Chapter 15 Sunday Evening

AS THE DAY wore on, the life-blood seemed to ebb away from Ursula, and within the emptiness a heavy despair gathered. Her passion seemed to bleed to death, and there was nothing. She sat suspended in a state of complete nullity, harder to bear than death.

`Unless something happens,' she said to herself, in the perfect lucidity of final suffering, `I shall die. I am at the end of my line of life.'

She sat crushed and obliterated in a darkness that was the border of death. She realised how all her life she had been drawing nearer and nearer to this brink, where there was no beyond, from which one had to leap like Sappho into the unknown. The knowledge of the imminence of death was like a drug. Darkly, without thinking at all, she knew that she was near to death. She had travelled all her life along the line of fulfilment, and it was nearly concluded. She knew all she had to know, she had experienced all she had to experience, she was fulfilled in a kind of bitter ripeness, there remained only to fall from the tree into death. And one must fulfil one's development to the end, must carry the adventure to its conclusion. And the next step was over the border into death. So it was then! There was a certain peace in the knowledge.

After all, when one was fulfilled, one was happiest in falling into death, as a bitter fruit plunges in its ripeness downwards. Death is a great consummation, a consummating experience. It is a development from life. That we know, while we are yet living. What then need we think for further? One can never see beyond the consummation. It is enough that death is a great and conclusive experience. Why should we ask what comes after the experience, when the experience is still unknown to us? Let us die, since the great experience is the one that follows now upon all the rest, death, which is the next great crisis in front of which we have arrived. If we wait, if we baulk the issue, we do but hang about the gates in undignified uneasiness. There it is, in front of us, as in front of Sappho, the illimitable space. Thereinto goes the journey. Have we not the courage to go on with our journey, must we cry `I daren't'? On ahead we will go, into death, and whatever death may mean. If a man can see the next step to be taken, why should he fear the next but one? Why ask about the next but one? Of the next step we are certain. It is the step into death.

`I shall die -- I shall quickly die,' said Ursula to herself, clear as if in a trance, clear, calm, and certain beyond human certainty. But somewhere behind, in the twilight, there was a bitter weeping and a hopelessness. That must not be attended to. One must go where the unfaltering spirit goes, there must be no baulking the issue, because of fear. No baulking the issue, no listening to the lesser voices. If the deepest desire be now, to go on into the unknown of death, shall one forfeit the deepest truth for one more shallow?

`Then let it end,' she said to herself. It was a decision. It was not a question of taking one's life -- she would never kill herself, that was repulsive and violent. It was a question of knowing the next step. And the next step led into the space of death. Did it? -- or was there --?

Her thoughts drifted into unconsciousness, she sat as if asleep beside the fire. And then the thought came back. The space o' death! Could she give herself to it? Ah yes -- it was a sleep. She had had enough So long she had held out; and resisted. Now was the time to relinquish, not to resist any more.

In a kind of spiritual trance, she yielded, she gave way, and all was dark. She could feel, within the darkness, the terrible assertion of her body, the unutterable anguish of dissolution, the only anguish that is too much, the far-off, awful nausea of dissolution set in within the body.

`Does the body correspond so immediately with the spirit?' she asked herself. And she knew, with the clarity of ultimate knowledge, that the body is only one of the manifestations of the spirit, the transmutation of the integral spirit is the transmutation of the physical body as well. Unless I set my will, unless I absolve myself from the rhythm of life, fix myself and remain static, cut off from living, absolved within my own will. But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions. To die is to move on with the invisible. To die is also a joy, a joy of submitting to that which is greater than the known, namely, the pure unknown. That is a joy. But to live mechanised and cut off within the motion of the will, to live as an entity absolved from the unknown, that is shameful and ignominious. There is no ignominy in death. There is complete ignominy in an unreplenished, mechanised life. Life indeed may be ignominious, shameful to the soul. But death is never a shame. Death itself, like the illimitable space, is beyond our sullying.

