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恋爱中的女人|Women in Love

Chapter 18 Rabbit

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 劳伦斯] 阅读：[28805]
Chapter 17 The Industrial Magnate
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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戈珍深知，到肖特兰兹去是件至关紧要的事。她知道这等于接受了杰拉德·克里奇的爱。尽管她不喜欢这样，可她知道她应该继续下去。她痛苦地回忆起那一个耳光和吻，含糊其词地自己问自己，“归根结蒂，这算什么？一个吻是什么？一记耳光是什么意思？那不过是个偶然的现象，很快就消失了。我可以到肖特兰兹去一会儿，在离开这儿之前看看它是什么样子就行了。”她有一种无法满足好奇心，什么都想知道。

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她也想知道温妮弗莱德到底是个什么样子。那天听到这孩子在汽船上的叫声，她就感到与她有了某种神秘的联系。

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戈珍同她父亲在书房里谈着话，父亲就派人去叫女儿来。

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不一会儿女儿就在法国女教师的陪伴下来了。

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“温妮，这位是布朗温小姐，她将帮助你学绘画、塑造小动物。”父亲说。

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孩子很有兴趣地看了戈珍一会儿，然后走上前来，扭着头把手伸了过来，显得很拘谨，十分镇定、冷漠。

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“你好？”孩子头也不抬地说。

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“你好。”戈珍说。

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说完，温妮站在一边，戈珍与法国教师相会。

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“今天天气很好。”法国女教师愉快地说。

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“很好。”戈珍说。

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温妮弗莱德在远处打量着这边。她似乎感到很有趣儿，但有点拿不准这位新来的人会是什么样的人。她见过不少生客，但没有几个是她真正了解的。这位法国女教师算不了什么，这孩子还可以跟她平静相处，承认她的小小权威，但对她不无轻蔑，尽管服从她，心里仍然很傲，拿她并不当一回事。

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“温妮弗莱德，”父亲说，“布朗温小姐来咱家你不高兴吗？她用木头和泥雕塑的小动物和小鸟伦敦的人都称赞，他们还在报纸上写文章赞扬她呢。”

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温妮弗莱德微微笑了。

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“谁告诉你的，爸爸？”她问。

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“谁告诉我的？赫麦妮告诉我的，卢伯特·伯金也说起过。”

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“你认识他们？”温妮弗莱德有点挑战似地问戈珍。

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“认识，”戈珍说。

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温妮弗莱德有点松了口气。她本来就是把戈珍当作仆人看的，她们之间没什么友谊可讲。她很高兴，她有了这么多比她地位低下的人，她尽可以以良好的心情容忍她们。

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戈珍很平静。她也没把这些事看得很重。一个新的场合对她来说是很新奇的，可温妮弗莱德这孩子却那么不讨人喜欢，那么损，她永远也不会合群。戈珍喜欢她，迷上了她。第一次会面就这么不光彩，这么尴尬地结束了，无论是温妮弗莱德还是她的女教师都不那么通情达理。

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不久，她们就在一个虚幻的世界中相聚了。温妮弗莱德不怎么注意别人，除非他们象她一样顽皮并有点儿损。她只喜欢娱乐，她生活中严肃的“人”是她喜爱的小动物。对那些小动物她慷慨地施舍着自己的怜悯心，真有点好笑。对人间其它的事她感到不耐烦，无所谓。

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她有一头小狮子狗，起名儿鲁鲁，她可喜欢鲁鲁了。

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“咱们画画鲁鲁吧，”戈珍说，“看看我们能不能画出它的乖样儿，好吗？”

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“亲爱的！”温妮弗莱德跑过去，有点忧郁地坐下，吻着鲁鲁凸出的额头说：“小亲亲，你让我们画你吗？让妈妈画张画儿吧，啊？”说完她高兴地扑哧一笑，转身对戈珍说：“哦，画吧！”

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她们过去取来铅笔和纸准备画了。

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“太漂亮了，”温妮弗莱德搂着小狗说，“妈妈为他画画儿时他安安静静地坐着。”小狗儿大大的眼睛中露出忧郁、无可奈何的神情。她热烈地吻着小狗说：“不知道我的画儿作出来是什么样，肯定不好看。”

