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恋爱中的女人|Women in Love

Chapter 2 Shortlands|Chapter 2 Shortlands

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 劳伦斯] 阅读：[28809]
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布朗温家姐妹两人回贝多弗家中去了，参加婚礼的人们则聚集在肖特兰兹的克里奇家。这座宅第坐落在窄小的威利湖对岸，沿着一面山坡的顶端长长地排了一溜房屋，房子又矮又旧，很象一个庄园。肖特兰兹下方那片舒缓下斜的草坪上长着几株孤伶伶的树，那儿可能是一个公园吧，草坪前是狭窄的湖泊。草坪和湖泊对面与肖特兰兹遥遥相望的是一座林木葱笼的小山，那山遮住了那边的煤矿谷地，可挡不住煤矿里上升着的黑烟。但不管怎样，这幅景象颇象田园风味的风景画，美丽而宁静，这座住宅建在这儿是别具一格的。

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现在肖特兰兹挤满了克里奇的家人和参加婚礼的宾客。父亲身体不好，先退出去休息了，这样杰拉德就成了主人了。他站在简朴的客厅里迎接男宾们，态度友好，举止优雅。他几乎在社交中获得了快乐，笑容可掬，十分友好。

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女仆们让克里奇家三位出嫁了的女儿驱使着忙东忙西，把场面搅得很乱。你总能听到这个或那个克里奇家的女儿那特有的命令：“海伦，到这儿来一下。”“麦泽莉，我让你到这——里——来。”“喂，我说惠特曼太太——”厅里裙裾擦动的“嚓嚓”声伴着漂亮的女人们匆匆而过，一个孩子在厅里跳舞般地穿梭，还有一个男仆也来去匆匆地忙着。

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男宾们则三个一群五个一伙地默默地聚在一起，一边吸烟一边聊天，装作对女人世界那热闹的场面不屑一顾。可他们并不是在真正地谈话，他们仍观察着那些异常兴奋的女人，谛听她们那令人发冷的笑声和连珠炮似的说话声。他们等待着，焦躁不安，心里很恼火。可杰拉德看上去仍然那么和蔼可亲，那么幸福，不知道他是在等人还是清闲无事，只知道他是这个场合的中心人物。

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突然，克里奇太太无声无息地进到房里来，表情刚烈、线条分明的脸向四周探视着。她仍旧戴着帽子，穿着罩有褶拖纱的蓝色绸衣。

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“有事吗，妈妈？”杰拉德问。

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“没什么事，没什么事！”她含糊其词地答道。然后她径直朝伯金走去，伯金此时正跟克里奇家的一位女婿谈天。

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“你好啊，伯金先生，”她声音低沉地说，似乎她根本不把客人放在眼里。说着她向他伸出手来。

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“哦，克里奇太太，”伯金随机应变与她搭讪着，“刚才我可是无法接近您呢。”

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“这里有一半人我不认识，”她声音低沉地说。她的女婿趁这当儿不安地躲到一边去了。

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“你不喜欢生客吗？”伯金笑道，“我从来不明白一个人为什么要重视那些偶然碰到一起的人，我干吗要去认识他们？”

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“对！对！”克里奇太太压低嗓门，有些紧促地说。“他们来了，也不算数。我并不认识厅里这些人。孩子们向我介绍说：‘妈妈，这位是某某先生。’我再也不知道别的了。某某先生和他的头衔是什么关系？我跟他及他的头衔有什么关系呢？”

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她说着抬起眼睛看看伯金，这一看把伯金吓了一跳。她能过来跟他说话，这令他感到受宠若惊，要知道她可不是把什么人都放在眼里的。他低下头看着她那张表情紧张、轮廓分明的脸，但他不敢凝视她那双凝重的蓝眼睛，于是他移开视线去看她的头发。在她漂亮的耳际上方，头发马马虎虎、松松散散地盘着，头发并不怎么清爽。她的脖颈也不怎么清爽。尽管如此，伯金还是觉得自己被她吸引着，而不是被别人。不过他心里想，自己可是常常仔细地洗一洗，至少脖颈和耳朵总要洗得干干净净。

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想着这些事，他微微笑了。但他仍然很紧张，感到他和这个陌生的老女人象叛徒和敌人一样在别人的营帐里交谈。他就象一头鹿一样，一只耳朵撩到后面，另一只耳朵则向前伸着探寻着什么。

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“别人其实无所谓。”他有点不想说话，搭讪着说。

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这位母亲猛然带着深深的疑问抬起头看看他，似乎怀疑他的诚意。

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“你怎么解释‘所谓’？”她尖刻地问。

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“那么多人并不都很重要，”他回答，被迫把话题引深了。

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“他们还说说笑笑呢，最好让他们全滚。从根本上说，他们并不存在，他们并没在那儿。”

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她在他说话时一直凝视着他。

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“我们才不想象他们的存在呢！”她刻薄地说。

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“没什么好想象的，他们不存在。”

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“哼，”她说，“我还不会那么想。他们就在那儿，不管他们是否存在，他们存在与否并不取决于我。我只知道，他们别想让我把他们放在眼里。不要以为他们来了我就得认识他们。在我眼中，他们跟没有一样。”

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“没错儿，”他答道。

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“是吗？”她又问。

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“就跟没来一样，”他重复道。说到这儿他们都停下来不说话了。

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“他们就是来了也不算数，真讨厌。”她说，“我的女婿们都来了。”她有点自言自语地说，“如今劳拉也结婚了，又多了个女婿，可我真分不清哪个是张三哪个是李四。他们来了，都叫我妈妈。我知道他们要说什么——‘你好，妈妈。’我真想说，‘我怎么也算不上是你们的妈妈。’可有什么用？他们来了。我有我自己的孩子，我还是能分辨出哪个是我的孩子，哪个是别的女人的孩子。”

