On and on went the Baroness’ voice. She seemed to think of everything, and like a bird flying high against a wind, she rose and sank, rose and sank, and began again, almost breathless, with her — Und ja — Und ja — Und ja!
Our young male finch shrank and shrank behind the pedestal desk, and said never a word, not one single word. When the Baroness said — Do you understand? — he only gazed at her in silence. And Johanna, much more on the spot, gazed on the pair of them in a kind of indignation. She could not forget, not for a second, how the dawn-rose on her morning’s bout of passionate connection was being blotted out, blotted out under the Baronessial Boreas.
“Aber nein Mama! Aber das ist dumm! Aber was meinst du, Mama!” she shouted from time to time. But the Baroness, like a dog that is howling at the moon, only cast a glance at her unheeding out of the farthest corner of her eye, cast an unheeding corner of a glance at the interruption, and went on with her long, long howl at the moon. Which moon was friend Gilbert, who gazed and gaped moon-white and moon-silent, and seemed as if shortly he would sink behind the horizon of the pedestal desk. There was a dark, unseeing, obstinate look in his eye. Johanna would not have been at all surprised if he had started to bark.
And then, almost suddenly, like a sudden wind that drops, the Baroness was silent. There was a painful lull in the room.
“But Mama!” said Johanna. “Why didn’t you say you were coming?”
The question was pointed.
“Ach, I am not staying. I am going to Louise’s,” said the Baroness, catching her chiffon scarf and grasping for her umbrella.
“But won’t you have some lunch?” said Johanna.
“No! No! Thank you! Thank you! I am going.”
And the elderly lady rose to her feet, sturdily.
“But you will eat something?” said Johanna.
“Nein! Nein!”
“Goodbye Mama!” called Johanna cheerfully.
“Ja, goodbye Johanna. — Goodbye Mr Noon. I mean not to be unkind, you know — ” this bit in English.
That long, eternal “you kno-ow” of foreigners. The Baroness wrinkled a distressed face at him, shook hands, and left, obdurately refusing to stay another minute, although her train was not till a quarter to two.
Johanna closed the door behind her mother, and did not go downstairs with her.
“Well, I call that an irruption!” she said.
“So do I,” said Gilbert vaguely.
“Just in our lovely morning “ There was a pause: “But I call it mean. I call it mean to burst on us like that! What right has she?”
And Johanna flounced into the bedroom. Then she flounced back.
“But what do you let it upset you for?” she said. “You look so ridiculous! You shrank and shrank till I thought you’d disappear between the legs of the desk. — And not a word. Not a word did you say! But not a word! Pouf! I think it’s so ridiculous — ”
She went out to the kitchen with a poof! of laughter. Then she called:
“Come and look.”
Gilbert went. Away below they saw the Baroness going sturdily up the incline to the railway, in the rain.
“Look at her! Look at her! How long has she got to wait?”
“An hour,” said Gilbert. “Ought I to go to her?”
“Go to her? What for? She doesn’t want you.”
“She’s had no lunch.”
“Oh well, she’s had her satisfaction schimpfing. I don’t forgive it her. Look at her now! Doesn’t she look a sight in the rain! What right had she to spring on us like that! I call it mean of them — mean! — Now let her stand in the station — And now she’ll go to Louise’s and make more mischief. But I’m on my guard against them in the future. — Mean! And our lovely morning. And you — you. What do you look such a muff for? Why do you look as if you were going to hide in the desk hole? A rare fool you looked too.”
Gilbert did not answer, but his eyes were dark and full of remembrance.
“Ach Mama!” said Johanna, addressing the figure in the rain. “You always were clumsy and ungraceful. And a sight you look, standing on the station. You’ve made a rare angel of yourself this day. And I don’t forgive it you! — And you — ” she turned on Gilbert. “You are worse than she is — shrinking and being such a muff. — Bah, a man! You never said one word!”
“Why should I?”
“Why not? Pouf!” — and again Johanna broke into a mocking laugh. “But I’m going to eat, anyhow. And I’m going to have eggs and bacon. Are you?”
“Yes,” said Gilbert, eyeing with the greatest discomfort the stout black figure on the little railway station. And he had no peace till the train came — when they both ran to the kitchen and watched the Baroness climb in — and watched the train steam off.
“We’ll be on our guards, after this,” said Johanna.
“How?” said Gilbert.
“Yes, that’s just it. Springing upon one — !! — Yah, fools always do rush in! — What does she care, really, about me? Not a rap! She’s only frightened of the world. That’s all she cares. I shan’t forgive it her. — And you’re a fool, I don’t forgive you for taking it so tragically — ”
Johanna was mistaken, however. Gilbert was only deeply bewildered by this bruit pour tine omelette. But she was deeply offended that he had cut such a poor figure. In her own mind, she felt he ought to have risen and said: “Madame la Baronne, this is not to the point. Allow me to offer you a little refreshment.” Instead of which he had sat with a pale face and round eyes and shrinking body. For in Gilbert’s world people did not make speeches. At the bottom of his soul he too was profoundly angry. Johanna was furious because she was humiliated by her own family, and because he allowed her to be humiliated. He was furious because he had, he felt, been wantonly trespassed upon. But this was his private affair.
