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恋爱中的女人|Women in Love

Chapter 20 Gladiatorial|Chapter 19

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 劳伦斯] 阅读：[28834]
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求婚失败后，伯金气急败坏地从贝多弗逃了出来。他觉得自己是个十足的傻瓜，整个经过纯粹是一场闹剧。当然他也并不觉得有什么不安。令他深感气愤的是厄秀拉总没完没了地大叫：“你为什么要欺负我？”那口气着实无礼，说话时还显得很得意、满不在乎。

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他径直朝肖特兰兹走去。杰拉德正背对着壁炉站在书房里，他纹丝不动，象一个内心十分空虚的人那样焦躁不安。他做了该做的一切，现在什么事都没有了。他可以坐车出门儿，可以到城里去。可他既不想坐车出门，也不想进城，不想去拜访席尔比家。他现有很茫然，很迟钝，就象一台失去动力的机器一样。

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杰拉德为此深感痛苦，他以前总是没完没了地忙于事务，从不知烦恼为何物。现在，一切似乎都停止了。他不想再做任何事，他心中某种死去的东西拒绝回应任何建议。他绞尽脑汁想着如何把自己从这种虚无的痛苦中解救出来，如何解脱这种空洞对他的压抑。只有三件事可以令他复活。一是吸印度大麻制成的麻醉品，二是得到伯金的抚慰，三是女人。现在没人同他一起吸麻醉品，也没有女人，伯金也出门了。没事可干，只能一人独自忍受空虚的重负。

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一看到伯金，他的脸上一下子就亮起一个奇妙的微笑。

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“天啊，卢伯特，”他说，“我正在想世界上最厉害的就是有人消弱别人的锋芒，这人就是你。”

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他看伯金时眼中的笑意是惊人的，它表明一种纯粹的释然。他脸色苍白，甚至十分憔悴。

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“你指的是女人吧？”伯金轻蔑地说。

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“当然要有所选择，不行的话，一个有趣儿的男人亦可。”

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说着他笑了。伯金紧靠着壁炉坐下来。

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“你在干什么？”

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“我，没干什么。我一直很不好过。事事都令人不安，搞得我既不能工作又无法娱乐。可以说我不知道这是否是衰老的迹象。”

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“你是说你感到厌倦了？”

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“厌倦，我不知道。我无法安下心来。我还感到我心中的魔鬼不是活着就是死了。”

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伯金扫视他一眼，然后看着他的眼睛说：

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“你应该试图专心致志。”

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杰拉德笑道：

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“也许会，只要有什么值得我这样做。”

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“对呀！”伯金柔声地说。双方沉默着，相互感知着对方。

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“要等待才行。”伯金说。

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“天啊！等待！我们等什么呢？”

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“有的老家伙说消除烦恼有三个办法：睡觉，喝酒和旅游。”伯金说。

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“全是些没用的办法，”杰拉德说，“睡觉时做梦，喝了酒就骂人，旅游时你得冲脚夫大喊大叫。不行，这样不行。工作和爱才是出路。当你不工作时，你就应该恋爱。”

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“那就这样吧。”伯金说。

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“给我一个目标，”杰拉德说：“爱的可能性足以使爱消耗殆尽。”

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“是吗？然后又会怎么样？”

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“然后你就会死。”杰拉德说。

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“你才应该这样。”伯金说。

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“我倒看不出，”杰拉德说着手从裤兜中伸出来去拿香烟。他十分紧张。他在油灯上点着烟卷儿，前前后后缓缓地踱着步。尽管他孤身一人，他还是象往常一样衣冠楚楚准备用膳。

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“除了你那两种办法以外，还有第三种办法，”伯金说，“工作，爱和打斗。你忘了这一点。”

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“我想我没有忘记，”杰拉德说，“你练拳吗？”

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“不，我不练。”伯金说。

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“嗨——”杰拉德抬起头，向空中吐着烟圈。

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“怎么了？”伯金问。

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“没什么，我正想跟你来一场拳赛。说真的，我需要向什么东西出击。这是个主意。”

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“所以你想倒不如揍我一顿的好，是吗？”伯金问。

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“你？嚯！也许是！当然是友好地打一场。”

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“行啊！”伯金刻薄的说。

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杰拉德向后斜靠着壁炉台。他低头看着伯金，眼睛象种马的眼睛一样激动地充着血、闪着恐怖的光芒。