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“应该这样，”伯金说。

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她有些吃惊地看看他，或许她早忘了是在跟谁说话。她说话的线索被打断了。

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她漫不经心地扫视了一下房间。伯金猜不出她在找什么，也猜不出她在想什么。很明显她是在注意自己的儿子们。

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“我的孩子们都在吗？”她突如其来地问他。

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他笑笑，吃了一惊，也许是害怕。

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“除了杰拉德，别人我不怎么认识。”他说。

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“杰拉德！”她叫道。“他是孩子们当中最没用的一个。你没想到吧，是不是？”

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“不会吧，”伯金说。

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母亲远远地凝视了自己的长子好一会儿。

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“喂，”她令人不可思议、嘲弄地吐出一个字来。这一声让伯金感到害怕，他似乎不敢正视现实。克里奇太太走开了，把他忘了，但一会儿又顺原路走回来了。

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“我很愿意他有个朋友，”她说，“他从来就没有朋友。”

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伯金低下头盯着她那双蓝色的凝眸，他理解不了她的目光。“我是我弟弟的看护人吗？”他轻声地自言自语道。

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他记起来了，那是该隐①的叫声，他微微感到震惊。而杰拉德就是再世的该隐。当然他并不是该隐，但他确实杀害了他的弟弟。那纯属偶然，他也没有对杀害弟弟的后果负责。那是杰拉德小时候，在一次偶然事故中害死了自己的弟弟。不就是这么一当子事吗？为什么要给造成事故的生活打上罪恶的烙印并诅咒生活呢？一个人靠偶然活着，也因偶然而死，难道不是吗？一个人的生活是否取决于偶然因素？难道他的生活只与种族、种类和物种普遍相关联吗？如果不是这样，难道就没有纯粹偶然这一说吗？是否发生的任何事情都具有普遍意义？是吗？伯金站在那儿思忖着，忘了克里奇太太，正如她也忘记了他一样。

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①《圣经》中亚当的长子，杀害其弟弟亚伯。

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他不相信有偶然这回事。在最深刻的意义上说，这些都交织在一起。

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就在他得出这个结论时，克里奇家的一个女儿走上前来说：

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“亲爱的妈妈，来，把帽子摘掉吧，嗯？咱们就要坐下用餐了，这是个正式场合，不是吗，亲爱的？”说着她把手伸进妈妈的臂弯里，挽着她走了。伯金随后立刻走过去同最近的一位男士聊起来。

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开餐的锣声响了，人们抬头看看，但谁也没向餐厅移动脚步。家中的女人们感到这锣声跟她们无关。五分钟过去了，老男仆克罗瑟焦急地出现在门道里，求助地看着杰拉德。杰拉德抓起架子上的一只弯曲的大海螺壳，没跟任何人打招呼就吹出了振聋发聩的一声。这奇特的海螺声令人心颤。这一招儿可真灵，人们纷纷动作起来，好象听到同一个信号指挥一样一齐向饭厅挪动。

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杰拉德等了一会儿，等妹妹来做女主人。他知道他的母亲是不会尽心去尽她的义务的。可妹妹一来就急急忙忙奔向自己的座位去了。所以只好由这小伙子指引客人们入席了，他做这件事时显得有点太专横。

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开始上餐前小吃了，饭厅里安静了下来。就在这时，一个留着长长披肩发的十三、四岁的姑娘沉着平静地说：

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“杰拉德，你弄出那么可怕的声音来招呼客人，可你忘了招呼爸爸。”

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“是吗？”他冲大伙儿说，“我父亲躺下休息了，他不太舒服。”

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“他到底怎么样？”一位出嫁了的女儿问，眼睛却盯着桌子中间堆起的那块巨大的婚礼蛋糕，蛋糕上落下些假花儿来。

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“他没病，只是感到疲劳。”留披肩发的温妮弗莱德回答道。

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酒杯里斟满了酒，人们个个儿都兴高采烈地聊着天儿。远处的一桌旁坐着母亲，她的头发仍松松地盘着。伯金坐在她边上。有时她会恶狠狠地看一眼那一排排面孔，伸着头毫不客气地凝视一会儿，然后声音低沉地问伯金。

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“那个年轻人是谁？”

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“不知道，”伯金谨慎地回答。

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“我以前见过他吗？”她问。

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“不会吧。反正我没见过。”他答道。于是她满意了。她疲惫地合上了眼睛，现出一副安详的神态，看上去很象憩息中的女王。然后她又睁开眼，脸上露出上流社会人物的微笑，一时间她很象一位愉快的女主人了。她优雅地弯下腰去，似乎人人都深受欢迎，皆大欢喜。然后阴影突然回到她脸上，那是一种阴郁、鹰一样的表情，她象一头争斗的困兽那样，眉毛下露出凶光，似乎她仇视所有的人。

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“妈妈，”迪安娜叫道，“我可以喝酒吗？”迪安娜比温妮弗莱德年长些，很漂亮。

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“行，你喝吧，”母亲木然地回答，她对这个问题压根儿不感兴趣。

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于是迪安娜示意下人为她斟酒。

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“杰拉德不该限制我喝酒嘛，”她平静地对在座的人们说。

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“好了，迪，”哥哥和蔼地说。迪安娜一边喝酒一边挑战般地扫了哥哥一眼。

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这家人之间这样无拘无束，有点无政府主义的样子，真奇怪。这与其说是放任自由不如说是对权威的抵制。杰拉德在家中有点支配权，并不是因为他处在什么特殊位置上，而是因为他有压倒别人的性格。他的声音和蔼但富有支配力，这种声音的特质震住了他的姐妹们。

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赫麦妮正同新郎官讨论民族问题。

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“不，”她说，“我认为提倡爱国主义是一种错误，国与国之间的竞争就象商行与商行间的竞争一样。”

