'And part of me wants something else,' said Gerald, in a queer, quiet,
real voice.
'What?' said Birkin, rather surprised.
'That's what I hoped you could tell me,' said Gerald.
There was a silence for some time.
'I can't tell you--I can't find my own way, let alone yours. You might
marry,' Birkin replied.
'Who--the Pussum?' asked Gerald.
'Perhaps,' said Birkin. And he rose and went to the window.
'That is your panacea,' said Gerald. 'But you haven't even tried it on
yourself yet, and you are sick enough.'
'I am,' said Birkin. 'Still, I shall come right.'
'Through marriage?'
'Yes,' Birkin answered obstinately.
'And no,' added Gerald. 'No, no, no, my boy.'
There was a silence between them, and a strange tension of hostility.
They always kept a gap, a distance between them, they wanted always to
be free each of the other. Yet there was a curious heart-straining
towards each other.
'Salvator femininus,' said Gerald, satirically.
'Why not?' said Birkin.
'No reason at all,' said Gerald, 'if it really works. But whom will you
marry?'
'A woman,' said Birkin.
'Good,' said Gerald.
Birkin and Gerald were the last to come down to breakfast. Hermione
liked everybody to be early. She suffered when she felt her day was
diminished, she felt she had missed her life. She seemed to grip the
hours by the throat, to force her life from them. She was rather pale
and ghastly, as if left behind, in the morning. Yet she had her power,
her will was strangely pervasive. With the entrance of the two young
men a sudden tension was felt.
She lifted her face, and said, in her amused sing-song:
'Good morning! Did you sleep well? I'm so glad.'
And she turned away, ignoring them. Birkin, who knew her well, saw that
she intended to discount his existence.
'Will you take what you want from the sideboard?' said Alexander, in a
voice slightly suggesting disapprobation. 'I hope the things aren't
cold. Oh no! Do you mind putting out the flame under the chafingdish,
Rupert? Thank you.'
Even Alexander was rather authoritative where Hermione was cool. He
took his tone from her, inevitably. Birkin sat down and looked at the
table. He was so used to this house, to this room, to this atmosphere,
through years of intimacy, and now he felt in complete opposition to it
all, it had nothing to do with him. How well he knew Hermione, as she
sat there, erect and silent and somewhat bemused, and yet so potent, so
powerful! He knew her statically, so finally, that it was almost like a
madness. It was difficult to believe one was not mad, that one was not
<<BackPagesTo menuForward>>