________________________________________________
_ When they brought the body home, the next morning, Gudrun was shut up
in her room. From her window she saw men coming along with a burden,
over the snow. She sat still and let the minutes go by.
There came a tap at her door. She opened. There stood a woman, saying
softly, oh, far too reverently:
'They have found him, madam!'
'Il est mort?'
'Yes--hours ago.'
Gudrun did not know what to say. What should she say? What should she
feel? What should she do? What did they expect of her? She was coldly
at a loss.
'Thank you,' she said, and she shut the door of her room. The woman
went away mortified. Not a word, not a tear--ha! Gudrun was cold, a
cold woman.
Gudrun sat on in her room, her face pale and impassive. What was she to
do? She could not weep and make a scene. She could not alter herself.
She sat motionless, hiding from people. Her one motive was to avoid
actual contact with events. She only wrote out a long telegram to
Ursula and Birkin.
In the afternoon, however, she rose suddenly to look for Loerke. She
glanced with apprehension at the door of the room that had been
Gerald's. Not for worlds would she enter there.
She found Loerke sitting alone in the lounge. She went straight up to
him.
'It isn't true, is it?' she said.
He looked up at her. A small smile of misery twisted his face. He
shrugged his shoulders.
'True?' he echoed.
'We haven't killed him?' she asked.
He disliked her coming to him in such a manner. He raised his shoulders
wearily.
'It has happened,' he said.
She looked at him. He sat crushed and frustrated for the time being,
quite as emotionless and barren as herself. My God! this was a barren
tragedy, barren, barren.
She returned to her room to wait for Ursula and Birkin. She wanted to
get away, only to get away. She could not think or feel until she had
got away, till she was loosed from this position.
The day passed, the next day came. She heard the sledge, saw Ursula and
Birkin alight, and she shrank from these also.
Ursula came straight up to her.
'Gudrun!' she cried, the tears running down her cheeks. And she took
her sister in her arms. Gudrun hid her face on Ursula's shoulder, but
still she could not escape the cold devil of irony that froze her soul.
'Ha, ha!' she thought, 'this is the right behaviour.'
But she could not weep, and the sight of her cold, pale, impassive face
soon stopped the fountain of Ursula's tears. In a few moments, the
sisters had nothing to say to each other.
'Was it very vile to be dragged back here again?' Gudrun asked at
length.
Ursula looked up in some bewilderment.
'I never thought of it,' she said.
'I felt a beast, fetching you,' said Gudrun. 'But I simply couldn't see
people. That is too much for me.'
'Yes,' said Ursula, chilled.
Birkin tapped and entered. His face was white and expressionless. She
knew he knew. He gave her his hand, saying:
'The end of THIS trip, at any rate.'
Gudrun glanced at him, afraid.
There was silence between the three of them, nothing to be said. At
length Ursula asked in a small voice:
'Have you seen him?'
He looked back at Ursula with a hard, cold look, and did not trouble to
answer.
'Have you seen him?' she repeated.
'I have,' he said, coldly.
Then he looked at Gudrun.
'Have you done anything?' he said.
'Nothing,' she replied, 'nothing.'
She shrank in cold disgust from making any statement.
'Loerke says that Gerald came to you, when you were sitting on the
sledge at the bottom of the Rudelbahn, that you had words, and Gerald
walked away. What were the words about? I had better know, so that I
can satisfy the authorities, if necessary.'
Gudrun looked up at him, white, childlike, mute with trouble.
'There weren't even any words,' she said. 'He knocked Loerke down and
stunned him, he half strangled me, then he went away.'
To herself she was saying:
'A pretty little sample of the eternal triangle!' And she turned
ironically away, because she knew that the fight had been between
Gerald and herself and that the presence of the third party was a mere
contingency--an inevitable contingency perhaps, but a contingency none
the less. But let them have it as an example of the eternal triangle,
the trinity of hate. It would be simpler for them.
Birkin went away, his manner cold and abstracted. But she knew he would
do things for her, nevertheless, he would see her through. She smiled
slightly to herself, with contempt. Let him do the work, since he was
so extremely GOOD at looking after other people.
Birkin went again to Gerald. He had loved him. And yet he felt chiefly
disgust at the inert body lying there. It was so inert, so coldly dead,
a carcase, Birkin's bowels seemed to turn to ice. He had to stand and
look at the frozen dead body that had been Gerald.