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“哦，你可不能这么说，怎么能这么说呢？”杰拉德大声说。他很热衷于争论。“你不能把一个种族等同于一个商业康采恩。而民族大概指的就是种族，民族的意思就是种族。”

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一时间大家都不说话了。杰拉德与赫麦妮之间总是这样令人奇怪地客客气气，但又相互敌视，他们两人可说的上是势均力敌。

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“你以为种族等于民族吗？”她若有所思地问，脸上毫无表情，口气游移不定。

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伯金知道赫麦妮在等他参加讨论，于是他恭顺地开口道：

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“我觉得杰拉德说得对，种族是民族的根本因素，至少在欧洲是这样。”

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赫麦妮又打住不说话了，似乎是要让这条论断冷却一下。

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然后她作出一个奇怪的权威性论断：

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“不错，就算是这样吧，那么提倡爱国主义不就是在提倡种族的本能吗？难道这不也是在提倡商业的本能？这是一种占有财富的本能。难道这就是我们所指的民族？”

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“也许是，”伯金说，他心里感到现在讨论这个问题不合时宜，地点也不对。

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可杰拉德现在已找到争论的线索了，仍要争论下去。

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“一个种族可以有其商业性的一面，”他说，“事实上，它必须这样，这跟一个家族一样，人必须得有给养才行。为准备给养，你就得跟别的家族争斗，跟别的民族斗。不这样，反倒不可思议了。”

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赫麦妮又不说话了，只是露出一副霸道、冷漠的神态。然后她才说：“是的，可以不这样，我觉得挑起敌对精神是不对的，这会造成仇恨并与日俱增。”

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“可是你能够取消竞争精神吗？”杰拉德问。“竞争是生产与改进所必须的一种刺激。”

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“没错，”赫麦妮轻描淡写地答道，“不过我觉得没有竞争也行。”

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伯金说：“我声明我是厌恶竞争精神的。”赫麦妮正在吃一片面包，听伯金这样说，她忙把面包从牙缝中拉出来，那动作慢而可笑。她转向伯金亲昵，满意地说：

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“你的确恨这种精神，没错儿。”

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“厌恶它，”他重复道。

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“对呀，”她自信而满意地轻声道。

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“可是，”杰拉德坚持说，“既然你不允许一个人夺走他邻居的活路，那你为什么允许一个民族夺走另一个民族的活路呢？”

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赫麦妮低声咕哝了好久才用讥讽、满不在乎的口吻说：

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“这归根到底是个财富问题，对吗？但并不是所有的都是财富问题吧？”

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杰拉德被她话语中流露出的庸俗唯物主义惹恼了。

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“当然是，或多或少是这样，”他反击道。“如果我从一个人的头上摘走他的帽子，那帽子就变成了自由的象征。当他奋起夺回他的帽子时，他就是在为夺回自由而斗争。”

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赫麦妮感到不知所措了。

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“错是没错，”她恼火地说，“可想象出一个事例来进行争论算不得是真诚吧？没有哪个人会过来从我头上摘走我的帽子的，会吗？”

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“那是因为刑法制止了他这样做。”杰拉德说。

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“不对，”伯金说，“百分之九十九的人不想要我的帽子。”

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“那只是观点问题。”杰拉德说。

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“也许是帽子的问题。”新郎官笑道。

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“如果象你说的那样他想要我的帽子”，伯金说，“可以肯定说，我可以决断失去帽子还是失去自由的损失更大。我是个自由的毫无牵挂的人，如果我被迫去打架，我失去的就是自由。这是个哪一样对我来说价值更大的问题，是我行为的自由还是帽子的失去？”

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“对，”赫麦妮奇怪地望着伯金说，“对。”

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“那么，你允许有人过来夺走你头上的帽子吗？”新娘问赫麦妮。

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这位高大、身板挺直的女人渐渐转过身来，似乎对这位插话人的问题麻木不仁。

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“不，”她答道，那语调缓慢，似乎不是人的声音，那腔调中分明隐藏着一丝儿窃笑。“不，我不会让任何人从我头上摘走我的帽子。”

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“可你怎么防止他这样做呢？”杰拉德问。

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“我不知道，或许我会杀了他，”赫麦妮声调缓慢地说。

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她的话音儿里隐藏着一声奇怪的窃笑，举止上带有一种威慑，自信的幽默。

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“当然，”杰拉德说，“我可以理解卢伯特的想法。对他来说，问题是他的帽子重要还是他心境的安宁重要。”

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“是身心的安宁。”伯金说。

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“好，随你怎么说吧，”杰拉德说，“可是你怎么能以此来解决一个民族的问题呢？”

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“上帝保佑我，”伯金笑道。

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“可要让你真去解决问题呢？”杰拉德坚持说。

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“如果民族的王冠是一顶旧帽子，窃贼就可以摘走它。”

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“可一个民族或一个种族的王冠能是一顶旧帽子吗？”杰拉德坚持说。

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“肯定是，我相信，”伯金说。

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“我还不太能肯定，”杰拉德说。

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“我不赞成这种说法，卢伯特，”赫麦妮说。

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“好吧，”伯金说。

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“我十分赞成说民族的王冠是一顶旧帽子的说法。”杰拉德笑道。

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“你戴上它就象个傻瓜一样。”迪安娜说。迪安娜是他十几岁的小妹妹，说话很冒失。

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“我们真无法理解这些破帽子。”劳拉·克里奇叫道，“别说了吧，杰拉德，我们要祝酒了，咱们祝酒吧。满上，满上，好，干杯！祝酒词！祝酒词！”

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伯金目睹着他的杯子让人斟满了香槟酒，脑子里还想着种族与民族灭亡的问题。泡沫溢出了酒杯，斟酒的人忙往后倾斜了身体。看到新鲜的香槟酒，伯金突然感到一阵干渴，将杯中酒一饮而尽。屋里的气氛搅得他心烦意乱，他感到心头压抑得很。

