是在骗人。你还不如说恨是最伟大的呢，因为相反的东西能相互平衡。人们需要的是仇恨，仇恨，只有仇恨。他们打着正义与爱的旗号得到的是仇恨。他们从爱中提炼出来的是炸药。谎言可以杀人。如果我们需要仇恨，那就得到它吧——死亡，谋杀，酷刑和惨烈的毁灭，我们尽可以得到这些，但是不要打着爱的旗号。我惧怕人类，我希望它被一扫而光。人类将逝去，如果每个人明天就消失，也不会有什么决定性的损失，现实并不受影响，不，只能会更好。真正的生活之树会摆脱掉最可怕、最沉重的死海之果①，摆脱掉这些幻影般的人们，摆脱掉沉重的谎言负担。”

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①见前面注释“索德姆城的苹果”。

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“所以你希望世界上的人都被毁灭？”厄秀拉说。

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“的确是这样。”

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“那世界上就没人了呀？”

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“太对了。你这不是有了一个纯洁美好的思想吗？一个没有人的世界，只有不受任何干扰的青草，青草丛中蹲着一只兔子。”

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他诚挚的话语令厄秀拉思忖起来。这实在太迷人了：一个纯净、美好、没有人迹的世界。这太令人神往了。她的心滞住了，异常激动。可她仍然对他不满。

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“可是，”她反驳说，“可是连你都死了，你还能从中得到什么好处？”

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“如果我知道世上的人都要被清除，我宁可马上就死。这是最美好、最开明的思想。那样就不会再有一个肮脏的人类了。”

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“是的，”厄秀拉说，“那就什么都没有了。”

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“什么？什么都没有了？因为人类消亡了就什么都没有了吗？你这是自我吹嘘。一切都会有的。”

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“怎么会呢？不是连人都没有了吗？”

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“你以为万物的创造取决于人吗？压根儿不是。世界上有树木、青草和鸟儿。我宁愿认为，云雀是在一个没有人的世界里醒来的。人是一个错误，他必须消逝。青草、野兔、蝰蛇还有隐藏着的万物，它们是真正的天使，当肮脏的人类不去打扰时，它们这些纯洁的天使就可以自由自在地生活，那多妙啊”。

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他的幻想让厄秀拉感到很满意。当然，这不过是个幻想而已，但它令人愉快。至于她自己。她是知道人类的现状的，人类是很可恶的。她知道人类是不会那么容易地消失殆尽的。它还有一段漫长而可怕的路可走。她那细微、魔鬼般的女人的心对这一点太了解了。

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“如果人类从地球上被扫除干净，万物创造仍旧会顺利进行，它将会有一个新的起点。人是造物主犯下的一个错误，就象鱼龙一样。如果人类消失了，想想吧，将会有什么样美好的事物产生出来——直接从火中诞生。”

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“可人类永远不会消失，”她知道她再坚持下去会说出什么样恶毒的话来。“世界将与人类一起完蛋。”

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“啊，不，”他说，“不会是这样的。我相信那些骄傲的天使和魔鬼是我们的先驱。他们要毁灭我们，因为我们不够骄傲。比如鱼龙吧，它们就是因为不够骄傲才被毁掉的，鱼龙曾象我们一样爬行、蹒跚。再看看接骨木上的花朵和风铃草吧，甚至蝴蝶，它们说明纯粹的创造是存在的。人类从来没有超越毛虫阶段，发展到蝶蛹就溃烂了，永远也不会长出翅膀来。人就象猴子和狒狒一样是与造物主反目的动物。”

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厄秀拉看着他，似乎他很不耐烦，愤愤然，同时他对什么又都感兴趣且很耐心。她不相信他的耐心，反倒相信他的愤然。她发现，他一直在情不自禁地试图拯救世界。意识到这一点，她既感到点儿欣慰，同时又蔑视他、恨他。她需要他成为她的人，讨厌他那副救世主的样子。她不能忍受他噜里噜嗦的概念。可他对谁都这样，谁要求助于他，他就没完没了地讲这么一通。这是一种可鄙的、恶毒的卖淫。