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她边画边吃吃地笑，不时大叫：

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“啊，亲爱的，你太漂亮了！”

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她笑着跑过去忏悔地抱住小狗，似乎她伤害了它。小狗黑丝绒般的脸上挂着岁月留下的无可奈何与烦恼的表情。温妮慢慢地画着，目光很专注地看着狗，头偏向一边，全神贯注地画着，她似乎是在画着什么咒符。她画完了，看看狗，再看看自己的画儿，然后突然松口气兴奋淘气地大叫：

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“我的美人儿，为什么这么美？”

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她拿着画纸走向小狗，把画儿放在它鼻子底下。小狗似乎懊恼屈辱地把头扭向一边，温妮竟冲动地吻它那黑丝绒般凸出的前额。

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“好鲁鲁，小鲁鲁！看看这幅画儿，亲爱的，看看吧，这是妈妈画的呀。”她看看画，又吃吃地笑了起来。她又吻吻小狗，然后站起身庄重地走到戈珍面前把画儿交给她。

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这是一张画有一头奇怪的小动物的荒诞画儿，很淘气又很有喜剧味儿，戈珍看着画儿脸上不由得浮上一丝笑意。温妮弗莱德在她身边吃吃笑道：

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“不象它，对吗？它比画儿上的它要可爱得多。它太漂亮了，呣，鲁鲁，我可爱的达令。”说着她反奔过去拥抱那懊恼的小狗，它抬起一双不满、忧郁的眼睛看看她，任她去抱。然后她又跑回到图画边上，满意地笑道：

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“不象它，是吗？”她问戈珍。

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“象，很象。”戈珍说。

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这孩子很珍惜这幅画儿，带着它，有点不好意思地向别人展示。

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“看，”她说着把图画送到爸爸眼前。

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“这不是鲁鲁吗？！”他叫着。他吃惊地看着图，听到身边女儿在笑。

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戈珍第一次来肖特兰兹时杰拉德不在家。

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他回来的那天早晨就寻找她。那天早晨阳光和煦，他留连在花园小径上，观赏着他离家后盛开的鲜花。他仍象原先一样整洁、健康，脸刮得很干净，淡黄色的头发仔细地梳向一边，在阳光下闪闪发光。他漂亮的上髭修剪得很整齐，眼睛里闪烁着温和但不可靠的光芒。他身着黑衣，衣服穿在他健壮的身体上很合体。他在花坛前徘徊，阳光下他显得有点孤单，似乎因为缺少什么而感到害怕。

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戈珍快步走来，无声无息地出现在园子中。她身着蓝衣和黄色的袜子，有点象年轻的警察。看到她，他吃了一惊。她的长袜总让他感到窘迫：浅黄色的袜子配黑鞋子，真是岂有此理。温妮弗莱德此时正在园子中同法国女教师牵着狗玩，见到戈珍就飞跑过去。这孩子身穿黑白相间的条状衣服，齐耳短发剪成了圆型。

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“咱们画俾斯麦①吧，好吗？”她说着挽住戈珍的胳膊。

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①俾斯麦（１８１５—１８９８），德国第一任首相，有“铁血宰相”之称。在这里，“俾斯麦”是一只兔子的外号。

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“好，我们就画俾斯麦，你喜欢？”

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“是的，我喜欢！我非常想画俾斯麦。今天早晨我发现它非常神气，非常残忍。它几乎象一头狮子那么大。”说着她为自己的夸张笑了起来。“它是个真正的国王，真的。”

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“你好，”矮小的法国女教师微微鞠个躬向戈珍问好，戈珍对这种鞠躬最讨厌。

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“温妮弗莱德很想画俾斯麦！哦，整个早上她都在叫：‘今天上午我们画俾斯麦吧！’俾斯麦，俾斯麦，就是这个俾斯麦！它是一只兔子，对吗，小姐？”

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“对，是一只黑白两色的花兔子。你见过它吗？”戈珍说一口好听的法语。