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“我是偶然为之还是出于什么目的？”他自问着。他得出结论，用个庸俗的词来形容，他这样做是出自“偶然的目的性”。他扫视了一下走过来的男仆，发现他走起路来静悄悄的，态度冷漠，怀有侍从那种不满情绪。伯金发现自己厌恶祝酒、讨厌男仆、讨厌集会，甚至讨厌人类。待他起身祝酒时，不知为什么他竟感到些儿恶心。

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终于结束了，这顿饭。几位男士散步来到花园里。这里有一块草坪，摆着几个花坛，小小的花园边上隔着一道铁栅栏。这儿的景色颇为宜人，从这里可以看到一条林荫公路沿着山下的湖泊蜿蜒而至。春光明媚，水波潋滟。湖对面的林子呈现出棕色，溶满了生机。一群漂亮的泽西种乳牛来到铁栅栏前，光滑的嘴和鼻子中喷着粗气，可能是盼望人们给面包干吃吧。

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伯金倚着栅栏，一头母牛往他手上喷着热气。

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“漂亮，这牛真漂亮，”克里奇家的一位女婿马歇尔说，“这种牛的奶质量最好了。”

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“对，”伯金说。

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“啊，我的小美人儿，哦，小美人儿！”马歇尔假声假气地说，这奇怪的声调让伯金笑得喘不过气来。

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“你们那阵子赛跑，谁胜了，鲁普顿？”伯金问新郎，以掩盖自己的笑声。

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新郎从口中拔出雪茄烟。

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“赛跑？”说着脸上浮起一层笑意，他并不想提刚才往教３３恋爱中的女人堂门口跑的事。“我们同时到达。至少是，她先用手摸到了门儿，我的手摸到了她的肩膀。”

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“说什么呢？”杰拉德问。

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伯金告诉他说的是刚才新郎新娘赛跑的事。

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“哼！”杰拉德不满地说，“你怎么会迟到呢？”

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“鲁普顿先是谈论了一阵子灵魂不朽，”伯金说，“然后我们找不到钮扣钩了。”

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“天啊！”马歇尔叫道，“在你结婚的日子里谈什么灵魂不朽！你脑子里就没别的事好想了吗？”

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“这有什么错儿？”面庞修饰得干干净净的海军军官敏感地红了脸问。

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“听起来你不是来结婚的，倒象是被处死。谈哪门子灵魂不死！”这位连襟加重语气说。

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他的话太无聊了。

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“那你得出了什么结论？”杰拉德问，竖起耳朵来准备听一场玄学讨论。

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“今天你并不需要灵魂吧，小伙子？”马歇尔说，“它会妨碍你的。”

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“行了！马歇尔，去跟别人聊吧。”杰拉德突然不耐烦地叫道。

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“我保证，我是真心，”马歇尔有点发脾气地说，“说太多的灵魂——”

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他愤愤然欲语还休，杰拉德生气地瞪着他。随着他胖胖的身体消失在远处，杰拉德的目光渐渐变得和缓、亲切了。

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“有一点要对你说，鲁普顿，”杰拉德突然转向新郎说，“劳拉可不能象罗蒂这样给我们家带来这样一个傻瓜。”

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“这你就放心吧。”伯金笑道。

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“我没注意他们几个人。”新郎笑道。

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“那，那场赛跑是怎么回事？谁开的头？”杰拉德问。

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“我们来晚了。马车开到时，劳拉正站在教堂院子的台阶上。是她往前跑的。你干吗生气？这有伤你家的尊严吗？”

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“是的，有点儿，”杰拉德说，“做什么事都要有个分寸才是，要是没法儿做得有分寸就别做什么事。”

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“真是极妙的格言。”伯金说。

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“你不同意我这样说吗？”杰拉德问。

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“很同意，”伯金说，“只是当你用格言式的口吻说话让我感到别扭。”

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“该死的卢伯特，你是想让所有的格言都为你自家垄断起来。”

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杰拉德说。

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“不，我要让什么格言都滚开，可你总让它们挡路。”

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杰拉德对这种幽默付之一笑，然后又扬扬眉毛表示不屑一顾。

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“你不相信有什么行为准则吗？”他苛刻地向伯金提出挑战。

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“准则，不。我讨厌所有的准则。不过对乌合之众来说倒应该有些准则。任何一个人都有他的自我，他可以自行其是。”

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“你说的那个自我是什么意思？”杰拉德问，“是一条格言还是一种陈词滥调？”

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“我的意思是自行其是。我认为劳拉挣脱鲁普顿跑向教堂大门正是自行其是的绝好例子，妙极了。一个人最难能可贵的是循着自己的自然冲动做事，这才最有绅士风度。你要做得到你就是最有绅士风度的人。”

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“你别指望我会认真对待你的话，你以为我会吗？”杰拉德问。

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“是的，杰拉德，我只指望极少数人这样认真待我，你就是其中之一。”

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“恐怕在这儿我无法满足你的期待，无论如何不能。你可是认为人人都可以自行其是。”

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“我一直这样看。我希望人们喜欢他们自身纯个性化的东西，这样他们就可以自行其是了。可人们偏偏只爱集体行动。”

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“可我，”杰拉德阴郁地说，“不喜欢象你说的那样置身于一个人们独自行事、顺着自然冲动行事的世界中。我希望人们在五分钟之内就相互残杀一通。”

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“那就是说你想杀人，”伯金说。

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“这是什么意思？”杰拉德气愤地问。

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伯金说：“不想杀人的人是不会干出杀人的事来的，别人不想让他杀他也杀不了。这是一条十足的真理。杀人要有两个人才行：杀人凶手与被杀者。被杀的人就是适合于被人杀害的人，他身上潜伏着一种巨大的被害欲望。”