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“但是，”她说，“你相信个体间的爱，尽管你不爱人类，是吗？”

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“我压很儿就不相信什么爱不爱的，倒不如说我相信恨、相信哀。爱跟别的东西一样，是一种情绪，你能对此有所感，这样很好，但是我不明白它何以能够变得绝对起来。它不过是人类关系中的一部分罢了，而且是每个人与他人关系的一部分。我简直不明白，为什么要要求人们总去感受到爱，比对悲伤与欢乐的感受还要多。爱并不是人们迫切需要的东西——它是根据场合的不同所感受到的一种情绪。”

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“既然如此，你为什么在乎别人的事？”她问，“如果你不相信爱，你干什么要替人类担忧？”

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“为什么？因为我无法摆脱人类。”

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“因为你爱人类。”她坚持说。

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这话令他恼火。

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“如果说我爱，”他说，“那是我的病。”

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“可这是不想治好的病。”她冷漠地嘲弄道。

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他不说话了，感到她是要污辱他。

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“如果你不相信爱的话，那你信什么？”她调侃地问。“只是简单地相信世界的末日，相信只有青草的世界吗？”

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他开始感到自己是个傻瓜。

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“我相信隐藏着的万物。”他说。

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“就不信别的了？除了青草与鸟雀你就不相信任何看得见的东西吗？你那个世界也太可怜了。”

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“也许是吧，”他说着变得既冷漠又倨傲。他受到了冒犯，摆出一副傲慢的架式，对她敬而远之。

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厄秀拉不喜欢他了，但同时她感到一种失落。她看着蹲在岸上的伯金，发现他象在主日学校里一样呆板、自命不凡，这样子让人反感。但他的身影既敏捷又迷人，让人感极其舒畅：尽管一脸病态，可他的眉毛，下颏以及整个身架似乎又是那样生机勃勃。

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他给她造成的这种双重印象令她恨得五内俱焚。他有一种难得的生命活力，这种特质令他成为一个别人渴望得到的人；另一方面，他是那么可笑，竟想做救世主，象主日学校的教师一样学究气十足、呆板僵化。

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他抬起头来看看她，发现她的脸上闪烁着一层奇谲的光芒，似乎这光芒发自她体内强烈的美好火焰。于是他的灵魂为奇妙的感觉所攫取。她是被自身的生命之火点燃的。他感到惊奇，完全被她所吸引，情不自禁向她靠拢。她象一个神奇的女王那样端坐着，浑身散发着异彩，几乎是个超自然的人。

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“关于爱，”他边说边迅速矫正着自己的思路。“我是说，我们仇恨尘世是因为我们把它庸俗化了。它应该有所规定，有所禁忌，直到我们获得了新的，更好一点的观念。”

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他的话增进了他们两人之间的理解。

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“可它指的总是一回事。”她说。

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“哦，天啊，不，不是那回事了。”他叫道，“让旧的意思成为过去吧。”

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“可爱还是爱，”她坚持说。她的眼睛里放射出一道奇特、锐利的黄光，直射向他。

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他在这目光下犹豫着、困惑着退缩了。

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“不，”他说，“不是。再别这样说了。你不应该说这个字。”

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“我把它留给你去说，让你在适当的时候把这个字从约柜①中取出来。”她嘲弄地说。

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①一个藏有摩西十诫的神圣柜子，以色列人携之出埃及。

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他们又对望了一眼，厄秀拉突然背过身去，然后走开了。他慢慢地站起身来到水边，蹲下，自我陶醉起来。他掐下一朵雏菊仍到水面上，那花儿象一朵荷花一样漂在水面上，绽开花瓣儿，仰天开放。花儿缓缓地旋着，慢慢地舞着漂走了。

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伯金看着这朵花漂走，又掐了一朵扔进水里，然后又扔进去一朵，扔完了，他就蹲在岸边上饶有兴趣地看着它们。厄秀拉转过来看到此情此景，一股奇特的感情油然而升，似乎发生了什么事，可这一切都一目了然。似乎她被什么控制住了，可她又说不上来是什么。她只能看着花儿在水上打着旋，缓缓漂然而去。这一队白色的伙伴漂远了。

