“Why should it hurt you to work?” she reiterated.
He lifted his face, white and tortured, his grey eyes flaring with fear and hate.
“Work!” he cried. “What do you think I am worth? — Twenty-five shillings a week, if I am lucky.”
His evident anguish penetrated her. She sat dumbfounded, looking at him with wide eyes. He was white with misery and fear; his hand, that lay loose on the table, was abandoned in nervous ignominy. Her mind filled with wonder, and with deep, cold dread. Did he really care so much? But did it really matter so much to him? When he said he was worth twenty-five shillings a week, he was like a man whose soul is pierced. He sat there, annihilated. She looked for him, and he was nothing then. She looked for the man, the free being that loved her. And he was not, he was gone, this blank figure remained. Something with a blanched face sat there in the chair, staring at nothing.
His amazement deepened with intolerable dread. It was as if the world had fallen away into chaos. Nothing remained. She seemed to grasp the air for foothold.
He sat staring in front of him, a dull numbness settled on his brain. He was watching the flame of the candle. And, in his detachment, he realized the flame was a swiftly travelling flood, flowing swiftly from the source of the wick through a white surge and on into the darkness above. It was like a fountain suddenly foaming out, then running on dark and smooth. Could one dam the flood? He took a piece of paper, and cut off the flame for a second.
The girl in red started at the pulse of the light. She seemed to come to, from some trance. She saw his face, clear now, attentive, abstract, absolved. He was quite absolved from his temporal self.
“It isn’t true,” she said, “is it? It’s not so tragic, really? — It’s only your pride is hurt, your silly little pride?” She was rather pleading.
He looked at her with clear steady eyes.
“My pride!” he said. “And isn’t my pride me? What am I without my pride?”
“You are yourself,” she said. “If they take your uniform off you, and turn you naked into the street, you are still yourself.”
His eyes grew hot. Then he cried:
“What does it mean, myself! It means I put on ready-made civilian clothes and do some dirty drudging elsewhere: that is what myself amounts to.”
She knitted her brows.
“But what you are to me — that naked self which you are to me — that is something, isn’t it? — everything,” she said.
“What is it, if it means nothing?” he said: “What is it, more than a pound of chocolate dragées? — It stands for nothing — unless as you say, a petty clerkship, at twenty-five shillings a week.”
These were all wounds to her, very deep. She looked in wonder for a few moments.
“And what does it stand for now?” she said. “A magnificent second-lieutenant!”
He made a gesture of dismissal with his hand.
She looked at him from under lowered brows.
“And our love!” she said. “It means nothing to you, nothing at all?”
“To me as a menial clerk, what does it mean? What does love mean! Does it mean that a man shall be no more than a dirty rag in the world? — What worth do you think I have in love, if in life I am a wretched inky subordinate clerk?”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters everything.”
There was silence for a time, then the anger flashed up in her.
“It doesn’t matter to you what I feel, whether I care or not,” she cried, her voice rising. “They’ll take his little uniform with buttons off him, and he’ll have to be a common little civilian, so all he can do is to shoot himself! — It doesn’t matter that I’m there — ”
He sat stubborn and silent. He thought her vulgar. And her raving did not alter the situation in the least.
“Don’t you see what value you put on me, you clever little man?” she cried in fury. “I’ve loved you, loved you with all my soul, for two years — and you’ve lied, and said you loved me. And now, what do I get? He’ll shoot himself, because his tuppenny vanity is wounded. — Ah, fool — !”
He lifted his head and looked at her. His face was fixed and superior.
“All of which,” he said, “leaves the facts of the case quite untouched!”
She hated his cool little speeches.
“Then shoot yourself,” she cried, “and you’ll be worth less than twenty-five shillings a week!”
There was a fatal silence.
“Then there’ll be no question of worth,” he said.
“Ha!” she ejaculated in scorn.