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“没有，小姐。温妮弗莱德从没想让我见它。好几次我问它‘温妮弗莱德，俾斯麦是什么东西？’可她就是不告诉我。

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就这样，俾斯麦成了一个秘密。”

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“它的确是个秘密！布朗温小姐说俾斯麦是个秘密。”温妮弗莱德叫道。

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“俾斯麦是个秘密，俾斯麦是个秘密，俾斯麦是个奇迹，”

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戈珍用英语、法语和德语念咒般地说。

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“对，就是一个奇迹，”温妮弗莱德的话音出奇得严肃，可掩饰不住淘气的窃笑。

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“是奇迹吗？”女教师有点傲气十足地讽刺说。

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“是的！”温妮弗莱德毫不在乎地说。

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“可他不象温妮弗莱德说的那样是国王。俾斯麦不是国王，温妮弗莱德。他不过——不过是个宰相罢了。”

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“宰相是什么？”温妮弗莱德很看不起女教师，爱搭不理地说。

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“宰相就是宰相，宰相就是，我相信，是一个法官，”杰拉德说着走上来同戈珍握手。“你很快就可以编一首关于俾斯麦的歌曲。”他说。

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法国女教师等待着，谨慎地同他打个招呼。

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“她们不让你看俾斯麦，是吗？”他问女教师。

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“是的，先生。”

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“哦，她们可真下作。布朗温小姐，你们准备拿它怎么办？

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我希望把它送厨房去做菜吃。”

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“不。”温妮弗莱德叫道。

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“我们要画它，”戈珍说。

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“拉他，撕碎他，再把他做成菜。①”杰拉德故意装傻。

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①英语中“画”和“拉”是同音同形词，杰拉德以此来开玩笑。

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“哦，不嘛。”温妮弗莱德笑着大叫。

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戈珍不喜欢他的嘲弄口吻，她抬起头冲他笑笑。他感到自己的神经受到了抚慰，他们的双目交换了理解的目光。

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“你喜欢肖特兰兹吗？”他问。

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“哦，太喜欢了。”戈珍漠然地说。

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“这太让我高兴了。你有没有注意这些花儿？”

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他带她走上小径，她专心致致地跟在他身后走着，随后温妮弗莱德也跟了上来，法国女教师在最后面磨磨蹭蹭地跟着走。他们在四下里蔓延着的喇叭舌草前停住了脚步。

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“这太漂亮了！”戈珍着了迷似地看着花儿大叫。她对花草那种激情的崇拜奇怪地抚慰着他的神经。说着她弯下腰用纤细的手指优雅地抚摸着喇叭花儿。看到她这样爱花儿，他感到很惬意。当她直起腰，她那双花一样美丽的大眼睛火辣辣地看着他。

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“这是什么花儿？”她问。

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“牵牛花一类的吧，我想是。”他说，“我并不太懂。”

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“这种花儿对我来说太陌生了。”她说。

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他们假作亲昵地站在一起，心里都很紧张。他是爱她的。

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她注意到法国女教师就站在附近，象一只法国甲虫一样观察着、算计着什么。她带温妮弗莱德走开了，说是去找俾斯麦。

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杰拉德目送她们远去，目不转睛地看着戈珍那柔韧，娴静的体态，丰满的上身穿着绸开士米外套。她的身体一定是丰腴、光滑、柔软的。他太欣赏她了，她是那么令人渴望，那么美。他只是想接近她，只想这样，接近她，把自己给她。

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同时他敏感地注意到了法国女教师那衣着整洁、脆弱的身姿。她象一种高傲、长着细腿的甲虫高高地站立着，她闪光的黑衣十分合时宜，黑发做得很高、很令人羡慕。她那种完美的样子多么令人生厌！他讨厌她。

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可他的确崇拜她。她十分合时宜。令他恼火的是，当克里奇家人还在丧期时，戈珍竟身穿鲜艳的衣服来了，简直象一只鳱鹯！他盯着她抬腿离开地面，她的腕踝处露出浅黄色的袜子，她的衣服是深蓝色的。可他又不禁感到欣喜，很欣喜。他感到她的衣着是一种挑战——对整个世界的挑战。于是他看着喇叭花笑了。