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“咱们到岸边上去赶它们吧，”她说，她怕再在这儿困下去。于是他们上了船。

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上了岸，她又高兴了，又自由了。她沿着岸边来到水闸前。雏菊已碎成几瓣，这儿那儿散落在水面上，闪着白色的光芒。为什么这些小花瓣令她如此动情，以某种神秘的力量打动了她？

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“看，”他说，“你叠的紫色纸船正护送它们，俨然一支护船队呢。”

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几瓣雏菊迟迟凝凝地向她漂来，就象在清澈的深水中羞赧地跳着交谊舞。它们那欢快的白色身影愈近愈令她动情，几乎落下泪来。

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“它们何以这样可爱？”她叫道，“我为什么觉得它们这样可爱啊？”

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“真是些漂亮花儿。”他说，厄秀拉那动情的语调令他难耐。

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“你知道，一朵雏菊是由许多管状花冠组成的，可以变成一个个个体。植物学家不是把雏菊列为最发达的植物吗？我相信他们会的。”

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“菊科植物吗？是的。我想是的。”厄秀拉说，无论对什么她总是不那么自信。一时间她很了解的事物会在另一个场合里变得可疑起来。

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“这么说，”伯金说，“雏菊是最民主的了，所以它是最高级的花，因此它迷人。”

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“不，”她叫道，“决不是。它才不民主呢。”

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“是啊，”他承认道，“它是一群金色的无产者，被一群无所事事的富人象一圈白边儿一样圈着。”

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“可恶，你这种社会等级的划分太可恶了！”她叫道。

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“很可恶！这是一朵雏菊，只谈这个吧。”

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“行。就算爆了个冷门吧，”她说，“如果一切对你来说都是冷门就好了，”她又嘲弄地补上一句。

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他们无意识中拉开了距离。似乎他们都感到吃惊，站在那儿一动也不动，人显得懵懂起来。他们的小小冲突令两人无所适从，变成了两股非人的力量在交锋。

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他开始感到自己错了。他想说点什么家常话来扭转这种局面。

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“你知道，”他说，“我在磨房这儿有住所吗？你不认为我们可以在这儿好好消磨一下时光吗？”

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“哦，是吗？”她说，对他那自作多情的亲昵她才不去理会呢。

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他发现了这一点，口气变得冷漠多了。

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“如果我发现我一个人可以过得很充裕，”他接着说，“我就会放弃我的工作。这工作对我来说早就名存实亡了。我不相信人类，尽管我装作是它的一员。我压根儿不理会我所依靠的社会信仰。我厌恶这行将就没的人类社会有机群体，因此干教育这一行纯粹是没用。我能脱身就脱身，也许明天吧，变得洁身自好。”

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“你有足够的生活条件吗？”厄秀拉问。

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“有的，我一年有四百镑收入，靠这个生活很容易。”

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“赫麦妮怎么办？”厄秀拉问。

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“了了，彻底了结了——吹了，永远不会破镜重圆。”

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“可你们仍然相互理解？”

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“我们很难装作是路人，对吗？”

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他们不说话了，但都很固执。

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“这岂不是折衷的办法？”厄秀拉终于说。

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“我不认为这是折衷，”他说，“你说怎么个折衷法儿？”

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又沉默了。他在思索。

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“非得把一切都甩掉不可，一切——把一切都抛弃，才能得到最后想得到的东西。”他说。

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“什么东西？”她挑衅地说。

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“我不知道，也许是自由吧。”他说。

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可她希望他说的那个字是“爱”。

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水闸下传来刺耳的犬吠声。他似乎被这声音搅乱了思绪。

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可她却不去理会。她只是感觉到他心绪不宁。

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“我知道了，”他压低嗓门说，“是赫麦妮和克里奇来了。

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她要在房子装上家具之前来看看。”

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“我知道，”她说，“她要监视着你装饰房间。”

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“也许是吧。这有什么？”

