David Herbert Lawrence

suffering from fascination. 'Can't you feel in some way, a thick, hot

attraction in it? I can. And it quite stupifies me.'

They were passing between blocks of miners' dwellings. In the back

yards of several dwellings, a miner could be seen washing himself in

the open on this hot evening, naked down to the loins, his great

trousers of moleskin slipping almost away. Miners already cleaned were

sitting on their heels, with their backs near the walls, talking and

silent in pure physical well-being, tired, and taking physical rest.

Their voices sounded out with strong intonation, and the broad dialect

was curiously caressing to the blood. It seemed to envelop Gudrun in a

labourer's caress, there was in the whole atmosphere a resonance of

physical men, a glamorous thickness of labour and maleness, surcharged

in the air. But it was universal in the district, and therefore

unnoticed by the inhabitants.

To Gudrun, however, it was potent and half-repulsive. She could never

tell why Beldover was so utterly different from London and the south,

why one's whole feelings were different, why one seemed to live in

another sphere. Now she realised that this was the world of powerful,

underworld men who spent most of their time in the darkness. In their

voices she could hear the voluptuous resonance of darkness, the strong,

dangerous underworld, mindless, inhuman. They sounded also like strange

machines, heavy, oiled. The voluptuousness was like that of machinery,

cold and iron.

It was the same every evening when she came home, she seemed to move

through a wave of disruptive force, that was given off from the

presence of thousands of vigorous, underworld, half-automatised

colliers, and which went to the brain and the heart, awaking a fatal

desire, and a fatal callousness.

There came over her a nostalgia for the place. She hated it, she knew

how utterly cut off it was, how hideous and how sickeningly mindless.

Sometimes she beat her wings like a new Daphne, turning not into a tree

but a machine. And yet, she was overcome by the nostalgia. She

struggled to get more and more into accord with the atmosphere of the

place, she craved to get her satisfaction of it.

She felt herself drawn out at evening into the main street of the town,

that was uncreated and ugly, and yet surcharged with this same potent

atmosphere of intense, dark callousness. There were always miners

about. They moved with their strange, distorted dignity, a certain

beauty, and unnatural stillness in their bearing, a look of abstraction

and half resignation in their pale, often gaunt faces. They belonged to

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