Tomorrow was Monday. Monday, the beginning of another school-week! Another shameful, barren school-week, mere routine and mechanical activity. Was not the adventure of death infinitely preferable? Was not death infinitely more lovely and noble than such a life? A life of barren routine, without inner meaning, without any real significance. How sordid life was, how it was a terrible shame to the soul, to live now! How much cleaner and more dignified to be dead! One could not bear any more of this shame of sordid routine and mechanical nullity. One might come to fruit in death. She had had enough. For where was life to be found? No flowers grow upon busy machinery, there is no sky to a routine, there is no space to a rotary motion. And all life was a rotary motion, mechanised, cut off from reality. There was nothing to look for from life -- it was the same in all countries and all peoples. The only window was death. One could look out on to the great dark sky of death with elation, as one had looked out of the classroom window as a child, and seen perfect freedom in the outside. Now one was not a child, and one knew that the soul was a prisoner within this sordid vast edifice of life, and there was no escape, save in death.

But what a joy! What a gladness to think that whatever humanity did, it could not seize hold of the kingdom of death, to nullify that. The sea they turned into a murderous alley and a soiled road of commerce, disputed like the dirty land of a city every inch of it. The air they claimed too, shared it up, parcelled it out to certain owners, they trespassed in the air to fight for it. Everything was gone, walled in, with spikes on top of the walls, and one must ignominiously creep between the spiky walls through a labyrinth of life.

But the great, dark, illimitable kingdom of death, there humanity was put to scorn. So much they could do upon earth, the multifarious little gods that they were. But the kingdom of death put them all to scorn, they dwindled into their true vulgar silliness in face of it.

How beautiful, how grand and perfect death was, how good to look forward to. There one would wash off all the lies and ignominy and dirt that had been put upon one here, a perfect bath of cleanness and glad refreshment, and go unknown, unquestioned, unabased. After all, one was rich, if only in the promise of perfect death. It was a gladness above all, that this remained to look forward to, the pure inhuman otherness of death.

Whatever life might be, it could not take away death, the inhuman transcendent death. Oh, let us ask no question of it, what it is or is not. To know is human, and in death we do not know, we are not human. And the joy of this compensates for all the bitterness of knowledge and the sordidness of our humanity. In death we shall not be human, and we shall not know. The promise of this is our heritage, we look forward like heirs to their majority.

Ursula sat quite still and quite forgotten, alone by the fire in the drawingroom. The children were playing in the kitchen, all the others were gone to church. And she was gone into the ultimate darkness of her own soul.

She was startled by hearing the bell ring, away in the kitchen, the children came scudding along the passage in delicious alarm.

`Ursula, there's somebody.'

`I know. Don't be silly,' she replied. She too was startled, almost frightened. She dared hardly go to the door.

Birkin stood on the threshold, his rain-coat turned up to his ears. He had come now, now she was gone far away. She was aware of the rainy night behind him.

`Oh is it you?' she said.

`I am glad you are at home,' he said in a low voice, entering the house.

`They are all gone to church.'

He took off his coat and hung it up. The children were peeping at him round the corner.

`Go and get undressed now, Billy and Dora,' said Ursula. `Mother will be back soon, and she'll be disappointed if you're not in bed.'

The children, in a sudden angelic mood, retired without a word. Birkin and Ursula went into the drawing-room.

The fire burned low. He looked at her and wondered at the luminous delicacy of her beauty, and the wide shining of her eyes. He watched from a distance, with wonder in his heart, she seemed transfigured with light.

`What have you been doing all day?' he asked her.

`Only sitting about,' she said.

He looked at her. There was a change in her. But she was separate from him. She remained apart, in a kind of brightness. They both sat silent in the soft light of the lamp. He felt he ought to go away again, he ought not to have come. Still he did not gather enough resolution to move. But he was de trop, her mood was absent and separate.

Then there came the voices of the two children calling shyly outside the door, softly, with self-excited timidity:

`Ursula! Ursula!'

She rose and opened the door. On the threshold stood the two children in their long nightgowns, with wide-eyed, angelic faces. They were being very good for the moment, playing the role perfectly of two obedient children.