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“哦，没什么，没什么，”厄秀拉说，“但是我个人无法容忍她。我觉得她是个骗子，你们这些人总在说谎。”她思忖了一下突然冒出一句：“我就是在乎，她帮你装饰房子我就是不乐意。你总让她围着你，我就是不乐意。”

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他皱起眉头沉默不语。

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“也许，”他说，“我并不愿意让她装饰这儿的房间——我并不愿意她缠着我。可我总不能对她太粗暴呀，何必呢？不管怎么着，我得下去看看他们了。你来吗？”

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“我不想去。”她冷漠但犹豫地说。

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“来吧，对，来吧，也来看看房子。”

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MEANWHILE Ursula had wandered on from Willey Water along the course of the bright little stream. The afternoon was full of larks’ singing. On the bright hill-sides was a subdued smoulder of gorse. A few forgetme-nots flowered by the water. There was a rousedness and a glancing everywhere.

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She strayed absorbedly on, over the brooks. She wanted to go to the millpond above. The big mill-house was deserted, save for a labourer and his wife who lived in the kitchen. So she passed through the empty farm-yard and through the wilderness of a garden, and mounted the bank by the sluice. When she got to the top, to see the old, velvety surface of the pond before her, she noticed a man on the bank, tinkering with a punt. It was Birkin sawing and hammering away.

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She stood at the head of the sluice, looking at him. He was unaware of anybody’s presence. He looked very busy, like a wild animal, active and intent. She felt she ought to go away, he would not want her. He seemed to be so much occupied. But she did not want to go away. Therefore she moved along the bank till he would look up.

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Which he soon did. The moment he saw her, he dropped his tools and came forward, saying:

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`How do you do? I’m making the punt water-tight. Tell me if you think it is right.’

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She went along with him.

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`You are your father’s daughter, so you can tell me if it will do,’ he said.

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She bent to look at the patched punt.

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`I am sure I am my father’s daughter,’ she said, fearful of having to judge. `But I don’t know anything about carpentry. It looks right, don’t you think?’

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`Yes, I think. I hope it won’t let me to the bottom, that’s all. Though even so, it isn’t a great matter, I should come up again. Help me to get it into the water, will you?’

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With combined efforts they turned over the heavy punt and set it afloat.

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`Now,’ he said, `I’ll try it and you can watch what happens. Then if it carries, I’ll take you over to the island.’

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`Do,’ she cried, watching anxiously.

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The pond was large, and had that perfect stillness and the dark lustre of very deep water. There were two small islands overgrown with bushes and a few trees, towards the middle. Birkin pushed himself off, and veered clumsily in the pond. Luckily the punt drifted so that he could catch hold of a willow bough, and pull it to the island.

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`Rather overgrown,’ he said, looking into the interior, `but very nice. I’ll come and fetch you. The boat leaks a little.’

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In a moment he was with her again, and she stepped into the wet punt.

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`It’ll float us all right,’ he said, and manoeuvred again to the island.

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They landed under a willow tree. She shrank from the little jungle of rank plants before her, evil-smelling figwort and hemlock. But he explored into it.

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`I shall mow this down,’ he said, `and then it will be romantic -- like Paul et Virginie.’

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`Yes, one could have lovely Watteau picnics here,’ cried Ursula with enthusiasm.

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His face darkened.

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`I don’t want Watteau picnics here,’ he said.

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`Only your Virginie,’ she laughed.

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`Virginie enough,’ he smiled wryly. `No, I don’t want her either.’

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Ursula looked at him closely. She had not seen him since Breadalby. He was very thin and hollow, with a ghastly look in his face.

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`You have been ill; haven’t you?’ she asked, rather repulsed.

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`Yes,’ he replied coldly.

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They had sat down under the willow tree, and were looking at the pond, from their retreat on the island.

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`Has it made you frightened?’ she asked.

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`What of?’ he asked, turning his eyes to look at her. Something in him, inhuman and unmitigated, disturbed her, and shook her out of her ordinary self.

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`It is frightening to be very ill, isn’t it?’ she said.

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`It isn’t pleasant,’ he said. `Whether one is really afraid of death, or not, I have never decided. In one mood, not a bit, in another, very much.’

