“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To the other bed.”
“But why?”
“Because I want to be alone.”
“Why?”
She vouchsafed no answer, but darted into the other bed and enveloped herself in the overbolster like a viper darting to cover.
He was now hard awake. The moon had set, and it was dark. It was very dark, so dark that he could not even see the window. He knew the direction of the other bed, where Johanna had gone. And from this direction he felt strange, terrible currents of malevolent force vibrating out on the intense darkness. The room was so dark, he felt it must be some dungeon, some awful prison. And the darkness seemed imprisoned and horrific, like being buried alive. He knew it was no use speaking to Johanna. She was as it were the spider at the core of the horror. Sometimes the darkness in the room bristled like a black wolf’s hide. He lay in horror. Then he became semi-conscious.
Then again he woke with horror. There was a pallor — something horrible was coming. Something pallid and fearful was coming from the distance. He lay staring, while his heart felt ruptured; staring, staring at the pallid presence.
Then enough day-consciousness returned, and he sort of realised that it was dawn at the window. A strange, seething blister upon the darkness. Dawn at the window. A big, white, horrible, intensifying blotch on the darkness. Dawn at the window. Dawn at the window. Seething, seething — he could almost hear it! — seething with a pale, maleficent, leprous sound. But dawn! Dawn at the window. Could he make out the window-frame? Could he distinguish the centre-bar? Light seething like some fatal steam on the black solidity of the darkness: seething, seething its way in, like a disease.
Thus within him the normal day-consciousness fought with the awful night consciousness, which sees the invisible forces. He watched as from the depths of a cavern the light gather at the window. But himself he lay far back, still night-logged, and his heart seemed ruptured. He had once had a bad rheumatic fever, and his heart was not so strong.
Gradually, gradually day came. And with it the night consciousness faded. With day, a certain normality re-established itself again. But he did not forget. He never forgot again. It was as if this night a breach was made in the walls of his house of life, so that he looked out on the prowling winds of chaos and horror. And somehow, Johanna had done it. But probably it was his own fault. Johanna could be horrible like some were-wolf that ate men’s hearts: only their hearts. His heart still pained him in his left breast. — But probably, probably he had brought it to pass upon himself. There can be no were-wolf unless men loose it upon themselves. He must have wanted it.
It was full daylight. He saw Johanna sleeping, curled on her pillow. Everything seemed natural. His torn, ruptured consciousness relaxed. And soon he went to sleep, and slept deeply. And when he awoke, he had forgotten.
He had forgotten, she had forgotten. They had breakfast out of doors under the big trees. The table-cloth was of yellow and white checks. Chaffinches came hopping on the table, almost on to their plates.
“Aren’t they awfully nice!” said Johanna. “You know that when the Lord was painting the birds, He had no colour left for the chaffinch. So He just wiped his brushes on him.”
Chaffinches! Flutter and dabs of yellow and red! And a yellow and white table-cloth! And a sumptuous morning, with the last white clouds walking slowly out of a superb sky, as if loath to go. Gilbert never forgot it.
And a little later, as they sat on one of their favorite benches, on a hill under a wood, beside a white shrine, looking at the perfect heaven-array of mountains drawn up in the morning sunshine, far off, while myriads and myriads of dandelion seed-heads stood in the grass that sloped down from their feet, round globes of mist resting in their myriads, big, fairy worlds of mist in a congregation, his heart reminded him of the night. He and she were hand in hand, in peace.
“The night was a failure,” he said.
“It was, wasn’t it?”
“Well, why not?”
“Ha — I suppose one can’t always be happy,” she sighed. And she sighed rather bitterly, as if against fate.
So there you are, gentle reader. It isn’t my fault if I can’t give you an idyll of coos. It would be a good deal easier for me too. I feel, with Johanna, as if I could sigh against fate.
Not that fate would care. And that’s where it is, gentle reader. It’s no good sighing against the bull Typhon. You’ve got to take him by the horns.