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戈珍和温妮弗莱德从屋中穿过来到后院，那儿有马厩和仓库，四下里一片寂静，荒凉。克里奇先生驾车出去了，马夫正在为杰拉德遛马。两个姑娘走到墙角里的一间小棚子那儿去看那只黑白花兔。

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“太漂亮了！看它在听什么呢！它显得多傻呀！”她笑道：“我们就画它听声音的样子吧，它听得多认真呀，是吗，亲爱的俾斯麦？”

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“我们可以把它弄出来吗？”戈珍问。

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“它太强壮了。它真的十分有劲儿。”她偏着头，不信任地打量着戈珍说。

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“但我们可以试试，不行吗？”

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“可以，你愿意就试试吧。不过它踢人可疼了。”

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她们取来钥匙开门。兔子开始在棚子里蹦跳着打起转来。

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“它有时抓人抓得可厉害了，”温妮弗莱德激动地叫道，“快看看它，多么奇妙啊！”兔子在里面慌慌张张地窜来窜去。

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“俾斯麦！”这孩子激动地大叫：“你多么可怕啊！你象个野兽。”温妮弗莱德有点恐惧地抬头看看戈珍。戈珍的嘴角上挂着嘲讽的笑。温妮发出无比激动的怪叫声。“它安静了！”看到兔子在远处的一个角落里蹲着她叫了起来。“咱们现在就把它弄出来不好吗？”她怪模怪样地看着戈珍喃言着，慢慢凑了过来。

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“咱们这就把它弄出来吧？”她说着调皮地笑了。

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她们打开了小棚子的门。那只强壮的大兔子安静地蜷伏着，戈珍伸进胳膊去抓住了它的长耳朵。兔子张开爪子扒住地面，身体向后缩着。它被戈珍往外拖着，爪子抓着地发出刺耳的声响。它被举到空中，身体剧烈地抽动着，就象秋千一样荡着。最后戈珍终于把它摔了出来。戈珍用双臂抱住它，忙扭过脸去躲避它的抓挠。可这兔子强壮得出奇，她竭尽全力才能抓住它。在这场搏斗中她几乎失去了意识。

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“俾斯麦，俾斯麦，你太可怕了，”温妮弗莱德有点害怕地说，“快把它放下，它是一头野兽。”

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戈珍被她怀抱中这头暴风雨般的东西惊呆了。她绯红了脸，怒火中烧。她颤抖着，就象暴风雨中的小屋，完全被征服了。这场全无理智、愚蠢的搏斗令她感到恼火，她的手腕也被这只野兽的爪子抓破了，她的心变残酷了。

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正当她试图抱住要从她怀中窜开的兔子时，杰拉德来了。

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他敏感地看出她心中憋着火儿。

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“你应该叫个仆人来替你做这件事。”他说着急忙赶上前来。

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“哦，它太可怕了！”温妮弗莱德有点发疯地叫道。

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他强壮的手颤抖着揪住兔子耳朵把它从戈珍手中抱了出来。

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“它太强壮了，”戈珍高声叫着，象一只海鸥那样，声音奇怪，一心要报复。

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兔子全身缩成一团窜了出去，身体在空中形成弯弓型。它真有点魔气。戈珍看到，杰拉德浑身紧张，眼中一片空白。

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“我早就了解这类叫花子。”他说。

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那魔鬼般的野兽又一次跳到空中，看上去就象一条龙在飞舞，难以想象地强壮、具有爆发力。然后它又停了下来。杰拉德全身憋足了力气，剧烈地颤抖着。突然他感到一股怒火烧遍全身，闪电般地用一只手魔爪一样地抓住兔子的脖子。立时兔子发出一声死亡般可怕的尖叫。它剧烈地扭动着全身，抽搐着撕扯杰拉德的手腕和袖子，四爪旋风般舞动着，露出白白的肚皮。杰拉德揪着它旋了一圈，然后把它紧紧夹在腋下。