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`But doesn’t it make you feel ashamed? I think it makes one so ashamed, to be ill -- illness is so terribly humiliating, don’t you think?’

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He considered for some minutes.

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`May-be,’ he said. `Though one knows all the time one’s life isn’t really right, at the source. That’s the humiliation. I don’t see that the illness counts so much, after that. One is ill because one doesn’t live properly -can’t. It’s the failure to live that makes one ill, and humiliates one.’

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`But do you fail to live?’ she asked, almost jeering.

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`Why yes -- I don’t make much of a success of my days. One seems always to be bumping one’s nose against the blank wall ahead.’

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Ursula laughed. She was frightened, and when she was frightened she always laughed and pretended to be jaunty.

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`Your poor nose!’ she said, looking at that feature of his face.

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`No wonder it’s ugly,’ he replied.

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She was silent for some minutes, struggling with her own self-deception. It was an instinct in her, to deceive herself.

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`But I’m happy -- I think life is awfully jolly,’ she said.

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`Good,’ he answered, with a certain cold indifference.

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She reached for a bit of paper which had wrapped a small piece of chocolate she had found in her pocket, and began making a boat. He watched her without heeding her. There was something strangely pathetic and tender in her moving, unconscious finger-tips, that were agitated and hurt, really.

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`I do enjoy things -- don’t you?’ she asked.

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`Oh yes! But it infuriates me that I can’t get right, at the really growing part of me. I feel all tangled and messed up, and I can’t get straight anyhow. I don’t know what really to do. One must do something somewhere.’

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`Why should you always be doing?’ she retorted. `It is so plebeian. I think it is much better to be really patrician, and to do nothing but just be oneself, like a walking flower.’

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`I quite agree,’ he said, `if one has burst into blossom. But I can’t get my flower to blossom anyhow. Either it is blighted in the bud, or has got the smother-fly, or it isn’t nourished. Curse it, it isn’t even a bud. It is a contravened knot.’

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Again she laughed. He was so very fretful and exasperated. But she was anxious and puzzled. How was one to get out, anyhow. There must be a way out somewhere.

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There was a silence, wherein she wanted to cry. She reached for another bit of chocolate paper, and began to fold another boat.

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`And why is it,’ she asked at length, `that there is no flowering, no dignity of human life now?’

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`The whole idea is dead. Humanity itself is dry-rotten, really. There are myriads of human beings hanging on the bush -- and they look very nice and rosy, your healthy young men and women. But they are apples of Sodom, as a matter of fact, Dead Sea Fruit, gall-apples. It isn’t true that they have any significance -- their insides are full of bitter, corrupt ash.’

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`But there are good people,’ protested Ursula.

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`Good enough for the life of today. But mankind is a dead tree, covered with fine brilliant galls of people.’

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Ursula could not help stiffening herself against this, it was too picturesque and final. But neither could she help making him go on.

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`And if it is so, why is it?’ she asked, hostile. They were rousing each other to a fine passion of opposition.

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`Why, why are people all balls of bitter dust? Because they won’t fall off the tree when they’re ripe. They hang on to their old positions when the position is over-past, till they become infested with little worms and dryrot.’

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There was a long pause. His voice had become hot and very sarcastic. Ursula was troubled and bewildered, they were both oblivious of everything but their own immersion.

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`But even if everybody is wrong -- where are you right?’ she cried, `where are you any better?’

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`I? -- I’m not right,’ he cried back. `At least my only rightness lies in the fact that I know it. I detest what I am, outwardly. I loathe myself as a human being. Humanity is a huge aggregate lie, and a huge lie is less than a small truth. Humanity is less, far less than the individual, because the individual may sometimes be capable of truth, and humanity is a tree of lies. And they say that love is the greatest thing; they persist in saying this, the foul liars, and just look at what they do! Look at all the millions of people who repeat every minute that love is the greatest, and charity is the greatest -- and see what they are doing all the time. By their works ye shall know them, for dirty liars and cowards, who daren’t stand by their own actions, much less by their own words.’