The next day they went to Schloss Wolfratsberg, to see Louise. Wolfratsberg was a big village, a township. And here the soldiers were quartered. Crossing the wide bridge over the river, he saw the soldiers washing their clothes in the stream, ruddy and laughing. In the town soldiers stood, dark blue, at every corner: the place seemed coloured with them. Even in Louise’s villa two privates were quartered — she would not be bothered with an officer. Gilbert saw them loitering, smoking their pipes, their tunics unbuttoned, in the little plantation behind the house. And he heard them chaffing Marta, and singing risky love-songs to her.
Marta appeared, her round head braided with her black plait, her grey eyes full of light, her face warm and dusky with that mediaeval reserve. She glanced a strange flash at Gilbert. And for the moment he wished with all his soul that he was back again among the common people: that he was lounging with his pipe in the plantation with the two privates, and making love to the dark, proud, promising Marta. He felt sick of women who talked and discussed and had privileges, of a theoretic life. Oh if only he was with the common soldiers! — the man’s reckless, manly life of indifference and blood- satisfaction and mental stupidity.
But alas, some invisible pale intervened between him and the lounging, unbuttoned soldiers. He had to go upstairs, to Louise’s room with its grey linen walls and its yellow silk curtains and dark furniture. And he had to listen to these two ladies, Johanna and Louise, in their endless talking-it-out: the reckless voice of Johanna beginning — ”Aber Louise — ” and the musical, sardonic voice of Louise responding: “Ja, Johanna, Ja. Das mein ich auch. Aber “
That terrible aber — that eternal but. Hamlet would really have had some occasion to say Aber mich keiti Abern.
Of course nothing important eventuated at Wolfratsberg. Next morning Gilbert worked at his music. He had found various old books of songs at Louise’s house, and these songs he set about transcribing, translating, and preparing for schools. A certain rather facile inspiration, a little fever of work was upon him, and he got on quite well, and forgot the various other matters. Johanna curled up on the sofa and read book after book, scattering the volumes round her on th
e floor like bones round the door of a dog’s kennel.
In the afternoon they walked out towards the river woods. They went through the tall, ripening rye. Poppies were out, and magenta corn-cockles, and bits of blue chicory. But Johanna, instead of walking along with him, walked behind, with a curious trailing motion of her feet. At first he did not notice. And then his spine began to creep. He glanced round irritably. And again his spine began to creep, he felt as if someone were going to stick him in the neck. So he waited for her to come up, and passed some casual remark as she joined him.
But when he went forward, he again felt her behind him — she would not keep up. And again the vile feeling went up and down his spine. He felt he would hutch his shoulders, as if really expecting a stab in the neck.
“Why do you walk behind?” he said.
“Why shouldn’t I? I can walk where I like.”
He looked at her. She had an irritating way of trailing one foot out, having her feet wide apart, and one foot on one side. A white anger began to mount his cheek.
“You won’t walk after me like that,” he said. “I won’t have it.”
“Why not? The road is not yours. I can go where I like.”
“Not behind me.”
“Why not!”
And she stood at a distance, eyeing him. He turned on his way. And she followed trailing after him. And rage ran up and down his spine, feeling her as it were jeering and destroying him from behind.
Again he waited.
“Go in front,” he said.
“Why should I?”
“Go in front. Or keep level,” he said.
“No. Why should I? I can go where I like.”
She stood at a little distance, eyeing him. And he hated her. So they both stood on the path, waiting. Still they waited.
After a while he shrugged his shoulders, and walked forward, determined to take no notice. But when he came to the woods, and still she dogged him, at a dozen paces behind, jeering at him malevolently, he felt, then he could stand it no more.
He turned suddenly and went back towards her.
“I’m going home,” he said, striding savagely.
“Goodbye. Enjoy yourself!” she cried jeeringly. And he felt her watching him, jeering, as he went through the rye.
However, he hurried forward towards the house, indifferent to her now. He took a book and sat down at the desk. And after a short time he heard her coming up the stairs. She was always afraid to be alone in the lonely country.
She went straight into the bedroom, without speaking. He glanced from under his brows, hoping she would be softened.
He was terrified lest love should cease to be love. She came back out of the bedroom.
“Shall we have some tea?” she said.
“Yes. Shall I make some?”
“Do.”
He went into the kitchen and made tea. She curled up on the sofa with another book. He hoped it was all going to be cosy again.
They had tea. Evening came — and they talked desultorily. He hoped everything was all right. But she took her book, and he went to his songs. As he was working he suddenly heard her Pouf! of laughter, and glanced up. She was curled on the sofa, her face and eyes were shining curiously, and her head was pressed back as a cobra presses back its head, flattening its neck.
“I must think of you and Mama,” she said. “You looked such a fool.”
He moved the green-shaded reading lamp to one side.
“Why?” he said.
“Shrinking in your chair. Why were you so frightened?”
“Frightened? When was I frightened?”
“You were terrified — of Mama.”
“That’s a lie.”