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“有时你的话纯粹是胡说八道，”杰拉德对伯金说，“其实我们谁也不想被杀害，倒是有不少人愿意替我们去杀人，说不定什么时候呢。”

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“这种观点真叫恶心，杰拉德，”伯金说，“怪不得你惧怕自己，害怕自己的幸福生活。”

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“我何以惧怕自己？”杰拉德说，“再说我并不认为自己幸福。”

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“你心里似乎潜伏着一种欲望，希望你的内脏被人剖开，于是你就想象别人的袖子里藏着刀子。”伯金说。

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“何以见得？”杰拉德问。

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“从你身上观察出来的。”

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两个人对峙着。他们之间的恨是那样奇特，这恨已经跟爱差不多了。他们之间总是这样，对话总会导致一种接近，一种奇特、可怕的亲近，或恨、或爱、或两者兼而有之。他们总是满不在乎地分手，似乎分离是一件不起眼的小事，他们确实把它当作一件小事。可他们燃烧着的心相互映照着，一齐燃烧着，这一点他们是不会承认的。他们要保持一种漫不经心，轻松、毫无拘束的友谊，并不想把双方的关系搞得矫揉造作、没有男人味，不想那么心心相映、热热乎乎的。他们一点也不相信男人之间会过从甚密，因此，他们之间的巨大友情受到压抑而未能得到任何发展。

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THE BRANGWENS went home to Beldover, the wedding-party gathered at Shortlands, the Criches’ home. It was a long, low old house, a sort of manor farm, that spread along the top of a slope just beyond the narrow little lake of Willey Water. Shortlands looked across a sloping meadow that might be a park, because of the large, solitary trees that stood here and there, across the water of the narrow lake, at the wooded hill that successfully hid the colliery valley beyond, but did not quite hide the rising smoke. Nevertheless, the scene was rural and picturesque, very peaceful, and the house had a charm of its own.

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It was crowded now with the family and the wedding guests. The father, who was not well, withdrew to rest. Gerald was host. He stood in the homely entrance hall, friendly and easy, attending to the men. He seemed to take pleasure in his social functions, he smiled, and was abundant in hospitality.

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The women wandered about in a little confusion, chased hither and thither by the three married daughters of the house. All the while there could be heard the characteristic, imperious voice of one Crich woman or another calling `Helen, come here a minute,’ `Marjory, I want you -- here.’ `Oh, I say, Mrs Witham --.’ There was a great rustling of skirts, swift glimpses of smartly-dressed women, a child danced through the hall and back again, a maidservant came and went hurriedly.

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Meanwhile the men stood in calm little groups, chatting, smoking, pretending to pay no heed to the rustling animation of the women’s world. But they could not really talk, because of the glassy ravel of women’s excited, cold laughter and running voices. They waited, uneasy, suspended, rather bored. But Gerald remained as if genial and happy, unaware that he was waiting or unoccupied, knowing himself the very pivot of the occasion.

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Suddenly Mrs Crich came noiselessly into the room, peering about with her strong, clear face. She was still wearing her hat, and her sac coat of blue silk.

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`What is it, mother?’ said Gerald.

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`Nothing, nothing!’ she answered vaguely. And she went straight towards Birkin, who was talking to a Crich brother-in-law.

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`How do you do, Mr Birkin,’ she said, in her low voice, that seemed to take no count of her guests. She held out her hand to him.

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`Oh Mrs Crich,’ replied Birkin, in his readily-changing voice, `I couldn’t come to you before.’

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`I don’t know half the people here,’ she said, in her low voice. Her son-in-law moved uneasily away.

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`And you don’t like strangers?’ laughed Birkin. `I myself can never see why one should take account of people, just because they happen to be in the room with one: why should I know they are there?’

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`Why indeed, why indeed!’ said Mrs Crich, in her low, tense voice. `Except that they are there. I don’t know people whom I find in the house. The children introduce them to me -- "Mother, this is Mr So-and-so." I am no further. What has Mr So-and-so to do with his own name? -- and what have I to do with either him or his name?’

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She looked up at Birkin. She startled him. He was flattered too that she came to talk to him, for she took hardly any notice of anybody. He looked down at her tense clear face, with its heavy features, but he was afraid to look into her heavyseeing blue eyes. He noticed instead how her hair looped in slack, slovenly strands over her rather beautiful ears, which were not quite clean. Neither was her neck perfectly clean. Even in that he seemed to belong to her, rather than to the rest of the company; though, he thought to himself, he was always well washed, at any rate at the neck and ears.

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He smiled faintly, thinking these things. Yet he was tense, feeling that he and the elderly, estranged woman were conferring together like traitors, like enemies within the camp of the other people. He resembled a deer, that throws one ear back upon the trail behind, and one ear forward, to know what is ahead.

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`People don’t really matter,’ he said, rather unwilling to continue.

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The mother looked up at him with sudden, dark interrogation, as if doubting his sincerity.

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`How do you mean, matter?’ she asked sharply.

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`Not many people are anything at all,’ he answered, forced to go deeper than he wanted to. `They jingle and giggle. It would be much better if they were just wiped out. Essentially, they don’t exist, they aren’t there.’

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She watched him steadily while he spoke.

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`But we didn’t imagine them,’ she said sharply.

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`There’s nothing to imagine, that’s why they don’t exist.’

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`Well,’ she said, `I would hardly go as far as that. There they are, whether they exist or no. It doesn’t rest with me to decide on their existence. I only know that I can’t be expected to take count of them all. You can’t expect me to know them, just because they happen to be there. As far as I go they might as well not be there.’

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`Exactly,’ he replied.

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`Mightn’t they?’ she asked again.

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`Just as well,’ he repeated. And there was a little pause.