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“我觉得我管不住自己了，我会干出傻事来的。”杰拉德说。

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“能不做傻事吗？”伯金冷冷地问。

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杰拉德很不耐烦地听着。他俯视着伯金，似乎要从他身上看出什么来。

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“我曾学过日本式摔跤，”伯金说，“在海德堡时我同一位日本人同住一室，他教过我几招。可我总也不行。”

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“你学过！”杰拉德叫道，“我从来没见人用这种方法摔跤。

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你搬的是柔道吧？”

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“对，不过我不行，对那不感兴趣。”

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“是吗？我可是感兴趣。怎么开头儿？”

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“如果你喜欢我就表演给你看。”伯金说。

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“你会吗？”杰拉德脸上堆起笑说，“好，我很喜欢这样。”

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“那咱们就试试柔道吧。不过你穿着浆过的衣服可做不了几个动作。”

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“那就脱了衣服好好做。等一会儿——”他按了下铃唤来男仆，吩咐道：

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“弄几块三明治，来瓶苏打水，然后今晚就不要来了，告诉别人也别来。”

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男仆走了。杰拉德目光炯炯地看着伯金问：

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“你跟日本人摔过跤？也不穿衣服？”

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“有时这样。”

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“是吗？他是个运动员吗？”

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“可能是吧。不过我可不是裁判。他很敏捷、灵活，具有电火一般的力量。他那种运力法可真叫绝，简直不象人，倒象珊瑚虫。”

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杰拉德点点头。

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“可以想象得出来，”他说，“不过，那样子让我有点反感。”

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“反感，也被吸引。当他们冷漠阴郁的时候可令人反感了。可他们热情的时候他们却是迷人的，的确迷人，就象黄鳝一样油滑。”

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“嗯，很可能。”

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男仆端来盘子放下。

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“别再进来了。”杰拉德说。

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门关上了。

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“好吧，咱们脱衣服，开始吧。你先喝点什么好吗？”

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“不，我不想喝。”

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“我也不想。”

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杰拉德关紧门，把屋里的家具挪动了一下。房间很大，有足够的空间，铺着厚厚的地毯。杰拉德迅速甩掉衣服，等着伯金。又白又瘦的伯金走了过来。他简直象个精灵；让人看不见摸不着。杰拉德完全可以感觉到他的存在，但并未真正看见他。杰拉德倒是个实实在在的，可以看得见的实体。

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“现在，”伯金说，“让我表演一下我学到的东西，记住多少表演多少。来，你让我这样抓住你——”说着他的手抓住了杰拉德的裸体。说话间他轻轻扳倒杰拉德，用自己的膝盖托住他，他的头朝下垂直。放开他以后，杰拉德目光炯炯地站了起来。

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“很好，”他说，“再来一次吧。”

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两个人就这样扭打起来。他们两人太不一样。伯金又瘦又高，骨架很窄很纤细。杰拉德则很有块头，很有雕塑感。他的骨架粗大，四肢肌肉发达，整个人的轮廓看上去漂亮、健壮。他似乎很有重量地压在地面上，而伯金似乎腰部蕴藏着吸引力。杰拉德则有一种强大的磨擦力，很象机器，但力量来得突然，让人难以看出。而伯金则虚无缥缈，几乎令人无法捉摸。他隐附在另一个人身上，象一件衣服一样似乎没怎么触到杰拉德，但又似乎突如其来地直刺入杰拉德的致命处。

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他们停下来切磋技艺，练习着抓举和抛开，渐渐变得能够相互适应各自的节奏、获得了彼此体力上的协调。然后他们正式较量了一番。他们似乎都在试图嵌进对方白色的肉体中去，就象要变成一体一样。伯金拥有某种极微妙的力量，就象咒语在他身上发生了效力。松开手之后，杰拉德长出一口气，感到头晕目眩，喘息着。

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他们二人就这样扭打在一起，愈贴愈近。两个人皮肤都很白皙，杰拉德身上所触之处开始泛红，可伯金仍然很紧张，尽管身上还没有红。他似乎要嵌入杰拉德那坚实宽阔的躯体中，与他的躯体溶为一体。伯金凭着某种妖术般的预知迅速地掌握了另一条躯体的每一个动作，从而能够扭转它，与它对抗，微妙地控制它，象强风一样动摇着杰拉德的四肢。似乎伯金那充满智慧的肉体刺进了杰拉德的躯体，他纤弱、高尚的体能进入了杰拉德那强壮的皮肉中，似一种潜能透过肌肉在杰拉德肉体的深处投下了一张精织的网，筑起一座监狱。