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它屈服了，老实了。杰拉德脸上露出了微笑。

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“你不要以为一只兔子有多大的力气。”他看着戈珍说。他看到，戈珍苍白的脸上嵌着一双夜一样黑的眼睛，她看上去有几分仙气。一阵搏斗后兔子发出的尖叫声似乎打破了她的意识，他看着她，脸上炽烈的光芒凝聚了起来。

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“我并不真喜欢它，”温妮弗莱德嘟哝着。“我可不象关心鲁鲁一样关心它。它真可恶。”

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戈珍清醒过来以后尴尬地笑了。她知道自己露馅儿了。

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“难道兔子尖叫时都那么可怕吗？”她叫着，尖尖的声音很象海鸥的叫声。

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“很可怕。”他说。

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“反正它是要让人拖出来的，它干吗那么傻乎乎地不出来？”温妮弗莱德试探地摸着兔子说。兔子老老实实地让他夹在腋下，死了一样地纹丝不动。

113
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“它没死吧，杰拉德？”她问。

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“没有，它应该活。”

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“对，它应该！”温妮突然很开心地叫。然后她更有信心地摸着兔子说：“它的心跳得很快，它多好玩呀，真的。”

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“你们想带它去哪儿？”杰拉德问。

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“到那个绿色的小院儿里去。”她说。

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戈珍好奇地打量着杰拉德，她的目光黯淡了，她以某种阴间的知识感知着杰拉德，几乎象只动物在乞求他，可这动物最终会战胜他。他不知对她说什么好。他感到他们双方相互象魔鬼一样认识了。他感到他应该说些什么来掩盖这一事实。他有力量去点燃自己的神经，而她就象一只柔软的接受器，接收他炽烈的火焰。他并不那么自信，时时感到害怕。

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“它伤着你了吗？”他问。

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“没有。”她说。

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“它是一只没有理智的野兽。”他扭过头去说。

122
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他们来到小院跟前。小院红砖围墙的裂缝中开着黄色的草花儿。院子里长着柔软的青草，小院地面平整，上空是一片蓝瓦瓦的春天。杰拉德把兔子一抖放到草里去。它静静地蜷缩着，根本就不动窝儿。戈珍有点恐惧地看着它。

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“它怎么不动啊？”她叫着。

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“它服气了呗。”他说。

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她冲他笑笑，那种不无善意的笑容使她苍白的脸都缩紧了。

126
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“它可真是个傻瓜！”她叫道，“一个令人厌恶的傻瓜！”她话语中报复的口吻令杰拉德发抖。她抬头看看他的眼睛，暴露了她嘲弄、残酷的内心。他们之间结成了某种同盟，这种心照不宣的同盟令他们害怕。他们两人就这样卷入了共同的神秘之中。

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“它抓了你几下？”他说着伸出自己被抓破的白皙但结实的前臂。

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“真可恶啊！”她目光畏惧，红着脸说：“我的手没事。”

129
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她抬起手，光滑白嫩的手上有一道深深的红疤。

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“真是个魔鬼！”他吼道。他似乎从她光滑白嫩的手臂上那长长的红疤中认识了她。他并不想抚摸她，但他要有意识地迫使自己去抚摸她。那长长的红疤似乎从他的头脑中划过，撕破了他意识的表面，让永恒的无意识——难以想象的彼岸的红色气息——猥亵侵入。

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“伤得不厉害吧？”他关切地问。

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“没什么。”她说。

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突然那只象娴静的小花儿般蜷缩着的兔子还阳了。它象出膛的子弹跳将出去，在院子中一圈又一圈地跑着，象一颗流星一样转着圈子，令人们眼花缭乱。他们都呆呆地看着兔子，莫名其妙地笑着。那兔子似乎被什么咒语驱使着，象一阵暴风雨在旧红墙下旋转飞奔着。

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突然，它停下在草丛中蹒跚了几下，然后蹲下来思索，鼻翼歙动着就象风中飘动着的一根绒毛。它思索了片刻，除开黑眼睛有意无意地瞟了他们一眼，然后它开始静静地向前蹒跚而去，飞快地啃吃青草。

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“它疯了，”戈珍说，“它绝对是疯了。”

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杰拉德笑了。

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“问题是，”他说，“什么叫疯？我才不信兔子会疯。”