And so, gentle reader — ! But why the devil should I always gentle-reader you. You’ve been gentle reader for this last two hundred years. Time you too had a change. Time you became rampageous reader, ferocious reader, surly, rabid reader, hellcat of a reader, a tartar, a termagant, a tanger. — And so, hellcat of a reader, let me tell you, with a flea in your ear, that all the ring-dove sonata you’ll get out of me you’ve got already, and for the rest you’ve got to hear the howl of tom-cats like myself and she-cats like yourself, going it tooth and nail.
I sometimes wish it weren’t so. I wish we could sing the old, old song.
“List to the sound of coo-oo-oo, of coo-oo-oo, of coooo Sounding for me and you-ou-ou, for me-ee-ee and you-ouu
Whether in storm or cloud you go, or under skies of blueoo Nothing can sever, I will be ever, true to my coo-oo-oooooo!”
But, my dear reader, you’ve sung that song to rags, till there isn’t a coo left in the universe. So now you’ve got to listen to the fire-works, and the fire-and-water fizzing and cat-fight of my precious protagonists.
And remember, gent — damn it all. I’ll begin again. Remember, you girning, snarl-voiced hell-bird of a detestable reader that you are, remember that the fight doesn’t take place because Little Jack Horner ate all the pie, or because Littie Bo-peep didn’t mend Jack’s socks, or didn’t cook his dinner. Remember, you bitch, that the fight is over nothing at all, if it isn’t everything. Remember that Jack and Jill are both decent people, not particularly bad-tempered, and not mean at all.
Therefore you sniffing mongrel bitch of a reader, you can’t sniff out any specific why or any specific wherefore, with your carrion-smelling psycho-analysing nose, because there is no why and wherefore. If fire meets water there’s sure to be a dust. That’s the why and wherefore.
Of course, as I’ve said before, fire and water may meet in sweet lovey-doveyness, as rain and sun in spring meet with a kiss, as earth-water trips forward in a growing plant to embrace the alighting sun-heat in a fecund embrace. But that is only half the show. And unfortunately this half is over, for the moment.
Our fathers and christian forbears have done us in. They have kept the lovey-dovey show going so strong for such a long time, that, like summer in September, it is temporarily played out. Hiss, bang, fizz, the fire and water are having a spell of hard fight, before they can settle down to the next bout of lovey-dovey. All right then, fiery one, spit on your hands and go for him. It will clear the air, consume the flabby masses of humanity, and make way for a splendider time. Make a ring then, readers, round Gilbert and Johanna.
Chapter XIX.
Louise, like a goddess in the machine, appears and disappears. She appeared at Schaeftlarn after our hero and heroine had been there for six days, and said that there was a flat, a country flat, belonging to one of her friends, in the village of Ommerbach, five miles the other side of Schloss Wolfratsberg. This flat Johanna and Gilbert might inhabit, free, gratis and for nothing, until August and the summer holidays. It would be much cheaper.
Off set our friends again. They paid their bill and departed from Kloster Schaeftlarn with regret. They had loved it.
Back they went down the railway, to Ommerbach. Ommerbach was the least of villages. It contained exactly seven houses: three farms, the station house, two smaller houses, and then Frau Breitgau’s. It lay in a knot on the high-road that came trailing nakedly, through open spaces, along the valley-side from Munich towards the mountains.
Frau Breitgau’s house was
the first in the village — and it was a shop. It was new. On the ground floor was Frau Breitgau’s shop, and Frau Breitgau, like a round, shiny, rosy sausage that has been dipped in hot water, and Herr Breitgau, with a long grey brown-fringed moustache which looked as if it had grown into a long grey weed hanging over the rim of a beer-pot. The second floor we have nothing to do with. The top floor was the flat destined for our pair of finches. It was perched high up. From the sitting-room and from the adjacent bedroom opened the wooden balcony, which looked down over the lost high-road, past the big, broad-spread farm, over the rye-fields and fir-woods down to the river, then at the far- off up-slope. There was besides a little kitchen that looked over the station at the flashing Alps: a spare bedroom, and a water-closet. It was small, rather bare, but complete. There was one big deep sofa, splendid, in the sitting-room: a white bed in the bedroom: copper pots in the kitchen. The two finches whistled with pleasure.