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他们就这样迅速、发疯般地扭打着，最终他们都全神贯注、一心一意起来，两个白白的躯体扭打着愈来愈紧地抱成一团，微弱的灯影里他们的四肢象章鱼一样纠缠、闪动着；只见装满褐色旧书的书柜中间有一团白色的肉体静静地扭作一团。不时传来重重的喘息或叹气声。忽而厚厚的地毯上响起急促的脚步声，忽而又响起一个肉体挣脱另一个肉体奇怪的磨擦声。这团默默飞旋着的剧烈扭动的肉体中难以看到他们的头，只能看到飞快转动着的四肢和坚实的白色脊梁，两具肉体扭成一体了。随着扭打姿式的变动，杰拉德那毛发零乱、闪光的头露了出来，然后伯金那长着褐色头发的头颅抬了起来，双眼大睁着，露出恐惧的神色。

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最后杰拉德终于直挺挺地躺倒在地毯上，胸脯随着喘息起伏着，伯金跪在他身边，几乎失去了知觉。伯金比杰拉德的消耗更大，他急促地喘着气，都快喘不上来了。地板似乎在倾斜、在晃动，头脑中一片黑暗。他不知道发生了什么事。他毫无意识地向杰拉德倾倒过去，而杰拉德却没注意。然后他有点清醒了，他只感到世界在奇怪地倾斜、滑动着。整个世界在滑动，一切都滑向黑暗。他也滑动着，无休止地滑动着。

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他又一次清醒过来，听到外面有重重的敲动。这是什么？是什么锤子在敲打？这声音震动了整个房间。他不知道这是什么声音。过了一会儿他弄明白了，这是他的心在跳动。可这似乎不可能，这声音是来自外面啊。不，这声音来自体内，这是他的心。这心跳得很痛苦，它过于紧张，负担又太重。他在想杰拉德是否听到了这心跳。他不知道他是站着、躺着还是摔倒了。

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当他发现自己是疲惫地倒在杰拉德身上时，他大吃一惊。他坐起来，双手扶地稳住身体，让自己的心渐渐稳定下来，痛苦稍稍减缓一点。心疼得厉害，他失去了意识。

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杰拉德比伯金更昏昏然，他在某种死也似的浑沌中持续了好久。

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“按说，”杰拉德喘着气说，“我不应该太粗暴，我应该收敛些。”

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伯金似乎早已灵魂出壳，他听到了杰拉德在说什么。他已经精疲力竭，杰拉德的声音听起来很微弱，他的躯体一点反应也没有，他唯一知道的是，他的心安静了许多。他的精神与肉体早已分离，精神早已超脱于体外。他知道他对体内奔腾着的血液毫无知觉。

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“我本可以用力把你甩开，”杰拉德喘息道。“可是你把我打得够呛。”

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“是啊，”伯金粗着嗓音紧张地说，“你比我壮多了，你完全可以轻而易举地打败我。”

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说完他又沉默了，心仍在突突跳，血仍在冲撞血管。

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“让我吃惊的是，”杰拉德喘着说，“你那股劲儿是超自然的。”

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“也就那么一会儿。”伯金说。

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他仍能听得到说话声，似乎那是他分离出去的精神在倾听着，在他身后的远方倾听。不过他的精神愈来愈近了。胸膛里猛烈撞动着的血液渐渐舒缓了，允许他的理智回归。他意识到他全部身体的重量都靠在另一个人身上。他吃了一惊，原以为自己早就离开杰拉德了。他振作精神坐了起来。可他仍旧恍恍惚惚的，心神不定。他伸出手支撑着身体稳定下来，他的手碰到了杰拉德伸在地板上的手，杰拉德热乎乎的手突然握住伯金的手，他们手拉着手喘着气，疲劳极了。伯金的手立即有了反应，用力、热烈地握紧了对方的手。

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他们渐渐恢复了知觉。伯金可以自然的呼吸了。杰拉德的手缓缓地缩了回去。伯金恍惚地站起身向桌子走去，斟了一杯威士苏忌打水。杰拉德也过来喝饮料。