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“你不认为它是疯了吗？”她问。

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“不。兔子就是这样。”

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他脸上露出一幅猥亵的笑容。她看着他，知道他是进攻型的人，如同她也是进攻型的人一样。这一点令她不愉快，一时间她心里很不痛快。

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“我们之所以不是兔子，这得感谢上帝。”她尖着嗓门说。

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他脸上的笑容凝聚了起来。

143
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“我们不是兔子吗？”他凝视着她。

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她的表情缓和下来，有点猥亵地笑着。

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“啊，杰拉德，”她象男人一样粗着嗓子缓缓地说。“都是兔子，更有甚之。”她漠然地看着他。

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他似乎感到她又一次打了他一记耳光——甚至觉得她用力地撕裂了他的胸膛。他转向一边不看她。

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“吃，吃，我的宝贝儿！”温妮弗莱德恳求着兔子并爬过去抚摸它。兔子蹒跚着躲开她。“让妈妈摸摸你的毛儿吧，宝贝儿，你太神秘了——”

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IN BELDOVER, there was both for Ursula and for Gudrun an interval. It seemed to Ursula as if Birkin had gone out of her for the time, he had lost his significance, he scarcely mattered in her world. She had her own friends, her own activities, her own life. She turned back to the old ways with zest, away from him.

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And Gudrun, after feeling every moment in all her veins conscious of Gerald Crich, connected even physically with him, was now almost indifferent to the thought of him. She was nursing new schemes for going away and trying a new form of life. All the time, there was something in her urging her to avoid the final establishing of a relationship with Gerald. She felt it would be wiser and better to have no more than a casual acquaintance with him.

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She had a scheme for going to St Petersburg, where she had a friend who was a sculptor like herself, and who lived with a wealthy Russian whose hobby was jewel-making. The emotional, rather rootless life of the Russians appealed to her. She did not want to go to Paris. Paris was dry, and essentially boring. She would like to go to Rome, Munich, Vienna, or to St Petersburg or Moscow. She had a friend in St Petersburg and a friend in Munich. To each of these she wrote, asking about rooms.

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She had a certain amount of money. She had come home partly to save, and now she had sold several pieces of work, she had been praised in various shows. She knew she could become quite the `go’ if she went to London. But she knew London, she wanted something else. She had seventy pounds, of which nobody knew anything. She would move soon, as soon as she heard from her friends. Her nature, in spite of her apparent placidity and calm, was profoundly restless.

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The sisters happened to call in a cottage in Willey Green to buy honey. Mrs Kirk, a stout, pale, sharp-nosed woman, sly, honied, with something shrewish and cat-like beneath, asked the girls into her toocosy, too tidy kitchen. There was a cat-like comfort and cleanliness everywhere.

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`Yes, Miss Brangwen,’ she said, in her slightly whining, insinuating voice, `and how do you like being back in the old place, then?’

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Gudrun, whom she addressed, hated her at once.

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`I don’t care for it,’ she replied abruptly.

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`You don’t? Ay, well, I suppose you found a difference from London. You like life, and big, grand places. Some of us has to be content with Willey Green and Beldover. And what do you think of our Grammar School, as there’s so much talk about?’

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`What do I think of it?’ Gudrun looked round at her slowly. `Do you mean, do I think it’s a good school?’

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`Yes. What is your opinion of it?’

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"I do think it’s a good school.’

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Gudrun was very cold and repelling. She knew the common people hated the school.

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`Ay, you do, then! I’ve heard so much, one way and the other. It’s nice to know what those that’s in it feel. But opinions vary, don’t they? Mr Crich up at Highclose is all for it. Ay, poor man, I’m afraid he’s not long for this world. He’s very poorly.’

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`Is he worse?’ asked Ursula.

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`Eh, yes -- since they lost Miss Diana. He’s gone off to a shadow. Poor man, he’s had a world of trouble.’

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`Has he?’ asked Gudrun, faintly ironic.

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`He has, a world of trouble. And as nice and kind a gentleman as ever you could wish to meet. His children don’t take after him.’

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`I suppose they take after their mother?’ said Ursula.