“No, not at all. I could see you. You looked terrified — and you were.”
“I was not terrified. It’s ridiculous.”
“But why did you go so little? You went so small in your chair, I thought you were going to vanish altogether.”
“What should I do?”
“But why were you so overwhelmed? Why did you shrink so small? I was simply astonished.”
“I didn’t shrink at all. What could I say to a woman with white hair — what could I say? What was the good of saying anything?”
“Yes, but why should you go pale and shrink six sizes smaller than before. It was a sight to see you.”
“You shouldn’t have looked then. You shouldn’t have let me in for it. She’s your damned mother.”
“I let you in for it! I! You let yourself in for it. And then you shrivel up — ” she poufed with laughter.
“Have you said about enough?” he said, leaning forward over the desk, and his eyes beginning to burn.
“What am I saying? I’m just telling you.”
“Have you about finished?”
“No. Not at all. I want to know why you look such a fool.”
A blacker shadow went over his face.
“Because you, blast you, make a fool of me,” he said sullenly.
“You must be a poor creature,” she said, “if an old woman’s schimpfing makes you want to crawl under the desk.” And she laughed unpleasantly. “I thought you were going to bark at her — ” she laughed more — ”bark at her like a dog.”
But he, looking daggers, rose and went to the open door, to look at the night from the balcony. She got down from the sofa and confronted him.
“I thought you were going to crawl under here like a dog in a kennel — ” her head dropped loose with laughter — ”and bark — bark at Mama!” She laughed till she was weak. And he only stood and looked at her with black eyes of fury. Because he was sore with many unalleved humiliations, a little blinded by his own sore head.
“Look!” she cried. “Look!” — and she moved the paper- basket, and crept into the space between the two sides of the desk. He stood stock still, and his cheek went yellow with fury and humiliation. She was so weak with laughter, that her forehead sank to the floor, as she kneeled bunched up under the desk. Then she looked up and barked at him.
“Wuff! Wuff-wuff-wuff! Wuff!”
After which she collapsed with another little shriek of laughter.
He could see it was funny. But like a bear with a sore nose, his soreness was too big for him. He went livid with anger.
“Now stop!” he said. And the sound of his voice startled her. She looked up at him.
“Now stop!” he said.
And his face was transfigured. She did not know it. It was a mask of strange, impersonal, blind fury. She crawled out from under the desk, and rose to her feet.
“Can’t you stand a joke?” she said.
“I’ve had enough!” he answered, and his eyes came upon her with a black leap.
“But why? Are you such a poor thing you can’t stand being laughed at sometimes? You looked a big enough fool!”
But his eyes only watched her from the white blotch of his face. And she winced. It wasn’t a human being looking at her. Out of a ghastly mask a black, horrible force seemed to be streaming. She winced, and was frightened. Oh God, these Englishmen, what depths of horrors had they at the bottom of their souls! She was rather frightened of him, as of a mad thing.
“Can I never laugh at you?” she said.
“Not more than enough,” he said.
She could see his heart beating in his throat. And still the black, impersonal, horrible look lingered on his brow and in his eyes, his face was void.
“And must you say when it’s enough?” she asked, almost submissively. She was afraid of him as she might be of a rock which was just going to fall.
“Yes,” he said. And he looked full into her again. And she was frightened — not of him, personally — but of some powerful impersonal force of which he was only the vehicle: a force which he hardly could contain, and which seemed ready to break horribly out of him.
She became quite still, went and curled up with her book again. He sat motionless at the desk, his heart plunging violently, a sort of semi-conscio
us swoon drowsing his brain. He had almost forgotten, forgotten these horrible rages. When he was a boy of thirteen his sister could taunt them up in him. And he knew he could have murdered her. But that was long ago, and he had forgotten. Now suddenly the black storm had broken out again. And he was no longer a boy. He was a man now.
He sat with his head dropped — brooding, oblivious in a kind of dark, intense inwardness. There was an unspeakable silence in the room. She glanced at him from time to time. But he was motionless and as if invisible to her.
Rather nervously she slipped from her sofa and came and crouched at his side, and very timidly put her hand on his knee. He did not move. But awful fire of desire went through him at once, so that his limbs felt like molten iron. He could not move.
“Are you cross with me?” she said wistfully. And her hand sank closer on his knee.
He turned and looked down at her. A strange, almost unseeing expansion was in his eyes, as he looked on her. And he saw her face luminous, clear, frail, like a sky after a thunder-rain, shining with tender frail light. And in his breast and in his heart the great throbs of love-passion struck and struck again, till he felt he would die if he did not have her. And yet he did not move.
“Say you’re not cross! Say it!” she murmured. And she put her arms round his hips, as he sat in the chair and she crouched before him. And he took her in his arms — her soft, deep breasts, her soft sides — !
Ah God, the terrible agony and bliss of sheer passion, sheer, surpassing desire. The agony and bliss of such an embrace, the very brink of death, and yet the sheer overwhelming wave of life itself. Ach, how awful and utterly unexpected it is, before it happens: like drowning, or like birth. How fearful, how causeless, how forever voiceless.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 294