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`But,’ said Ursula sadly, `that doesn’t alter the fact that love is the greatest, does it? What they do doesn’t alter the truth of what they say, does it?’

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`Completely, because if what they say were true, then they couldn’t help fulfilling it. But they maintain a lie, and so they run amok at last. It’s a lie to say that love is the greatest. You might as well say that hate is the greatest, since the opposite of everything balances. What people want is hate -- hate and nothing but hate. And in the name of righteousness and love, they get it. They distil themselves with nitroglycerine, all the lot of them, out of very love. It’s the lie that kills. If we want hate, let us have it -- death, murder, torture, violent destruction -- let us have it: but not in the name of love. But I abhor humanity, I wish it was swept away. It could go, and there would be no absolute loss, if every human being perished tomorrow. The reality would be untouched. Nay, it would be better. The real tree of life would then be rid of the most ghastly, heavy crop of Dead Sea Fruit, the intolerable burden of myriad simulacra of people, an infinite weight of mortal lies.’

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`So you’d like everybody in the world destroyed?’ said Ursula.

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`I should indeed.’

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`And the world empty of people?’

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`Yes truly. You yourself, don’t you find it a beautiful clean thought, a world empty of people, just uninterrupted grass, and a hare sitting up?’

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The pleasant sincerity of his voice made Ursula pause to consider her own proposition. And really it was attractive: a clean, lovely, humanless world. It was the really desirable. Her heart hesitated, and exulted. But still, she was dissatisfied with him.

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`But,’ she objected, `you’d be dead yourself, so what good would it do you?’

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`I would die like a shot, to know that the earth would really be cleaned of all the people. It is the most beautiful and freeing thought. Then there would never be another foul humanity created, for a universal defilement.’

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`No,’ said Ursula, `there would be nothing.’

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`What! Nothing? Just because humanity was wiped out? You flatter yourself. There’d be everything.’

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`But how, if there were no people?’

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`Do you think that creation depends on man! It merely doesn’t. There are the trees and the grass and birds. I much prefer to think of the lark rising up in the morning upon a human-less world. Man is a mistake, he must go. There is the grass, and hares and adders, and the unseen hosts, actual angels that go about freely when a dirty humanity doesn’t interrupt them -and good pure-tissued demons: very nice.’

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It pleased Ursula, what he said, pleased her very much, as a phantasy. Of course it was only a pleasant fancy. She herself knew too well the actuality of humanity, its hideous actuality. She knew it could not disappear so cleanly and conveniently. It had a long way to go yet, a long and hideous way. Her subtle, feminine, demoniacal soul knew it well.

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`If only man was swept off the face of the earth, creation would go on so marvellously, with a new start, non-human. Man is one of the mistakes of creation -- like the ichthyosauri. If only he were gone again, think what lovely things would come out of the liberated days; -- things straight out of the fire.’

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`But man will never be gone,’ she said, with insidious, diabolical knowledge of the horrors of persistence. `The world will go with him.’

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`Ah no,’ he answered, `not so. I believe in the proud angels and the demons that are our fore-runners. They will destroy us, because we are not proud enough. The ichthyosauri were not proud: they crawled and floundered as we do. And besides, look at elder-flowers and bluebells -they are a sign that pure creation takes place -- even the butterfly. But humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar stage -- it rots in the chrysalis, it never will have wings. It is anti-creation, like monkeys and baboons.’

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Ursula watched him as he talked. There seemed a certain impatient fury in him, all the while, and at the same time a great amusement in everything, and a final tolerance. And it was this tolerance she mistrusted, not the fury. She saw that, all the while, in spite of himself, he would have to be trying to save the world. And this knowledge, whilst it comforted her heart somewhere with a little self-satisfaction, stability, yet filled her with a certain sharp contempt and hate of him. She wanted him to herself, she hated the Salvator Mundi touch. It was something diffuse and generalised about him, which she could not stand. He would behave in the same way, say the same things, give himself as completely to anybody who came along, anybody and everybody who liked to appeal to him. It was despicable, a very insidious form of prostitution.

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`But,’ she said, `you believe in individual love, even if you don’t believe in loving humanity --?’