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`In many ways.’ Mrs Krik lowered her voice a little. `She was a proud haughty lady when she came into these parts -- my word, she was that! She mustn’t be looked at, and it was worth your life to speak to her.’ The woman made a dry, sly face.

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`Did you know her when she was first married?’

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`Yes, I knew her. I nursed three of her children. And proper little terrors they were, little fiends -- that Gerald was a demon if ever there was one, a proper demon, ay, at six months old.’ A curious malicious, sly tone came into the woman’s voice.

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`Really,’ said Gudrun.

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`That wilful, masterful -- he’d mastered one nurse at six months. Kick, and scream, and struggle like a demon. Many’s the time I’ve pinched his little bottom for him, when he was a child in arms. Ay, and he’d have been better if he’d had it pinched oftener. But she wouldn’t have them corrected -- no-o, wouldn’t hear of it. I can remember the rows she had with Mr Crich, my word. When he’d got worked up, properly worked up till he could stand no more, he’d lock the study door and whip them. But she paced up and down all the while like a tiger outside, like a tiger, with very murder in her face. She had a face that could look death. And when the door was opened, she’d go in with her hands lifted -- "What have you been doing to my children, you coward." She was like one out of her mind. I believe he was frightened of her; he had to be driven mad before he’d lift a finger. Didn’t the servants have a life of it! And didn’t we used to be thankful when one of them caught it. They were the torment of your life.’

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`Really!’ said Gudrun.

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`In every possible way. If you wouldn’t let them smash their pots on the table, if you wouldn’t let them drag the kitten about with a string round its neck, if you wouldn’t give them whatever they asked for, every mortal thing -- then there was a shine on, and their mother coming in asking -"What’s the matter with him? What have you done to him? What is it, Darling?" And then she’d turn on you as if she’d trample you under her feet. But she didn’t trample on me. I was the only one that could do anything with her demons -- for she wasn’t going to be bothered with them herself. No, she took no trouble for them. But they must just have their way, they mustn’t be spoken to. And Master Gerald was the beauty. I left when he was a year and a half, I could stand no more. But I pinched his little bottom for him when he was in arms, I did, when there was no holding him, and I’m not sorry I did --’

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Gudrun went away in fury and loathing. The phrase, `I pinched his little bottom for him,’ sent her into a white, stony fury. She could not bear it, she wanted to have the woman taken out at once and strangled. And yet there the phrase was lodged in her mind for ever, beyond escape. She felt, one day, she would have to tell him, to see how he took it. And she loathed herself for the thought.

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But at Shortlands the life-long struggle was coming to a close. The father was ill and was going to die. He had bad internal pains, which took away all his attentive life, and left him with only a vestige of his consciousness. More and more a silence came over him, he was less and less acutely aware of his surroundings. The pain seemed to absorb his activity. He knew it was there, he knew it would come again. It was like something lurking in the darkness within him. And he had not the power, or the will, to seek it out and to know it. There it remained in the darkness, the great pain, tearing him at times, and then being silent. And when it tore him he crouched in silent subjection under it, and when it left him alone again, he refused to know of it. It was within the darkness, let it remain unknown. So he never admitted it, except in a secret corner of himself, where all his never-revealed fears and secrets were accumulated. For the rest, he had a pain, it went away, it made no difference. It even stimulated him, excited him.

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But it gradually absorbed his life. Gradually it drew away all his potentiality, it bled him into the dark, it weaned him of life and drew him away into the darkness. And in this twilight of his life little remained visible to him. The business, his work, that was gone entirely. His public interests had disappeared as if they had never been. Even his family had become extraneous to him, he could only remember, in some slight nonessential part of himself, that such and such were his children. But it was historical fact, not vital to him. He had to make an effort to know their relation to him. Even his wife barely existed. She indeed was like the darkness, like the pain within him. By some strange association, the darkness that contained the pain and the darkness that contained his wife were identical. All his thoughts and understandings became blurred and fused, and now his wife and the consuming pain were the same dark secret power against him, that he never faced. He never drove the dread out of its lair within him. He only knew that there was a dark place, and something inhabiting this darkness which issued from time to time and rent him. But he dared not penetrate and drive the beast into the open. He had rather ignore its existence. Only, in his vague way, the dread was his wife, the destroyer, and it was the pain, the destruction, a darkness which was one and both.