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“这是一场真正的角斗，不是吗？”伯金黑黑的眼睛看着他说。

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“是啊，”杰拉德看着伯金柔弱的身体又说：“对你来说还不算厉害吧，嗯？”

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“不。人应该角力，争斗，赤手相拼。这让人更健全些。”

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“是吗？”

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“我是这么想的，你呢？”

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“我也是这么想的，”杰拉德说。

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他们许久没有说话。一场角斗对他们来说意义深远，令人回味无穷。

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“我们在精神上很密切，因此，我们多多少少在肉体上也应该密切些，这样才更完整。”

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“当然了，”杰拉德说。然后他高兴地笑着补充道：“我觉得这很美好。”说着他很优美地伸展开双臂。

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“就是，”伯金说。“我觉得人不该为自己辩解什么。”

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他们开始穿上衣服。

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“我觉得你挺帅的，”伯金对杰拉德说，“这给人一种享受。

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人应该会欣赏。”

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“你觉得我帅，什么意思，指我的体格吗？”杰拉德目光闪烁着说。

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“是的。你有一种北方人的美，就象白雪折射的光芒，另外，你的体型有一种雕塑感。让人看着感到是一种享受。我们应该欣赏一切。”

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杰拉德笑道：

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“当然这是一种看法。我可以这样说，我感觉不错这对我帮助很大。这就是你需要的那种‘血谊兄弟’吗？”

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“或许是。这已经说明一切了，对吗？”

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“我不知道。”杰拉德笑道。

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“不管怎么说，我们感到更自由、更开诚布公了，我们需要的就是这个。”

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“对，”杰拉德说。

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说话间他们带着长颈水瓶，水杯和吃食靠近了壁炉。

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“睡前我总要吃点什么。”杰拉德说，“那样睡起来才香甜。”

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“我可睡不了那么香甜。”伯金说。

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“不吗？你瞧，这一点上我们就不一样。我这就去换上睡衣。”

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他走了，伯金一个人守在壁炉前。他开始想厄秀拉了，她似乎回到了他的意识中。杰拉德身穿宽条睡袍下楼来了，睡袍是绸子做的，黑绿条子相间，颜色耀眼得很。

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“你可真神气，”伯金看着睡衣上长长的带子说。

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“这是布哈拉式睡袍，”杰拉德说，“我挺喜欢穿它。”

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“我也喜欢它。”

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伯金沉默了，杰拉德的服饰很精细，很昂贵，他想。他穿着丝短袜，纽扣很精美，内衣和背带也是丝的。真怪！这是他们之间的又一不同之处。伯金的穿着很随便，没什么花样。

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“当然，”杰拉德若有所思地说，“你有点怪，你怎么会那么强壮，真出乎人意料，让人吃惊。”

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伯金笑了。他看着杰拉德健美的身躯，身着富贵的睡袍，白皮肤，碧眼金发，人显得很帅。他看着杰拉德，想着他们之间的不同之处，太不一样了。当然不象男人和女人那样有所区别，但很不同。此时此刻，厄秀拉这个女人以优势压倒了他。而杰拉德则变得模糊了，埋没了。

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“知道吗，”他突然说，“我今天晚上去向厄秀拉·布朗温求婚了，求她嫁给我。”

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他看到杰拉德脸上露着惊异、茫然的表情。

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“是吗？”

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“是的。有点正式——先对她父亲讲了，按礼应该这样，不过这也有点偶然，或说是个恶作剧吧。”

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杰拉德惊奇地凝视他，似乎还不明白。

123
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“你是否在说你很严肃地求她爸爸让他把女儿嫁给你？”

124
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“是的，是这样。”伯金说。

125
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“那么，你以前对她说过这事吗？”

126
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“没有，只字未提。我突然心血来潮要去找她，碰巧她父亲在家，所以我就先问了他。

127
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“问他你是否可以娶她？”

128
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“是——的，就是那么说的。”

129
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“你没跟她说吗？”

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“说了。她后来回来了。我就对她也说了。”

131
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“真的！她怎么说？你们订婚了？”

132
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“没有，她只是说她不要被迫答应。”

133
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“她说什么？”

134
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“说她不想被迫答应。”

135
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“‘说她不想被迫答应！’怎么回事，她这是什么意思？”

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伯金耸耸肩说：“不知道，我想她现在不想找麻烦吧。”

137
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“真是这样吗？那你怎么办？”