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`I don’t believe in love at all -- that is, any more than I believe in hate, or in grief. Love is one of the emotions like all the others -- and so it is all right whilst you feel it But I can’t see how it becomes an absolute. It is just part of human relationships, no more. And it is only part of any human relationship. And why one should be required always to feel it, any more than one always feels sorrow or distant joy, I cannot conceive. Love isn’t a desideratum -- it is an emotion you feel or you don’t feel, according to circumstance.’

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`Then why do you care about people at all?’ she asked, `if you don’t believe in love? Why do you bother about humanity?’

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`Why do I? Because I can’t get away from it.’

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`Because you love it,’ she persisted.

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It irritated him.

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`If I do love it,’ he said, `it is my disease.’

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`But it is a disease you don’t want to be cured of,’ she said, with some cold sneering.

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He was silent now, feeling she wanted to insult him.

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`And if you don’t believe in love, what do you believe in?’ she asked mocking. `Simply in the end of the world, and grass?’

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He was beginning to feel a fool.

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`I believe in the unseen hosts,’ he said.

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`And nothing else? You believe in nothing visible, except grass and birds? Your world is a poor show.’

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`Perhaps it is,’ he said, cool and superior now he was offended, assuming a certain insufferable aloof superiority, and withdrawing into his distance.

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Ursula disliked him. But also she felt she had lost something. She looked at him as he sat crouched on the bank. There was a certain priggish Sunday-school stiffness over him, priggish and detestable. And yet, at the same time, the moulding of him was so quick and attractive, it gave such a great sense of freedom: the moulding of his brows, his chin, his whole physique, something so alive, somewhere, in spite of the look of sickness.

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And it was this duality in feeling which he created in her, that made a fine hate of him quicken in her bowels. There was his wonderful, desirable life-rapidity, the rare quality of an utterly desirable man: and there was at the same time this ridiculous, mean effacement into a Salvator Mundi and a Sunday-school teacher, a prig of the stiffest type.

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He looked up at her. He saw her face strangely enkindled, as if suffused from within by a powerful sweet fire. His soul was arrested in wonder. She was enkindled in her own living fire. Arrested in wonder and in pure, perfect attraction, he moved towards her. She sat like a strange queen, almost supernatural in her glowing smiling richness.

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`The point about love,’ he said, his consciousness quickly adjusting itself, `is that we hate the word because we have vulgarised it. It ought to be prescribed, tabooed from utterance, for many years, till we get a new, better idea.’

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There was a beam of understanding between them.

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`But it always means the same thing,’ she said.

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`Ah God, no, let it not mean that any more,’ he cried. `Let the old meanings go.’

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`But still it is love,’ she persisted. A strange, wicked yellow light shone at him in her eyes.

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He hesitated, baffled, withdrawing.

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`No,’ he said, `it isn’t. Spoken like that, never in the world. You’ve no business to utter the word.’

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`I must leave it to you, to take it out of the Ark of the Covenant at the right moment,’ she mocked.

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Again they looked at each other. She suddenly sprang up, turned her back to him, and walked away. He too rose slowly and went to the water’s edge, where, crouching, he began to amuse himself unconsciously. Picking a daisy he dropped it on the pond, so that the stem was a keel, the flower floated like a little water lily, staring with its open face up to the sky. It turned slowly round, in a slow, slow Dervish dance, as it veered away.

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He watched it, then dropped another daisy into the water, and after that another, and sat watching them with bright, absolved eyes, crouching near on the bank. Ursula turned to look. A strange feeling possessed her, as if something were taking place. But it was all intangible. And some sort of control was being put on her. She could not know. She could only watch the brilliant little discs of the daisies veering slowly in travel on the dark, lustrous water. The little flotilla was drifting into the light, a company of white specks in the distance.

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`Do let us go to the shore, to follow them,’ she said, afraid of being any longer imprisoned on the island. And they pushed off in the punt.

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She was glad to be on the free land again. She went along the bank towards the sluice. The daisies were scattered broadcast on the pond, tiny radiant things, like an exaltation, points of exaltation here and there. Why did they move her so strongly and mystically?