She had finished. She had no more to say. At length, after they had both sat motionless and silent, separate, for some time, she rose and went across to her hat and cloak. He shrank in apprehension. Now, he could not bear her to go. He shrank as if he were being whipped. She put her hat on, roughly, then swung her warm plaid cloak over her shoulders. Her hat was of black glossy silk, with a sheeny heap of cocks-feathers, her plaid cloak was dark green and blue, it swung open above her clear harsh-red dress. How beautiful she was, like a fiery Madonna!
“Good-bye,” she said, in her voice of mockery. “I’m going now.”
He sat motionless, as if loaded with fetters. She hesitated, then moved towards the door.
Suddenly, with a spring like a cat, he was confronting her, his back to the door. His eyes were full and dilated, like a cat’s, his face seemed to gleam at her. She quivered, as some subtle fluid ran through her nerves.
“Let me go,” she said dumbly. “I’ve had enough.” His eyes, with a wide, dark electric pupil, like a cat’s, only watched her objectively. And again a wave of female submissiveness went over her.
“I want to go,” she pleaded. “You know it’s no good. — You know this is no good.”
She stood humbly before him. A flexible little grin quivered round his mouth.
“You know you don’t want me,” she persisted. “You know you don’t really want me. — You only do this to show your power over me — which is a mean trick.”
But he did not answer, only his eyes narrowed in a sensual, cruel smile. She shrank, afraid, and yet she was fascinated.
“You won’t go yet,” he said.
She tried in vain to rouse her real opposition.
“I shall call out,” she threatened. “I shall shame you before people.”
His eyes narrowed again in the smile of vindictive, mocking indifference.
“Call then,” he said.
And at the sound of his still, cat-like voice, an intoxication ran over her veins.
“I will,” she said, looking defiantly into his eyes. But the smile in the dark, full, dilated pupils made her waver into submission again.
“Won’t you let me go?” she pleaded sullenly.
Now the smile went openly over his face.
“Take your hat off,” he said.
And with quick, light fingers he reached up and drew out the pins of her hat, unfastened the clasp of her cloak, and laid her things aside.
She sat down in a chair. Then she rose again, and went to the window. In the street below, the tiny figures were moving just the same. She opened the window, and leaned out, and wept.
He looked round at her in irritation as she stood in her long, clear-red dress in the window-recess, leaning out. She was exasperating.
“You will be cold,” he said.
She paid no heed. He guessed, by some tension in her attitude, that she was crying. It irritated him exceedingly, like a madness. After a few minutes of suspense, he went across to her, and took her by the arm. His hand was subtle, soft in its touch, and yet rather cruel than gentle.
“Come away,” he said. “Don’t stand there in the air — come away.”
He drew her slowly away to the bed, she sat down, and he beside her.
“What are you crying for?” he said in his strange, penetrating voice, that had a vibration of exultancy in it. But her tears only ran faster.
&nb
sp; He kissed her face, that was soft, and fresh, and yet warm, wet with tears. He kissed her again, and again, in pleasure of the soft, wet saltness of her. She turned aside and wiped her face with her handkerchief, and blew her nose. He was disappointed — yet the way she blew her nose pleased him.
Suddenly she slid away to the floor, and hid her face in the side of the bed, weeping and crying loudly:
“You don’t love me — Oh, you don’t love me — I thought you did, and you let me go on thinking it — but you don’t, no, you don’t, and I can’t bear it. — Oh, I can’t bear it.”
He sat and listened to the strange, animal sound of her crying. His eyes flickered with exultancy, his body seemed full and surcharged with power. But his brows were knitted in tension. He laid his hand softly on her head, softly touched her face, which was buried against the bed.
She suddenly rubbed her face against the sheets, and looked up once more.
“You’ve deceived me,” she said, as she sat beside him.
“Have I? Then I’ve deceived myself.” His body felt so charged with male vigour, he was almost laughing in his strength.
“Yes,” she said enigmatically, fatally. She seemed absorbed in her thoughts. Then her face quivered again.