138
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“我走出来就到你这儿来了。”

139
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“直接来的吗？”

140
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“是的。”

141
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杰拉德好奇，好笑地看着他。他无法相信。

142
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“真象你说的这样吗？”

143
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“千真万确。”

144
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“是这样。”

145
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他靠在椅子上，心中实在感到有趣儿。

146
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“这很好嘛，”他说，“所以你就来同你的守护神角斗？”

147
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“是吗？”伯金说。

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“对，看上去是这样，难道这不是你的所做所为吗？”

149
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现在伯金无法理解杰拉德的意思了。

150
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“结果会怎样？”杰拉德说，“你要公开求婚才行。”

151
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“我想我会的。我发誓要坚持到底。我很快就要再次向她求婚。”

152
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杰拉德目不转睛地盯着他。

153
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“那说明你喜欢她喽？”他问。

154
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“我想，我是爱她的。”伯金说着脸色变严峻起来。

155
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杰拉德一时间感到很痛快，似乎这件事儿是专为讨好他而做的。然后他的神情严肃起来，缓缓地点头道：

156
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“你知道，我一直相信爱情——真正的爱情。可如今哪儿才有真正的爱？”

157
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“我不知道。”伯金说。

158
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“极少见，”杰拉德说。停了片刻他又说：“我从来对此没有感受，不知道那是否叫爱情。我追求女人，对某些人很感兴趣。可我从未感受到爱。我不相信我象爱你那样爱过女人——不是爱。你明白我的意思吗？”

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“是的，我相信你从未爱过女人。”

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“你有所感觉，是吗？你以为我以后会吗？你明白我的意思？”说着他手握成拳放在胸脯上，似乎要把心都掏出来。

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“我是说，我说不清这是什么，不过我知道。”

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“那是什么呢？”伯金问。

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“你看，我无法用语言表达。我是说，不管怎么说，这是某种必必遵守的东西，某种无法改变的东西。”

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他的目光明亮，但神情很窘惑。

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“你觉得我对女人会产生那种感情吗？”他不安地问。

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伯金看着他摇摇头。

167
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“我不知道，说不清。”

168
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杰拉德一直保持着警觉，等待着自己的命运。现在他坐回自己的椅子中去。

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“不，”他说，“你我都不会。”

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“我们不一样，你和我，”伯金说，“我无法给你算命。”

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“是啊，”杰拉德说，“我也不能。可是，跟你说吧，我开始怀疑了。”

172
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“怀疑你是否会爱女人？”

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“嗯，是的，就是你说的真正的爱。”

174
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“你怀疑吗？”

175
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“开始怀疑。”

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一阵很长的沉默。

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“生活中什么事都有，”伯金说，“并非只有一条路。”

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“对，我也相信这一点，相信。但我不在乎我的爱如何如何——不管它，我反正没感觉到爱——”他不说了，脸上露出茫然的神态。“只要我还活着，它爱怎样怎样，可是我的确想感受到——”

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“满足。”伯金说。

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“是——是的，或许已经满足了。我的说法同你不一样。”

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“但指的是一回事。”

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Moony AFTER HIS ILLNESS Birkin went to the south of France for a time. He did not write, nobody heard anything of him. Ursula, left alone, felt as if everything were lapsing out. There seemed to be no hope in the world. One was a tiny little rock with the tide of nothingness rising higher and higher She herself was real, and only herself -- just like a rock in a wash of flood-water. The rest was all nothingness. She was hard and indifferent, isolated in herself.

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There was nothing for it now, but contemptuous, resistant indifference. All the world was lapsing into a grey wish-wash of nothingness, she had no contact and no connection anywhere. She despised and detested the whole show. From the bottom of her heart, from the bottom of her soul, she despised and detested people, adult people. She loved only children and animals: children she loved passionately, but coldly. They made her want to hug them, to protect them, to give them life. But this very love, based on pity and despair, was only a bondage and a pain to her. She loved best of all the animals, that were single and unsocial as she herself was. She loved the horses and cows in the field. Each was single and to itself, magical. It was not referred away to some detestable social principle. It was incapable of soulfulness and tragedy, which she detested so profoundly.

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She could be very pleasant and flattering, almost subservient, to people she met. But no one was taken in. Instinctively each felt her contemptuous mockery of the human being in himself, or herself. She had a profound grudge against the human being. That which the word `human’ stood for was despicable and repugnant to her.