It was the frozen carcase of a dead male. Birkin remembered a rabbit
which he had once found frozen like a board on the snow. It had been
rigid like a dried board when he picked it up. And now this was Gerald,
stiff as a board, curled up as if for sleep, yet with the horrible
hardness somehow evident. It filled him with horror. The room must be
made warm, the body must be thawed. The limbs would break like glass or
like wood if they had to be straightened.
He reached and touched the dead face. And the sharp, heavy bruise of
ice bruised his living bowels. He wondered if he himself were freezing
too, freezing from the inside. In the short blond moustache the
life-breath was frozen into a block of ice, beneath the silent
nostrils. And this was Gerald!
Again he touched the sharp, almost glittering fair hair of the frozen
body. It was icy-cold, hair icy-cold, almost venomous. Birkin's heart
began to freeze. He had loved Gerald. Now he looked at the shapely,
strange-coloured face, with the small, fine, pinched nose and the manly
cheeks, saw it frozen like an ice-pebble--yet he had loved it. What was
one to think or feel? His brain was beginning to freeze, his blood was
turning to ice-water. So cold, so cold, a heavy, bruising cold pressing
on his arms from outside, and a heavier cold congealing within him, in
his heart and in his bowels.
He went over the snow slopes, to see where the death had been. At last
he came to the great shallow among the precipices and slopes, near the
summit of the pass. It was a grey day, the third day of greyness and
stillness. All was white, icy, pallid, save for the scoring of black
rocks that jutted like roots sometimes, and sometimes were in naked
faces. In the distance a slope sheered down from a peak, with many
black rock-slides.
It was like a shallow pot lying among the stone and snow of the upper
world. In this pot Gerald had gone to sleep. At the far end, the guides
had driven iron stakes deep into the snow-wall, so that, by means of
the great rope attached, they could haul themselves up the massive
snow-front, out on to the jagged summit of the pass, naked to heaven,
where the Marienhutte hid among the naked rocks. Round about, spiked,
slashed snow-peaks pricked the heaven.
Gerald might have found this rope. He might have hauled himself up to
the crest. He might have heard the dogs in the Marienhutte, and found
shelter. He might have gone on, down the steep, steep fall of the
south-side, down into the dark valley with its pines, on to the great
Imperial road leading south to Italy.
He might! And what then? The Imperial road! The south? Italy? What
then? Was it a way out? It was only a way in again. Birkin stood high
in the painful air, looking at the peaks, and the way south. Was it any
good going south, to Italy? Down the old, old Imperial road?
He turned away. Either the heart would break, or cease to care. Best
cease to care. Whatever the mystery which has brought forth man and the
universe, it is a non-human mystery, it has its own great ends, man is
not the criterion. Best leave it all to the vast, creative, non-human
mystery. Best strive with oneself only, not with the universe.
'God cannot do without man.' It was a saying of some great French
religious teacher. But surely this is false. God can do without man.
God could do without the ichthyosauri and the mastodon. These monsters
failed creatively to develop, so God, the creative mystery, dispensed
with them. In the same way the mystery could dispense with man, should
he too fail creatively to change and develop. The eternal creative
mystery could dispose of man, and replace him with a finer created
being. Just as the horse has taken the place of the mastodon.
It was very consoling to Birkin, to think this. If humanity ran into a
CUL DE SAC and expended itself, the timeless creative mystery would
bring forth some other being, finer, more wonderful, some new, more
lovely race, to carry on the embodiment of creation. The game was never
up. The mystery of creation was fathomless, infallible, inexhaustible,
forever. Races came and went, species passed away, but ever new species
arose, more lovely, or equally lovely, always surpassing wonder. The
fountain-head was incorruptible and unsearchable. It had no limits. It
could bring forth miracles, create utter new races and new species, in
its own hour, new forms of consciousness, new forms of body, new units
of being. To be man was as nothing compared to the possibilities of the
creative mystery. To have one's pulse beating direct from the mystery,
this was perfection, unutterable satisfaction. Human or inhuman
mattered nothing. The perfect pulse throbbed with indescribable being,
miraculous unborn species.
Birkin went home again to Gerald. He went into the room, and sat down
on the bed. Dead, dead and cold!
Imperial Caesar dead, and turned to clay
Would stop a hole to keep the wind away.
There was no response from that which had been Gerald. Strange,
congealed, icy substance--no more. No more!