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He very rarely saw his wife. She kept her room. Only occasionally she came forth, with her head stretched forward, and in her low, possessed voice, she asked him how he was. And he answered her, in the habit of more than thirty years: `Well, I don’t think I’m any the worse, dear.’ But he was frightened of her, underneath this safeguard of habit, frightened almost to the verge of death.

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But all his life, he had been so constant to his lights, he had never broken down. He would die even now without breaking down, without knowing what his feelings were, towards her. All his life, he had said: `Poor Christiana, she has such a strong temper.’ With unbroken will, he had stood by this position with regard to her, he had substituted pity for all his hostility, pity had been his shield and his safeguard, and his infallible weapon. And still, in his consciousness, he was sorry for her, her nature was so violent and so impatient.

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But now his pity, with his life, was wearing thin, and the dread almost amounting to horror, was rising into being. But before the armour of his pity really broke, he would die, as an insect when its shell is cracked. This was his final resource. Others would live on, and know the living death, the ensuing process of hopeless chaos. He would not. He denied death its victory.

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He had been so constant to his lights, so constant to charity, and to his love for his neighbour. Perhaps he had loved his neighbour even better than himself -- which is going one further than the commandment. Always, this flame had burned in his heart, sustaining him through everything, the welfare of the people. He was a large employer of labour, he was a great mine-owner. And he had never lost this from his heart, that in Christ he was one with his workmen. Nay, he had felt inferior to them, as if they through poverty and labour were nearer to God than he. He had always the unacknowledged belief, that it was his workmen, the miners, who held in their hands the means of salvation. To move nearer to God, he must move towards his miners, his life must gravitate towards theirs. They were, unconsciously, his idol, his God made manifest. In them he worshipped the highest, the great, sympathetic, mindless Godhead of humanity.

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And all the while, his wife had opposed him like one of the great demons of hell. Strange, like a bird of prey, with the fascinating beauty and abstraction of a hawk, she had beat against the bars of his philanthropy, and like a hawk in a cage, she had sunk into silence. By force of circumstance, because all the world combined to make the cage unbreakable, he had been too strong for her, he had kept her prisoner. And because she was his prisoner, his passion for her had always remained keen as death. He had always loved her, loved her with intensity. Within the cage, she was denied nothing, she was given all licence.

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But she had gone almost mad. Of wild and overweening temper, she could not bear the humiliation of her husband’s soft, half-appealing kindness to everybody. He was not deceived by the poor. He knew they came and sponged on him, and whined to him, the worse sort; the majority, luckily for him, were much too proud to ask for anything, much too independent to come knocking at his door. But in Beldover, as everywhere else, there were the whining, parasitic, foul human beings who come crawling after charity, and feeding on the living body of the public like lice. A kind of fire would go over Christiana Crich’s brain, as she saw two more palefaced, creeping women in objectionable black clothes, cringing lugubriously up the drive to the door. She wanted to set the dogs on them, `Hi Rip! Hi Ring! Ranger! At ’em boys, set ’em off.’ But Crowther, the butler, with all the rest of the servants, was Mr Crich’s man. Nevertheless, when her husband was away, she would come down like a wolf on the crawling supplicants;

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`What do you people want? There is nothing for you here. You have no business on the drive at all. Simpson, drive them away and let no more of them through the gate.’

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The servants had to obey her. And she would stand watching with an eye like the eagle’s, whilst the groom in clumsy confusion drove the lugubrious persons down the drive, as if they were rusty fowls, scuttling before him.

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But they learned to know, from the lodge-keeper, when Mrs Crich was away, and they timed their visits. How many times, in the first years, would Crowther knock softly at the door: `Person to see you, sir.’

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`What name?’

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`Grocock, sir.’

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`Why do you get up from dinner? -- send them off,’ his wife would say abruptly.

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`Oh, I can’t do that. It’s no trouble just to hear what they have to say.’

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