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Mostly her heart was closed in this hidden, unconscious strain of contemptuous ridicule. She thought she loved, she thought she was full of love. This was her idea of herself. But the strange brightness of her presence, a marvellous radiance of intrinsic vitality, was a luminousness of supreme repudiation, nothing but repudiation.

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Yet, at moments, she yielded and softened, she wanted pure love, only pure love. This other, this state of constant unfailing repudiation, was a strain, a suffering also. A terrible desire for pure love overcame her again.

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She went out one evening, numbed by this constant essential suffering. Those who are timed for destruction must die now. The knowledge of this reached a finality, a finishing in her. And the finality released her. If fate would carry off in death or downfall all those who were timed to go, why need she trouble, why repudiate any further. She was free of it all, she could seek a new union elsewhere.

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Ursula set off to Willey Green, towards the mill. She came to Willey Water. It was almost full again, after its period of emptiness. Then she turned off through the woods. The night had fallen, it was dark. But she forgot to be afraid, she who had such great sources of fear. Among the trees, far from any human beings, there was a sort of magic peace. The more one could find a pure loneliness, with no taint of people, the better one felt. She was in reality terrified, horrified in her apprehension of people.

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She started, noticing something on her right hand, between the tree trunks. It was like a great presence, watching her, dodging her. She started violently. It was only the moon, risen through the thin trees. But it seemed so mysterious, with its white and deathly smile. And there was no avoiding it. Night or day, one could not escape the sinister face, triumphant and radiant like this moon, with a high smile. She hurried on, cowering from the white planet. She would just see the pond at the mill before she went home.

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Not wanting to go through the yard, because of the dogs, she turned off along the hill-side to descend on the pond from above. The moon was transcendent over the bare, open space, she suffered from being exposed to it. There was a glimmer of nightly rabbits across the ground. The night was as clear as crystal, and very still. She could hear a distant coughing of a sheep.

9

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So she swerved down to the steep, tree-hidden bank above the pond, where the alders twisted their roots. She was glad to pass into the shade out of the moon. There she stood, at the top of the fallen-away bank, her hand on the rough trunk of a tree, looking at the water, that was perfect in its stillness, floating the moon upon it. But for some reason she disliked it. It did not give her anything. She listened for the hoarse rustle of the sluice. And she wished for something else out of the night, she wanted another night, not this moon-brilliant hardness. She could feel her soul crying out in her, lamenting desolately.

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She saw a shadow moving by the water. It would be Birkin. He had come back then, unawares. She accepted it without remark, nothing mattered to her. She sat down among the roots of the alder tree, dim and veiled, hearing the sound of the sluice like dew distilling audibly into the night. The islands were dark and half revealed, the reeds were dark also, only some of them had a little frail fire of reflection. A fish leaped secretly, revealing the light in the pond. This fire of the chill night breaking constantly on to the pure darkness, repelled her. She wished it were perfectly dark, perfectly, and noiseless and without motion. Birkin, small and dark also, his hair tinged with moonlight, wandered nearer. He was quite near, and yet he did not exist in her. He did not know she was there. Supposing he did something he would not wish to be seen doing, thinking he was quite private? But there, what did it matter? What did the small priyacies matter? How could it matter, what he did? How can there be any secrets, we are all the same organisms? How can there be any secrecy, when everything is known to all of us?

11

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He was touching unconsciously the dead husks of flowers as he passed by, and talking disconnectedly to himself.

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`You can’t go away,’ he was saying. `There is no away. You only withdraw upon yourself.’

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He threw a dead flower-husk on to the water.

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`An antiphony -- they lie, and you sing back to them. There wouldn’t have to be any truth, if there weren’t any lies. Then one needn’t assert anything --’

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He stood still, looking at the water, and throwing upon it the husks of the flowers.

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`Cybele -- curse her! The accursed Syria Dea! Does one begrudge it her? What else is there -- ?’

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Ursula wanted to laugh loudly and hysterically, hearing his isolated voice speaking out. It was so ridiculous.

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He stood staring at the water. Then he stooped and picked up a stone, which he threw sharply at the pond. Ursula was aware of the bright moon leaping and swaying, all distorted, in her eyes. It seemed to shoot out arms of fire like a cuttle-fish, like a luminous polyp, palpitating strongly before her.