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`Except that they are there, and that’s a nuisance,’ she said. `There are my sons-inlaw,’ she went on, in a sort of monologue. `Now Laura’s got married, there’s another. And I really don’t know John from James yet. They come up to me and call me mother. I know what they will say -- "how are you, mother?" I ought to say, "I am not your mother, in any sense." But what is the use? There they are. I have had children of my own. I suppose I know them from another woman’s children.’

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`One would suppose so,’ he said.

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She looked at him, somewhat surprised, forgetting perhaps that she was talking to him. And she lost her thread.

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She looked round the room, vaguely. Birkin could not guess what she was looking for, nor what she was thinking. Evidently she noticed her sons.

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`Are my children all there?’ she asked him abruptly.

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He laughed, startled, afraid perhaps.

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`I scarcely know them, except Gerald,’ he replied.

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`Gerald!’ she exclaimed. `He’s the most wanting of them all. You’d never think it, to look at him now, would you?’

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`No,’ said Birkin.

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The mother looked across at her eldest son, stared at him heavily for some time.

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`Ay,’ she said, in an incomprehensible monosyllable, that sounded profoundly cynical. Birkin felt afraid, as if he dared not realise. And Mrs Crich moved away, forgetting him. But she returned on her traces.

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`I should like him to have a friend,’ she said. `He has never had a friend.’

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Birkin looked down into her eyes, which were blue, and watching heavily. He could not understand them. `Am I my brother’s keeper?’ he said to himself, almost flippantly.

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Then he remembered, with a slight shock, that that was Cain’s cry. And Gerald was Cain, if anybody. Not that he was Cain, either, although he had slain his brother. There was such a thing as pure accident, and the consequences did not attach to one, even though one had killed one’s brother in such wise. Gerald as a boy had accidentally killed his brother. What then? Why seek to draw a brand and a curse across the life that had caused the accident? A man can live by accident, and die by accident. Or can he not? Is every man’s life subject to pure accident, is it only the race, the genus, the species, that has a universal reference? Or is this not true, is there no such thing as pure accident? Has everything that happens a universal significance? Has it? Birkin, pondering as he stood there, had forgotten Mrs Crich, as she had forgotten him.

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He did not believe that there was any such thing as accident. It all hung together, in the deepest sense.

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Just as he had decided this, one of the Crich daughters came up, saying:

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`Won’t you come and take your hat off, mother dear? We shall be sitting down to eat in a minute, and it’s a formal occasion, darling, isn’t it?’ She drew her arm through her mother’s, and they went away. Birkin immediately went to talk to the nearest man.

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The gong sounded for the luncheon. The men looked up, but no move was made to the dining-room. The women of the house seemed not to feel that the sound had meaning for them. Five minutes passed by. The elderly manservant, Crowther, appeared in the doorway exasperatedly. He looked with appeal at Gerald. The latter took up a large, curved conch shell, that lay on a shelf, and without reference to anybody, blew a shattering blast. It was a strange rousing noise, that made the heart beat. The summons was almost magical. Everybody came running, as if at a signal. And then the crowd in one impulse moved to the dining-room.

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Gerald waited a moment, for his sister to play hostess. He knew his mother would pay no attention to her duties. But his sister merely crowded to her seat. Therefore the young man, slightly too dictatorial, directed the guests to their places.

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There was a moment’s lull, as everybody looked at the bors d’oeuvres that were being handed round. And out of this lull, a girl of thirteen or fourteen, with her long hair down her back, said in a calm, self-possessed voice:

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`Gerald, you forget father, when you make that unearthly noise.’

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`Do I?’ he answered. And then, to the company, `Father is lying down, he is not quite well.’

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`How is he, really?’ called one of the married daughters, peeping round the immense wedding cake that towered up in the middle of the table shedding its artificial flowers.

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`He has no pain, but he feels tired,’ replied Winifred, the girl with the hair down her back.

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The wine was filled, and everybody was talking boisterously. At the far end of the table sat the mother, with her loosely-looped hair. She had Birkin for a neighbour. Sometimes she glanced fiercely down the rows of faces, bending forwards and staring unceremoniously. And she would say in a low voice to Birkin:

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`Who is that young man?’

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`I don’t know,’ Birkin answered discreetly.

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`Have I seen him before?’ she asked.

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`I don’t think so. I haven’t,’ he replied. And she was satisfied. Her eyes closed wearily, a peace came over her face, she looked like a queen in repose. Then she started, a little social smile came on her face, for a moment she looked the pleasant hostess. For a moment she bent graciously, as if everyone were welcome and delightful. And then immediately the shadow came back, a sullen, eagle look was on her face, she glanced from under her brows like a sinister creature at bay, hating them all.

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`Mother,’ called Diana, a handsome girl a little older than Winifred, `I may have wine, mayn’t I?’

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`Yes, you may have wine,’ replied the mother automatically, for she was perfectly indifferent to the question.

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And Diana beckoned to the footman to fill her glass.

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`Gerald shouldn’t forbid me,’ she said calmly, to the company at large.

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`All right, Di,’ said her brother amiably. And she glanced challenge at him as she drank from her glass.

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There was a strange freedom, that almost amounted to anarchy, in the house. It was rather a resistance to authority, than liberty. Gerald had some command, by mere force of personality, not because of any granted position. There was a quality in his voice, amiable but dominant, that cowed the others, who were all younger than he.

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Hermione was having a discussion with the bridegroom about nationality.

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`No,’ she said, `I think that the appeal to patriotism is a mistake. It is like one house of business rivalling another house of business.’

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`Well you can hardly say that, can you?’ exclaimed Gerald, who had a real passion for discussion. `You couldn’t call a race a business concern, could you? -- and nationality roughly corresponds to race, I think. I think it is meant to.’