Here they installed themselves, and blessed Louise for a fairy god-mother. And they proceeded to live for nothing. A huge loaf of black bread, almost enough for a week, cost sixpence: and this, eaten with thick firm Alp-grass butter was food for the gods. Ah, how good that black rye-bread is, when it is pure and well-made. The best of bread. A great pound of fresh butter, just made, cost ninepence. For a shilling they had fifteen or eighteen eggs. For threepence a vast jug of milk. For ninepence a pot of farm honey. For sixpence sweet honey-cakes.
Behold then Frau Breitgau beaming in the door with the milk, and Gilbert in pyjamas and Johanna in her blue silk dressing-gown. Behold Gilbert running down to Frau Breitgau’s shop, for liver-sausage, or a cudet of Ripperle, or Schnapps, or whatever it was, and struggling with a conversation in strong Bayrisch, with the happy Frau or the beer- dim Herr. Behold our couple living in a land of milk and honey and joyful abundance, for fifteen shillings a week for the two of them. Oh wonderful days of smiling, careless plenty. Oh days gone by! Oh bitter regret. Why are eggs a shilling each? Why can’t one have honey any more? What has happened to God’s tall rye, that the black bread should taste of the dust-bin?
Lovely material plenty! If one can live for fifteen shillings a week, then one can live for three months on ten pounds. And with a hundred pounds a year one is a lord. Ah days gone by!
The storm was brewing in the soul of man, nevertheless. Johanna and Gilbert perched in their nest and surveyed the long white high-road come winding through the rye, between blasted fruit-trees. Bullock wagons slowly approached — or a great motor van charged out from the city — or peasants passed on foot. And sometimes, in the sweltering days, it was soldiers.
They would hear a far-off jingle and clatter and a fine threshing sound. A cloud of dust far off. And then soldiers on horseback galloping importantly forward, three, two young ones and an old one. The old one trotted up the litde bank to Frau Breitgau’s shop-door, until his horse almost had its nose on the counter. Then there was a loud shouting of commands. Meanwhile a blue lieutenant had reined up under the trees by the farm-door, and was shouting commands also. Then the three fore-runners rode on.
Immediately there was a struggle below: Frau Breitgau and Herr Breitgau tussling with a tub, a wide open tub, which they deposited just by the post where they might one day have a gate. Under the lilac bushes at the farm other great tubs rolled out. Then there was a trotting of farm-hands and of Breitgaus with pails of water, which they poured splashing into the tubs.
Meanwhile the column of dust grew higher, more silvery, between the tall green rye: the sound of innumerable feet filled the valley. So, they hove in sight round the bend. Horsemen — blue horsemen — and then long trains of grey artillery winding round the corner of the tall rye, with a flash of accoutrements and a strange muffled trotting noise that made the heart beat. In the sunshine of the balcony above, Gilbert and Johanna watched in silence.
Back the out-riders went galloping — nearer and nearer came the strange, slow-hasty cavalcade. They were level with the house. There was a wheeling of officers, a flashing of shouts and commands. The artillery had half drawn rein — but forward it went again. Endless threaded the horsemen, and the grey gun-carriages drawn by four or six horses, and the strange, sinister grey wagons. What is more horrible than the neutral grey of war-implements. Ach, for the days of scarlet and silver and black plumes! No more! This hideous neuter, grey neuter of machine mouths.
The fearful ruffling noise went on. Bright horses, brown and chestnut and black — thank god they too are not painted neuter grey — streamed loosely on, their ruddy-faced riders sweating in their dark blue uniforms. Dust rose, wheels rattled, hoofs chattered and chuffled.
Then came a shout, and at last all came to a standstill. In front of the house was a gun with six horses, and a young, strong, handsome fellow riding one of the leaders. He had a spur on one heel, and he rode a bright bay horse. And Gilbert noticed with a start that the belly of the bright bay was wounded with the spur, bloody.
Another shout, and down swung the riders, rushing to the water-tubs. They took off their caps, and their hair was wet with sweat. Gilbert watched his young rider crouch over the tub and put his face in the water and drink. He had a strong body, under the blue cloth, and the back of his neck was ruddy and handsome. He drank, then rose up with his mouth and chin dripping. He wiped himself on his white, blue- bordered handkerchief, rubbed his hair and breathed deep, looking round.