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And his shadow on the border of the pond, was watching for a few moments, then he stooped and groped on the ground. Then again there was a burst of sound, and a burst of brilliant light, the moon had exploded on the water, and was flying asunder in flakes of white and dangerous fire. Rapidly, like white birds, the fires all broken rose across the pond, fleeing in clamorous confusion, battling with the flock of dark waves that were forcing their way in. The furthest waves of light, fleeing out, seemed to be clamouring against the shore for escape, the waves of darkness came in heavily, running under towards the centre. But at the centre, the heart of all, was still a vivid, incandescent quivering of a white moon not quite destroyed, a white body of fire writhing and striving and not even now broken open, not yet violated. It seemed to be drawing itself together with strange, violent pangs, in blind effort. It was getting stronger, it was reasserting itself, the inviolable moon. And the rays were hastening in in thin lines of light, to return to the strengthened moon, that shook upon the water in triumphant reassumption.

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Birkin stood and watched, motionless, till the pond was almost calm, the moon was almost serene. Then, satisfied of so much, he looked for more stones. She felt his invisible tenacity. And in a moment again, the broken lights scattered in explosion over her face, dazzling her; and then, almost immediately, came the second shot. The moon leapt up white and burst through the air. Darts of bright light shot asunder, darkness swept over the centre. There was no moon, only a battlefield of broken lights and shadows, running close together. Shadows, dark and heavy, struck again and again across the place where the heart of the moon had been, obliterating it altogether. The white fragments pulsed up and down, and could not find where to go, apart and brilliant on the water like the petals of a rose that a wind has blown far and wide.

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Yet again, they were flickering their way to the centre, finding the path blindly, enviously. And again, all was still, as Birkin and Ursula watched. The waters were loud on the shore. He saw the moon regathering itself insidiously, saw the heart of the rose intertwining vigorously and blindly, calling back the scattered fragments, winning home the fragments, in a pulse and in effort of return.

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And he was not satisfied. Like a madness, he must go on. He got large stones, and threw them, one after the other, at the white-burning centre of the moon, till there was nothing but a rocking of hollow noise, and a pond surged up, no moon any more, only a few broken flakes tangled and glittering broadcast in the darkness, without aim or meaning, a darkened confusion, like a black and white kaleidoscope tossed at random. The hollow night was rocking and crashing with noise, and from the sluice came sharp, regular flashes of sound. Flakes of light appeared here and there, glittering tormented among the shadows, far off, in strange places; among the dripping shadow of the willow on the island. Birkin stood and listened and was satisfied.

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Ursula was dazed, her mind was all gone. She felt she had fallen to the ground and was spilled out, like water on the earth. Motionless and spent she remained in the gloom. Though even now she was aware, unseeing, that in the darkness was a little tumult of ebbing flakes of light, a cluster dancing secretly in a round, twining and coming steadily together. They were gathering a heart again, they were coming once more into being. Gradually the fragments caught together re-united, heaving, rocking, dancing, falling back as in panic, but working their way home again persistently, making semblance of fleeing away when they had advanced, but always flickering nearer, a little closer to the mark, the cluster growing mysteriously larger and brighter, as gleam after gleam fell in with the whole, until a ragged rose, a distorted, frayed moon was shaking upon the waters again, re-asserted, renewed, trying to recover from its convulsion, to get over the disfigurement and the agitation, to be whole and composed, at peace.

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Birkin lingered vaguely by the water. Ursula was afraid that he would stone the moon again. She slipped from her seat and went down to him, saying:

25

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`You won’t throw stones at it any more, will you?’

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`How long have you been there?’

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`All the time. You won’t throw any more stones, will you?’

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`I wanted to see if I could make it be quite gone off the pond,’ he said.

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`Yes, it was horrible, really. Why should you hate the moon? It hasn’t done you any harm, has it?’

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`Was it hate?’ he said.

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And they were silent for a few minutes.

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`When did you come back?’ she said.

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`Today.’

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`Why did you never write?’

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`I could find nothing to say.’

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`Why was there nothing to say?’

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`I don’t know. Why are there no daffodils now?’

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`No.’

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Again there was a space of silence. Ursula looked at the moon. It had gathered itself together, and was quivering slightly.

40

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Please sign in to unlock the rest

41

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42

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43

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`Why England?’ he asked in surprise.

44

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`I don’t know, it came like that.’

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