Women in Love (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by D. H. Lawrence

  He surged painfully up, sometimes having to cross a slope of black rock, that was blown bare of snow. Here he was afraid of falling, very much afraid of falling. And high up here, on the crest, moved a wind that almost overpowered him with a sleep-heavy iciness. Only it was not here, the end, and he must still go on. His indefinite nausea would not let him stay.

  Having gained one ridge, he saw the vague shadow of something higher in front. Always higher, always higher. He knew he was following the track towards the summit of the slopes, where was the Marienhütte, and the descent on the other side. But he was not really conscious. He only wanted to go on, to go on whilst he could, to move, to keep going, that was all, to keep going, until it was finished. He had lost all his sense of place. And yet in the remaining instinct of life, his feet sought the track where the skis had gone.

  He slithered down a sheer snowslope. That frightened him. He had no Alpenstock, nothing. But having come safely to rest, he began to walk on, in the illuminated darkness. It was as cold as sleep. He was between two ridges, in a hollow. So he swerved. Should he climb the other ridge, or wander along the hollow? How frail the thread of his being was stretched! He would perhaps climb the ridge. The snow was firm and simple. He went along. There was something standing out of the snow. He approached, with dimmest curiosity.

  It was a half-buried Crucifix, a little Christ under a little sloping hood, at the top of a pole. He sheered away. Somebody was going to murder him. He had a great dread of being murdered. But it was a dread which stood outside him, like his own ghost.

  Yet why be afraid? It was bound to happen. To be murdered! He looked round in terror at the snow, the rocking, pale, shadowy slopes of the upper world. He was bound to be murdered, he could see it. This was the moment when the death was uplifted, and there was no escape.

  Lord Jesus, was it then bound to be—Lord Jesus! He could feel the blow descending, he knew he was murdered. Vaguely wandering forward, his hands lifted as if to feel what would happen, he was waiting for the moment when he would stop, when it would cease. It was not over yet.

  He had come to the hollow basing of snow, surrounded by sheer slopes and precipices, out of which rose a track that brought one to the top of the mountain. But he wandered unconsciously, till he slipped and fell down, and as he fell something broke in his soul, and immediately he went to sleep.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  Exeunt

  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?”dy

  “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,dz 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 carcass, 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 a frozen carcass 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 Marienhütte 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 Marienhütte, 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 Cæsar 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 fulness.

  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 not but think of the Kaiser’s: “Ich habe es 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.”1

  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 blue 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 i
n 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.

  ENDNOTES

  I am indebted to Jack Stewart for his “Notes” in the Modern Library edition of D. H. Lawrence’s Women in Love (2002) and the “Explanatory Notes” in the 1987 Cambridge edition, edited by David Farmer, Lindeth Vasey, and John Worthen.

  Chapter I

  1 (p. 5) Ursula and Gudrun Brangwen sat one morning in the window-bay Of their farther’shouse in Beldover: Lawrence’s original manuscript in which Ursula and Gudrun appeared was called The Sisters. However, Lawrence divided the book and published it as two novels: The Rainbow, which appeared in 1915 and was banned, and Women in Love, first published in 1920. Ursula and Gudrun appear in both books. Previous editors have pointed out that Ursula is the name of a martyred saint and also the name of a Swabian moon-goddess. Gudrun, the daughter of a Nibelung king, murders her husband. The choice of Gudrun’s name links this character with the work of Richard Wagner (1813-1883), a device Lawrence uses throughout Women in Love. Gudrun, therefore, is a symbol of what Lawrence views as the destructive snow-abstraction of Nordic culture, which has lost its passion and sensuality. It should be noted, however, that these names, meaningful as they may seem, appear to have no symbolic function at all in The Rainbow. This leads us to the next point: that Women in Love is not a true sequel, and that though Ursula and Gudrun have the same names and the same parents and even the same professions in both novels, they are not, in fact, the same people. The community of Beldover also appears in both novels. In The Rainbow it is a middle-class farming and mining community modeled on Lawrence’s hometown of Eastwood. In Women in Love, it is still a mining town, though more highly organized and industrialized than the town in which Lawrence grew up.