Then he looked at his horse. And suddenly, furtively he ran with water in a dipper, and furtively washed the red wound on the belly, washed it carefully. And he kicked white dust over the blood spots on the road. And he glanced round apprehensively. And the bay horse twitched.
There was a tossing of horses’ heads, a springy, gingerly trotting of officers on horseback, a rubbing of sweat-moist hair, a strange scent of soldiers and horses, a jingle and shuffle and a low run of voices, varied by shouts. And then a wait: a long wait in the hot sun. Three elegant officers were gathered, their horses’ heads together, under a deep green tree by the green farm-railing. Why were they waiting? Why were they waiting? It seemed an eternity before they would ride on and leave the road empty.
But at last came the order. The riders with their strong, heavy-muscled legs swung into the saddle. There was a hitch and strain of harness. Then forward again, with that strange pace of artillery, straining forward, as if with haste, and yet without swiftness. Grey gun-carriages — sweating horses, blue horse-riders, and lastlv curious grey wagons rolled on. Rolled on, and left the empty country behind, the rye gleaming in the sun, the road white, the tubs empty, water splashed around them — and a wet mark in the road where the youth had washed his scored horse.
Gilbert watched the last horse-flanks disappear round the corner of the white, low-roofed farm — and then he stared in silence across the shallow, sun-shimmering valley. And stared with regret — a deep regret. He forgot the woman at his side — and love, and happiness. And his heart burned to be with the men, the strange, dark, heavy soldier, so young and strong with life, reckless and sensual. He wanted it — he wanted it — and not only life with a woman. The thrill of soldiery went heavily through his blood: the glamour of the dark, positive fighting spirit.
So he and Johanna cooked their eggs and their asparagus and ate their Swiss cheese in the clear light in silence. A great silence seemed to have come over him; the deep longing, and the far off desire to be with men, with men alone, active, reckless, dangerous, on the brink of death: to be away from woman, beyond her, on the borders.
But the longing was so deep, it was all indefinite and as yet unconscious, or semi-conscious. Brought up in the great tradition of love and peace, how could he even recognise his own desire for death-struggles and the womanless life? Yet the desire lay at the bottom of it, as of every man.
“They enjoy their soldiering,” he said to Johanna.
“Oh, they hate it. They hate it,” she cried. “How many of them go away because of it!”
“They love it, all the same.”
/> “How can you say so. Ha, I know what it means! — that horrible, vile discipline, and the agonies they suffer. They used to talk to me when I was a child. Papa used to have soldiers to work in the garden, and they always scolded me for talking to them. And I used to throw fruit to them into the barracks ground from our high wall at the end of the garden, and the officers were furious with me. — And then, when I was a child, I knew. I knew how they suffered under it, what agony it was to their pride.”
“They must want it. They must want even the vile discipline and the humiliation. They must, or they wouldn’t have it. People don’t have things they don’t want.”
“Not at all! Not at all! How can they alter it? How can you say they like it? How do you know. You don’t know.”
“I know what I know.”
“You know what you think you know — rubbish! You talk rubbish sometimes. — You ask them if they like it, and see. They’re all dying to be out of it.”
“They think they are.”
“They are” she cried. “Why are you such a fool! — Why look — when they meet one another, you can hear them — they say fifty-five! or a hundred and eighty! — or five hundred! — And that means how many day’s service they still have. You can often hear it, in Bavaria.”
“I don’t believe it, for all that,” he said.
“Ah, because you are a conceited ass,” she said angrily, whisking away the plates.
They set off walking in the country. They were out of doors all day, in sunny weather. Sometimes they went through the woods, sometimes they walked to Schloss Wolfratsberg, sometimes they went into the deep tangle of the river-bed. And by the water they would sit and watch the timber rafts come down the pale-green, fizzy river — rafts woven together, floating from the mountains, and steered by two raftsmen with long poles or oars. And again the nostalgia for the man’s life would come over Gilbert — life apart from the woman — life without domesticity or marital implication — the single life of men active together. The raftsmen were blonde, ruddy men with hard muscles, not like the peasants. The peasants were full, muscular men, often handsome too. But the mountain woodsmen were like hawks, with their keen, unseeing faces and their bare, fierce knees under the little, wide leather breeches, like football-breeches.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 292