Terribly weary, Birkin went away, about the day's business. He did it
all quietly, without bother. To rant, to rave, to be tragic, to make
situations--it was all too late. Best be quiet, and bear one's soul in
patience and in fullness.
But when he went in again, at evening, to look at Gerald between the
candles, because of his heart's hunger, suddenly his heart contracted,
his own candle all but fell from his hand, as, with a strange
whimpering cry, the tears broke out. He sat down in a chair, shaken by
a sudden access. Ursula who had followed him, recoiled aghast from him,
as he sat with sunken head and body convulsively shaken, making a
strange, horrible sound of tears.
'I didn't want it to be like this--I didn't want it to be like this,'
he cried to himself. Ursula could but think of the Kaiser's: 'Ich habe
as nicht gewollt.' She looked almost with horror on Birkin.
Suddenly he was silent. But he sat with his head dropped, to hide his
face. Then furtively he wiped his face with his fingers. Then suddenly
he lifted his head, and looked straight at Ursula, with dark, almost
vengeful eyes.
'He should have loved me,' he said. 'I offered him.'
She, afraid, white, with mute lips answered:
'What difference would it have made!'
'It would!' he said. 'It would.'
He forgot her, and turned to look at Gerald. With head oddly lifted,
like a man who draws his head back from an insult, half haughtily, he
watched the cold, mute, material face. It had a bluish cast. It sent a
shaft like ice through the heart of the living man. Cold, mute,
material! Birkin remembered how once Gerald had clutched his hand, with
a warm, momentaneous grip of final love. For one second--then let go
again, let go for ever. If he had kept true to that clasp, death would
not have mattered. Those who die, and dying still can love, still
believe, do not die. They live still in the beloved. Gerald might still
have been living in the spirit with Birkin, even after death. He might
have lived with his friend, a further life.
But now he was dead, like clay, like bluish, corruptible ice. Birkin
looked at the pale fingers, the inert mass. He remembered a dead
stallion he had seen: a dead mass of maleness, repugnant. He remembered
also the beautiful face of one whom he had loved, and who had died
still having the faith to yield to the mystery. That dead face was
beautiful, no one could call it cold, mute, material. No one could
remember it without gaining faith in the mystery, without the soul's
warming with new, deep life-trust.
And Gerald! The denier! He left the heart cold, frozen, hardly able to
beat. Gerald's father had looked wistful, to break the heart: but not
this last terrible look of cold, mute Matter. Birkin watched and
watched.
Ursula stood aside watching the living man stare at the frozen face of
the dead man. Both faces were unmoved and unmoving. The candle-flames
flickered in the frozen air, in the intense silence.
'Haven't you seen enough?' she said.
He got up.
'It's a bitter thing to me,' he said.
'What--that he's dead?' she said.
His eyes just met hers. He did not answer.
'You've got me,' she said.
He smiled and kissed her.
'If I die,' he said, 'you'll know I haven't left you.'
'And me?' she cried.
'And you won't have left me,' he said. 'We shan't have any need to
despair, in death.'
She took hold of his hand.
'But need you despair over Gerald?' she said.
'Yes,' he answered.
They went away. Gerald was taken to England, to be buried. Birkin and
Ursula accompanied the body, along with one of Gerald's brothers. It
was the Crich brothers and sisters who insisted on the burial in
England. Birkin wanted to leave the dead man in the Alps, near the
snow. But the family was strident, loudly insistent.
Gudrun went to Dresden. She wrote no particulars of herself. Ursula
stayed at the Mill with Birkin for a week or two. They were both very
quiet.
'Did you need Gerald?' she asked one evening.
'Yes,' he said.
'Aren't I enough for you?' she asked.
'No,' he said. 'You are enough for me, as far as a woman is concerned.
You are all women to me. But I wanted a man friend, as eternal as you
and I are eternal.'
'Why aren't I enough?' she said. 'You are enough for me. I don't want
anybody else but you. Why isn't it the same with you?'
'Having you, I can live all my life without anybody else, any other
sheer intimacy. But to make it complete, really happy, I wanted eternal
union with a man too: another kind of love,' he said.
'I don't believe it,' she said. 'It's an obstinacy, a theory, a
perversity.'
'Well--' he said.
'You can't have two kinds of love. Why should you!'
It seems as if I can't,' he said. 'Yet I wanted it.'
'You can't have it, because it's false, impossible,' she said.
'I don't believe that,' he answered.
THE END.
Women in Love, by D.H. Lawrence (David Herbert Lawrence) _
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