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There was a moment’s pause. Gerald and Hermione were always strangely but politely and evenly inimical.

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`Do you think race corresponds with nationality?’ she asked musingly, with expressionless indecision.

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Birkin knew she was waiting for him to participate. And dutifully he spoke up.

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`I think Gerald is right -- race is the essential element in nationality, in Europe at least,’ he said.

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Again Hermione paused, as if to allow this statement to cool. Then she said with strange assumption of authority:

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`Yes, but even so, is the patriotic appeal an appeal to the racial instinct? Is it not rather an appeal to the proprietory instinct, the commercial instinct? And isn’t this what we mean by nationality?’

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`Probably,’ said Birkin, who felt that such a discussion was out of place and out of time.

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But Gerald was now on the scent of argument.

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`A race may have its commercial aspect,’ he said. `In fact it must. It is like a family. You must make provision. And to make provision you have got to strive against other families, other nations. I don’t see why you shouldn’t.’

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Again Hermione made a pause, domineering and cold, before she replied: `Yes, I think it is always wrong to provoke a spirit of rivalry. It makes bad blood. And bad blood accumulates.’

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`But you can’t do away with the spirit of emulation altogether?’ said Gerald. `It is one of the necessary incentives to production and improvement.’

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`Yes,’ came Hermione’s sauntering response. `I think you can do away with it.’

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`I must say,’ said Birkin, `I detest the spirit of emulation.’ Hermione was biting a piece of bread, pulling it from between her teeth with her fingers, in a slow, slightly derisive movement. She turned to Birkin.

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`You do hate it, yes,’ she said, intimate and gratified.

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`Detest it,’ he repeated.

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`Yes,’ she murmured, assured and satisfied.

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`But,’ Gerald insisted, `you don’t allow one man to take away his neighbour’s living, so why should you allow one nation to take away the living from another nation?’

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There was a long slow murmur from Hermione before she broke into speech, saying with a laconic indifference:

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`It is not always a question of possessions, is it? It is not all a question of goods?’

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Gerald was nettled by this implication of vulgar materialism.

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`Yes, more or less,’ he retorted. `If I go and take a man’s hat from off his head, that hat becomes a symbol of that man’s liberty. When he fights me for his hat, he is fighting me for his liberty.’

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Hermione was nonplussed.

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`Yes,’ she said, irritated. `But that way of arguing by imaginary instances is not supposed to be genuine, is it? A man does not come and take my hat from off my head, does he?’

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`Only because the law prevents him,’ said Gerald.

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`Not only,’ said Birkin. `Ninety-nine men out of a hundred don’t want my hat.’

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`That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Gerald.

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`Or the hat,’ laughed the bridegroom.

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`And if he does want my hat, such as it is,’ said Birkin, `why, surely it is open to me to decide, which is a greater loss to me, my hat, or my liberty as a free and indifferent man. If I am compelled to offer fight, I lose the latter. It is a question which is worth more to me, my pleasant liberty of conduct, or my hat.’

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`Yes,’ said Hermione, watching Birkin strangely. `Yes.’

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`But would you let somebody come and snatch your hat off your head?’ the bride asked of Hermione.

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The face of the tall straight woman turned slowly and as if drugged to this new speaker.

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`No,’ she replied, in a low inhuman tone, that seemed to contain a chuckle. `No, I shouldn’t let anybody take my hat off my head.’

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`How would you prevent it?’ asked Gerald.

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`I don’t know,’ replied Hermione slowly. `Probably I should kill him.’

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There was a strange chuckle in her tone, a dangerous and convincing humour in her bearing.

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`Of course,’ said Gerald, `I can see Rupert’s point. It is a question to him whether his hat or his peace of mind is more important.’

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`Peace of body,’ said Birkin.

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`Well, as you like there,’ replied Gerald. `But how are you going to decide this for a nation?’

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`Heaven preserve me,’ laughed Birkin.

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`Yes, but suppose you have to?’ Gerald persisted.

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`Then it is the same. If the national crown-piece is an old hat, then the thieving gent may have it.’

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`But can the national or racial hat be an old hat?’ insisted Gerald.

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`Pretty well bound to be, I believe,’ said Birkin.

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`I’m not so sure,’ said Gerald.

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`I don’t agree, Rupert,’ said Hermione.

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`All right,’ said Birkin.

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`I’m all for the old national hat,’ laughed Gerald.

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`And a fool you look in it,’ cried Diana, his pert sister who was just in her teens.

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`Oh, we’re quite out of our depths with these old hats,’ cried Laura Crich. `Dry up now, Gerald. We’re going to drink toasts. Let us drink toasts. Toasts -- glasses, glasses -- now then, toasts! Speech! Speech!’

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Birkin, thinking about race or national death, watched his glass being filled with champagne. The bubbles broke at the rim, the man withdrew, and feeling a sudden thirst at the sight of the fresh wine, Birkin drank up his glass. A queer little tension in the room roused him. He felt a sharp constraint.

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`Did I do it by accident, or on purpose?’ he asked himself. And he decided that, according to the vulgar phrase, he had done it `accidentally on purpose.’ He looked round at the hired footman. And the hired footman came, with a silent step of cold servant-like disapprobation. Birkin decided that he detested toasts, and footmen, and assemblies, and mankind altogether, in most of its aspects. Then he rose to make a speech. But he was somehow disgusted.

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At length it was over, the meal. Several men strolled out into the garden. There was a lawn, and flower-beds, and at the boundary an iron fence shutting off the little field or park. The view was pleasant; a highroad curving round the edge of a low lake, under the trees. In the spring air, the water gleamed and the opposite woods were purplish with new life. Charming Jersey cattle came to the fence, breathing hoarsely from their velvet muzzles at the human beings, expecting perhaps a crust.

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Birkin leaned on the fence. A cow was breathing wet hotness on his hand.