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`Look,’ he said, `your boat of purple paper is escorting them, and they are a convoy of rafts.’

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Some of the daisies came slowly towards her, hesitating, making a shy bright little cotillion on the dark clear water. Their gay bright candour moved her so much as they came near, that she was almost in tears.

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`Why are they so lovely,’ she cried. `Why do I think them so lovely?’

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`They are nice flowers,’ he said, her emotional tones putting a constraint on him.

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`You know that a daisy is a company of florets, a concourse, become individual. Don’t the botanists put it highest in the line of development? I believe they do.’

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`The compositae, yes, I think so,’ said Ursula, who was never very sure of anything. Things she knew perfectly well, at one moment, seemed to become doubtful the next.

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`Explain it so, then,’ he said. `The daisy is a perfect little democracy, so it’s the highest of flowers, hence its charm.’

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`No,’ she cried, `no -- never. It isn’t democratic.’

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`No,’ he admitted. `It’s the golden mob of the proletariat, surrounded by a showy white fence of the idle rich.’

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`How hateful -- your hateful social orders!’ she cried.

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`Quite! It’s a daisy -- we’ll leave it alone.’

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`Do. Let it be a dark horse for once,’ she said: `if anything can be a dark horse to you,’ she added satirically.

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They stood aside, forgetful. As if a little stunned, they both were motionless, barely conscious. The little conflict into which they had fallen had torn their consciousness and left them like two impersonal forces, there in contact.

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He became aware of the lapse. He wanted to say something, to get on to a new more ordinary footing.

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`You know,’ he said, `that I am having rooms here at the mill? Don’t you think we can have some good times?’

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`Oh are you?’ she said, ignoring all his implication of admitted intimacy.

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He adjusted himself at once, became normally distant.

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`If I find I can live sufficiently by myself,’ he continued, `I shall give up my work altogether. It has become dead to me. I don’t believe in the humanity I pretend to be part of, I don’t care a straw for the social ideals I live by, I hate the dying organic form of social mankind -- so it can’t be anything but trumpery, to work at education. I shall drop it as soon as I am clear enough -- tomorrow perhaps -- and be by myself.’

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`Have you enough to live on?’ asked Ursula.

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`Yes -- I’ve about four hundred a year. That makes it easy for me.’

127

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There was a pause.

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`And what about Hermione?’ asked Ursula.

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`That’s over, finally -- a pure failure, and never could have been anything else.’

130

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`But you still know each other?’

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`We could hardly pretend to be strangers, could we?’

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There was a stubborn pause.

133

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`But isn’t that a half-measure?’ asked Ursula at length.

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`I don’t think so,’ he said. `You’ll be able to tell me if it is.’

135

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Again there was a pause of some minutes’ duration. He was thinking.

136

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`One must throw everything away, everything -- let everything go, to get the one last thing one wants,’ he said.

137

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`What thing?’ she asked in challenge.

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`I don’t know -- freedom together,’ he said.

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She had wanted him to say `love.’

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There was heard a loud barking of the dogs below. He seemed disturbed by it. She did not notice. Only she thought he seemed uneasy.

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`As a matter of fact,’ he said, in rather a small voice, `I believe that is Hermione come now, with Gerald Crich. She wanted to see the rooms before they are furnished.’

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`I know,’ said Ursula. `She will superintend the furnishing for you.’

143

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`Probably. Does it matter?’

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`Oh no, I should think not,’ said Ursula. `Though personally, I can’t bear her. I think she is a lie, if you like, you who are always talking about lies.’ Then she ruminated for a moment, when she broke out: `Yes, and I do mind if she furnishes your rooms -- I do mind. I mind that you keep her hanging on at all.’

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He was silent now, frowning.

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`Perhaps,’ he said. `I don’t want her to furnish the rooms here -- and I don’t keep her hanging on. Only, I needn’t be churlish to her, need I? At any rate, I shall have to go down and see them now. You’ll come, won’t you?’

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`I don’t think so,’ she said coldly and irresolutely.

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`Won’t you? Yes do. Come and see the rooms as well. Do come.’

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