“And I loved you so much,” she faltered, the tears rising. There was a clangour of delight in his heart.
“I love you,” he said softly, softly touching her, softly kissing her, in a sort of subtle, restrained ecstasy.
She shook her head stubbornly. She tried to draw away. Then she did break away, and turned to look at him, in fear and doubt. The little, fascinating, fiendish lights were hovering in his eyes like laughter.
“Don’t hurt me so much,” she faltered, in a last protest.
A faint smile came on his face. He took her face between his hands and covered it with soft, blinding kisses, like a soft, narcotic rain. He felt himself such an unbreakable fountain-head of powerful blood. He was trembling finely in all his limbs, with mastery.
When she lifted her face and opened her eyes, her face was wet, and her greenish-golden eyes were shining, it was like sudden sunshine in wet foliage. She smiled at him like a child of knowledge, through the tears, and softly, infinitely softly he dried her tears with his mouth and his soft young moustache.
“You’d never shoot yourself, because you’re mine, aren’t you!” she said, knowing the fine quivering of his body, in mastery.
“Yes,” he said.
“Quite mine?” she said, her voice rising in ecstasy.
“Yes.”
“Nobody else but mine — nothing at all — ?”
“Nothing at all,” he re-echoed.
“But me?” came her last words of ecstasy.
“Yes.”
And she seemed to be released free into the infinite of ecstasy.
II
They slept in fulfilment through the long night. But then strange dreams began to fill them both, strange dreams that were neither waking nor sleeping; — only, in curious weariness, through her dreams, she heard at last a continual low rapping. She awoke with difficulty. The rapping began again — she started violently. It was at the door — it would be the orderly rapping for Friedeburg. Everything seemed wild and unearthly. She put her hand on the shoulder of the sleeping man, and pulled him roughly, waited a moment, then pushed him, almost violently, to awake him. He woke with a sense of resentment at her violent handling. Then he heard the knocking of the orderly. He gathered his senses.
"Yes, Heinrich!" he said.
Strange, the sound of a voice! It seemed a far-off tearing sound. Then came the muffled voice of the servant.
"Half past four, Sir."
"Right!" said Friedeburg, and automatically he got up and made a light. She was suddenly as wide awake as if it were daylight. But it was a strange, false day, like a delirium. She saw him put down the match, she saw him moving about, rapidly dressing. And the movement in the room was a trouble to her. He himself was vague and unreal, a thing seen but not comprehended. She watched all the acts of his toilet, saw all the motions, but never saw him. There was only a disturbance about her, which fretted her, she was not aware of any presence. Her mind, in its strange, hectic clarity, wanted to consider things in absolute detachment. For instance, she wanted to consider the cactus plant. It was a curious object with pure scarlet blossoms. Now, how did these scarlet blossoms come to pass, upon that earthly-looking unliving creature? Scarlet blossoms! How wonderful they were! What were they, then, how could one lay hold on their being? Her mind turned to him. Him, too, how could one lay hold on him, to have him? Where was he, what was he? She seemed to grasp at the air.
He was dipping his face in the cold water — the slight shock was good for him. He felt as if someone had stolen away his being in the night, he was moving about a light, quick shell, with all his meaning absent. His body was quick and active, but all his deep understanding, his soul was gone. He tried to rub it back into his face. He was quite dim, as if his spirit had left his body.
"Come and kiss me," sounded the voice from the bed. He went over to her automatically. She put her arms around him and looked into his face with her clear brilliant, grey-green eyes, as if she too were looking for his soul.
"How are you?" came her meaningless words.
"All right."
"Kiss me."
He bent down and kissed her.
And still her clear, rather frightening eyes seemed to be searching for him inside himself. He was like a bird transfixed by her pellucid, grey-green, wonderful eyes. She put her hands into his soft, thick, fine hair, and gripped her hands full of his hair. He wondered with fear at her sudden painful clutching.
"I shall be late," he said.