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`Pretty cattle, very pretty,’ said Marshall, one of the brothers-in-law. `They give the best milk you can have.’

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`Yes,’ said Birkin.

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`Eh, my little beauty, eh, my beauty!’ said Marshall, in a queer high falsetto voice, that caused the other man to have convulsions of laughter in his stomach.

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`Who won the race, Lupton?’ he called to the bridegroom, to hide the fact that he was laughing.

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The bridegroom took his cigar from his mouth.

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`The race?’ he exclaimed. Then a rather thin smile came over his face. He did not want to say anything about the flight to the church door. `We got there together. At least she touched first, but I had my hand on her shoulder.’

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`What’s this?’ asked Gerald.

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Birkin told him about the race of the bride and the bridegroom.

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`H’m!’ said Gerald, in disapproval. `What made you late then?’

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`Lupton would talk about the immortality of the soul,’ said Birkin, `and then he hadn’t got a button-hook.’

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`Oh God!’ cried Marshall. `The immortality of the soul on your wedding day! Hadn’t you got anything better to occupy your mind?’

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`What’s wrong with it?’ asked the bridegroom, a clean-shaven naval man, flushing sensitively.

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`Sounds as if you were going to be executed instead of married. The immortality of the soul!’ repeated the brother-in-law, with most killing emphasis.

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But he fell quite flat.

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`And what did you decide?’ asked Gerald, at once pricking up his ears at the thought of a metaphysical discussion.

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`You don’t want a soul today, my boy,’ said Marshall. `It’d be in your road.’

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`Christ! Marshall, go and talk to somebody else,’ cried Gerald, with sudden impatience.

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`By God, I’m willing,’ said Marshall, in a temper. `Too much bloody soul and talk altogether --’

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He withdrew in a dudgeon, Gerald staring after him with angry eyes, that grew gradually calm and amiable as the stoutly-built form of the other man passed into the distance.

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`There’s one thing, Lupton,’ said Gerald, turning suddenly to the bridegroom. `Laura won’t have brought such a fool into the family as Lottie did.’

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`Comfort yourself with that,’ laughed Birkin.

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`I take no notice of them,’ laughed the bridegroom.

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`What about this race then -- who began it?’ Gerald asked.

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`We were late. Laura was at the top of the churchyard steps when our cab came up. She saw Lupton bolting towards her. And she fled. But why do you look so cross? Does it hurt your sense of the family dignity?’

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`It does, rather,’ said Gerald. `If you’re doing a thing, do it properly, and if you’re not going to do it properly, leave it alone.’

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`Very nice aphorism,’ said Birkin.

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`Don’t you agree?’ asked Gerald.

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`Quite,’ said Birkin. `Only it bores me rather, when you become aphoristic.’

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`Damn you, Rupert, you want all the aphorisms your own way,’ said Gerald.

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`No. I want them out of the way, and you’re always shoving them in it.’

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Gerald smiled grimly at this humorism. Then he made a little gesture of dismissal, with his eyebrows.

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`You don’t believe in having any standard of behaviour at all, do you?’ he challenged Birkin, censoriously.

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`Standard -- no. I hate standards. But they’re necessary for the common ruck. Anybody who is anything can just be himself and do as he likes.’

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`But what do you mean by being himself?’ said Gerald. `Is that an aphorism or a cliche?’

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`I mean just doing what you want to do. I think it was perfect good form in Laura to bolt from Lupton to the church door. It was almost a masterpiece in good form. It’s the hardest thing in the world to act spontaneously on one’s impulses -- and it’s the only really gentlemanly thing to do -- provided you’re fit to do it.’

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`You don’t expect me to take you seriously, do you?’ asked Gerald.

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`Yes, Gerald, you’re one of the very few people I do expect that of.’

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`Then I’m afraid I can’t come up to your expectations here, at any rate. You think people should just do as they like.’

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`I think they always do. But I should like them to like the purely individual thing in themselves, which makes them act in singleness. And they only like to do the collective thing.’

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`And I,’ said Gerald grimly, `shouldn’t like to be in a world of people who acted individually and spontaneously, as you call it. We should have everybody cutting everybody else’s throat in five minutes.’

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`That means you would like to be cutting everybody’s throat,’ said Birkin.

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`How does that follow?’ asked Gerald crossly.

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`No man,’ said Birkin, `cuts another man’s throat unless he wants to cut it, and unless the other man wants it cutting. This is a complete truth. It takes two people to make a murder: a murderer and a murderee. And a murderee is a man who is murderable. And a man who is murderable is a man who in a profound if hidden lust desires to be murdered.’

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`Sometimes you talk pure nonsense,’ said Gerald to Birkin. `As a matter of fact, none of us wants our throat cut, and most other people would like to cut it for us -some time or other --’

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`It’s a nasty view of things, Gerald,’ said Birkin, `and no wonder you are afraid of yourself and your own unhappiness.’

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`How am I afraid of myself?’ said Gerald; `and I don’t think I am unhappy.’

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`You seem to have a lurking desire to have your gizzard slit, and imagine every man has his knife up his sleeve for you,’ Birkin said.

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`How do you make that out?’ said Gerald.

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`From you,’ said Birkin.

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There was a pause of strange enmity between the two men, that was very near to love. It was always the same between them; always their talk brought them into a deadly nearness of contact, a strange, perilous intimacy which was either hate or love, or both. They parted with apparent unconcern, as if their going apart were a trivial occurrence. And they really kept it to the level of trivial occurrence. Yet the heart of each burned from the other. They burned with each other, inwardly. This they would never admit. They intended to keep their relationship a casual freeand-easy friendship, they were not going to be so unmanly and unnatural as to allow any heart-burning between them. They had not the faintest belief in deep relationship between men and men, and their disbelief prevented any development of their powerful but suppressed friendliness.

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