Women in Love

with catkins, hazel and willow, which the children had been sketching. But the sky had come overdark, as the end of the afternoon approached: there was scar

red gold, and falling on the wall opposite in a rich, ruddy illumination. Ursula, however, was scarcely conscious of

n hand. She was pressing the children with questions, so that they should know all they were to know, by the time the gong went. She sto

ed light near her, the face of a man. It was gleaming like fire, watching her, waiting for her to be aware. It startled

n, shaking hands with her. `I t

speak. He laughed, saying he was so

he said. `Shall w

ame. Birkin turned curiously to look at Ursula. Her eyes were round and wondering, bewildered, her mouth quivered slightly. She looked like one who is suddenly wakene

f hazel from a scholar's desk in front of him. `Are the

ly at the tassel o

oking at the flickers of crimso

ess in his motion that hushed the activities of her heart. She seemed to be standing aside in arrested silence, wat

o her, and her heart quickene

d, and the androgynous yellow. I'd chalk them in plain, chalk in nothing else, merely the red

ny crayons,'

ewhere -- red and yello

out a boy

untidy,' she said to B

the fact? -- red little spiky stigmas of the female flower, dangling yellow male catkin, yellow pollen flying from one to the other. Make a pictor

gh the glass panels of the door. It was Herm

you mind my coming to find you? I wan

e a short little laugh. And then only she turned to Ursula, who, with

er low, odd, singing fashion, that sounded almost a

es rested all the while on U

' said

e, with complete sang froid, and

wildered, because Hermione seemed to be compelling her, coming very clo

rmione wanted. She tur

she sang, in her casua

s,' he

ile in a mocking, half teasing fashion, as if making game of the whole busin

nd the inside of the cloak, was lined with dark fur. Beneath she had a dress of fine lavendercoloured cloth, trimmed with fur, and her hat was close-fit

nuts? Have you ever noticed them?' he asked her. And he ca

eplied. `Wh

flowers, and the long catkins, they o

' repeated Hermion

he nuts come; if they receive

erself. And she remained for some moments looking only at the

ul,' she said, moving close to Birkin, and pointin

noticed them be

before,'

ill always see

`Thank you so much for showing me. I think

d Ursula were suspended. The little red pistillate flowers h

hand, her elbow on the table, her long white face pushed up, not attending to anything. Birkin had gone to the window, and was looking from t

one rose and ca

has come ho

said

like being bac

said U

ness of this district, when I stay here. Won't you come and see me? Won't

very much,'

d be so glad. I think she is wonderful. I think some of her work is really wonderful

said U

tly wonderful -- like

vings are stran

ful -- full of pr

, that one can put between one's hands, birds and tiny animals. She likes to look through

that long, detached scrutinising g

It is curious. The little things

? A mouse isn't any more s

rutiny, as if she were following some train of thought

know,' sh

mildly, calling him to he

e asked, with the odd grunt of laughter in her voic

o,' h

tleties,' s

ooked at h

u?' sh

weakness,' said Ursula, up in arms,

kered, her brow was knit with thought, she see

present, `do you really think it is worth while? Do you really t

cheeked and pale, almost unearthly. And the woman, with her se

ousness,' he said. `Consciousn

better that they should remain unconscious of the hazel, isn't it better that th

e little red flowers are there, putting out for the pollen

ace lifted up, abstracted. H

replied, balancing m

u, it is all your life,' he brok

?' she

have only this, this knowledge,' he cried. `There is

was some t

untouched calm. And then in a tone of whim

replied in exasperation,

e moments there was silence. Then, pulling herself together with a

you really think they are? Or is it better to leave them untouched, spontaneous. Hadn't they better be animals, s

ed, crippled in their souls, crippled in their feelings -- so thrown back -- so turned back on themselves -- incapable --' Hermione cle

er carried away, out of themselves, always conscious, always self-conscious, always aware of themselves. Isn't

e that makes us unliving and sel

eyes and looked

ly. `It is the mind,' she said, `and that is death.' She raised her eyes slowly to him: `Isn't the mind --' she said, with the convulsed movement of her body, `isn'

oo much mind, but too li

me the reverse. They are overconscious

limited, false set of

his, only went on with her

lose the flower and have only the knowledge? Aren't we exchanging the substance for the shadow, aren't we forfeiting life for t

It is all purely secondary -- and more decadent than the most hide-bound intellectualism. What is it but the worst and last form of intellectualism, this love of yours for passion and the animal instincts? Passion and the instincts -- you

ck. Ursula stood covered with wonder and shame. I

your own fixed will, your immortal understanding, your own tight conscious world, and there is nothing beyond it. There, in the mirror, you must have everythi

he sat convulsed with fury and violation, speechle

h things and have them in your power. You want to have things in your power. And why? Because you haven't got any real body, any dark se

e he knew he tortured her. He had an impulse to kneel and plead for forgiveness. But a bitterer red a

ry consciousness. You want it all in that loathsome little skull of yours, that ought to be cracked like a nut. For you'll be the same till it is cracked, like an insect in its skin. If one cracked your skull perhaps one might get a spontaneous

the unforgivable. Yet Ursula was concerned now only with solving her

want sensuality?'

r, and became inten

he great dark knowledge you can't have in your head -- the dark involuntary be

e not in your head?' she asked, qui

drowned in darkness everything must go -- there must be the delug

d I be a demon

demon lover" --' he quot

rself as from a de

on a shrill little laugh of pure ridicule. The two women were jeering at him, jeering him into nothingn

re the real devil who

a long, slow look, ma

n't you?' she said, with s

orrible despair, and at the same time a sense of release, liberation

ll come to Breadalby

ike to very much

d, reflecting, and strangely absent,

fortnight. Yes? I will write to you here, at the school, shall I? Yes.

nd the knowledge strangely exhilarated her. Also she was taking leave. It always gave her a sense of strength, a

. But now, when it was his turn to b

ur night-time, there's always the electricity switched on, we watch ourselves, we get it all in the head, really. You've got to lapse out before you can know w

so unproud. We've got no pride, we're all conceit, so conceited in our own papier-mache reali

. He sounded as if he were addressing a meeting. Hermione merely pai

ichness, that came through his thinness and his pallor like another voice, conveying another knowledge of him. It was in the curves of his brows and his

certain golden laughter flickering under her greenish eyes, like a challenge. And immediately the qu

aren't. We're too

a matter of con

d nothin

frankly

e most conceited of all about t

hey're always aware of themselves -- and they're so conceited, that rather tha

rmione, turning to Ursula with a gracio

grin went over Ursula. His face set. And he ba

ights. And having done so, she sat down again in her chair, absorbed and lost. And then s