"Yes," she answered. And she let him go.
As he fastened his tunic he glanced out of the window. It was still night: a night that must have lasted since eternity. There was a moon in the sky. In the streets below the yellow street-lamps burned small at intervals. This was the night of eternity.
There came a knock at the door, and the orderly's voice.
"Coffee, Sir."
"Leave it there."
They heard the faint jingle of the tray as it was set down outside.
Friedeburg sat down to put on his boots. Then, with a man's solid tread, he went and took in the tray. He felt properly heavy and secure now in his accoutrement. But he was always aware of her two wonderful, clear, unfolded eyes, looking on his heart, out of her uncanny silence.
There was a strong smell of coffee in the room.
"Have some coffee?" His eyes could not meet hers.
"No, thank you."
"Just a drop?"
"No, thank you."
Her voice sounded quite gay. She watched him dipping his bread in the coffee and eating quickly, absently. He did not know what he was doing, and yet the dipped bread and hot coffee gave him pleasure. He gulped down the remainder of his drink, and rose to his feet.
"I must go," he said.
There was a curious, poignant smile in her eyes. Her eyes drew him to her. How beautiful she was, and dazzling, and frightening, with this look of brilliant tenderness seeming to glitter from her face. She drew his head down to her bosom, and held it fast prisoner there, murmuring with tender, triumphant delight: "Dear! Dear!"
At last she let him lift his head, and he looked into her eyes, that seemed to concentrate in a dancing, golden point of vision in which he felt himself perish.
"Dear!" she murmured. "You love me, don't you?"
"Yes," he said mechanically.
The golden point of vision seemed to leap to him from her eyes, demanding something. He sat slackly, as if spellbound. Her hand pushed him a little.
"Mustn't you go?" she said.
He rose. She watched him fastening the belt round his body, that seemed soft under the fine clothes. He pulled on his great-coat, and put on his peaked cap. He was again a young officer.
But he had forgotten his watch. It lay
on the table near the bed. She watched him slinging it on his chain. He looked down at her. How beautiful she was, with her luminous face and her fine, stray hair! But he felt far away.
"Anything I can do for you?" he asked.
"No, thank you — I'll sleep," she replied, smiling. And the strange golden spark danced on her eyes again, again he felt as if his heart were gone, destroyed out of him. There was a fine pathos too in her vivid, dangerous face.
He kissed her for the last time, saying:
"I'll blow the candles out, then?"
"Yes, my love — and I'll sleep."
"Yes — sleep as long as you like."
The golden spark of her eyes seemed to dance on him like a destruction, she was beautiful, and pathetic. He touched her tenderly with his finger-tips, then suddenly blew out the candles, and walked across in the faint moonlight to the door.
He was gone. She heard his boots click on the stone stairs — she heard the far below tread of his feet on the pavement. Then he was gone. She lay quite still, in a swoon of deathly peace. She never wanted to move any more. It was finished. She lay quite still, utterly, utterly abandoned.
But again she was disturbed. There was a little tap at the door, then Teresa's voice saying, with a shuddering sound because of the cold:
"Ugh! — I'm coming to you, Marta my dear. I can't stand being left alone."
"I'll make a light," said Marta, sitting up and reaching for the candle. "Lock the door, will you, Resie, and then nobody can bother us."
She saw Teresa, loosely wrapped in her cloak, two thick ropes of hair hanging untidily. Teresa looked voluptuously sleepy and easy, like a cat running home to the warmth.
"Ugh!" she said, "it's cold!"
And she ran to the stove. Marta heard the chink of the little shovel, a stirring of coals, then a clink of the iron door. Then Teresa came running to the bed, with a shuddering little run, she puffed out the light and slid in beside her friend.
"So cold!" she said, with a delicious shudder at the warmth. Marta made place for her, and they settled down.
"Aren't you glad you're not them?" said Resie, with a little shudder at the thought. "Ugh! — poor devils!"
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 622