`Shall you take us to bed!' said Billy, in a loud whisper.

`Why you are angels tonight,' she said softly. `Won't you come and say good-night to Mr Birkin?'

The children merged shyly into the room, on bare feet. Billy's face was wide and grinning, but there was a great solemnity of being good in his round blue eyes. Dora, peeping from the floss of her fair hair, hung back like some tiny Dryad, that has no soul.

`Will you say good-night to me?' asked Birkin, in a voice that was strangely soft and smooth. Dora drifted away at once, like a leaf lifted on a breath of wind. But Billy went softly forward, slow and willing, lifting his pinched-up mouth implicitly to be kissed. Ursula watched the full, gathered lips of the man gently touch those of the boy, so gently. Then Birkin lifted his fingers and touched the boy's round, confiding cheek, with a faint touch of love. Neither spoke. Billy seemed angelic like a cherub boy, or like an acolyte, Birkin was a tall, grave angel looking down to him.

`Are you going to be kissed?' Ursula broke in, speaking to the little girl. But Dora edged away like a tiny Dryad that will not be touched.

`Won't you say good-night to Mr Birkin? Go, he's waiting for you,' said Ursula. But the girl-child only made a little motion away from him.

`Silly Dora, silly Dora!' said Ursula.

Birkin felt some mistrust and antagonism in the small child. He could not understand it.

`Come then,' said Ursula. `Let us go before mother comes.'

`Who'll hear us say our prayers?' asked Billy anxiously.

`Whom you like.'

`Won't you?'

`Yes, I will.'

`Ursula?'

`Well Billy?'

`Is it whom you like?'

`That's it.'

`Well what is whom?'

`It's the accusative of who.'

There was a moment's contemplative silence, then the confiding:

`Is it?'

Birkin smiled to himself as he sat by the fire. When Ursula came down he sat motionless, with his arms on his knees. She saw him, how he was motionless and ageless, like some crouching idol, some image of a deathly religion. He looked round at her, and his face, very pale and unreal, seemed to gleam with a whiteness almost phosphorescent.

`Don't you feel well?' she asked, in indefinable repulsion.

`I hadn't thought about it.'

`But don't you know without thinking about it?'

He looked at her, his eyes dark and swift, and he saw her revulsion. He did not answer her question.

`Don't you know whether you are unwell or not, without thinking about it?' she persisted.

`Not always,' he said coldly.

`But don't you think that's very wicked?'

`Wicked?'

`Yes. I think it's criminal to have so little connection with your own body that you don't even know when you are ill.'

He looked at her darkly.

`Yes,' he said.

`Why don't you stay in bed when you are seedy? You look perfectly ghastly.'

`Offensively so?' he asked ironically.

`Yes, quite offensive. Quite repelling.'

`Ah!! Well that's unfortunate.'

`And it's raining, and it's a horrible night. Really, you shouldn't be forgiven for treating your body like it -- you ought to suffer, a man who takes as little notice of his body as that.'

`-- takes as little notice of his body as that,' he echoed mechanically.

This cut her short, and there was silence.

The others came in from church, and the two had the girls to face, then the mother and Gudrun, and then the father and the boy.

`Good-evening,' said Brangwen, faintly surprised. `Came to see me, did you?'

`No,' said Birkin, `not about anything, in particular, that is. The day was dismal, and I thought you wouldn't mind if I called in.'

`It has been a depressing day,' said Mrs Brangwen sympathetically. At that moment the voices of the children were heard calling from upstairs: `Mother! Mother!' She lifted her face and answered mildly into the distance: `I shall come up to you in a minute, Doysie.' Then to Birkin: `There is nothing fresh at Shortlands, I suppose? Ah,' she sighed, `no, poor things, I should think not.'

`You've been over there today, I suppose?' asked the father.

`Gerald came round to tea with me, and I walked back with him. The house is overexcited and unwholesome, I thought.'

`I should think they were people who hadn't much restraint,' said Gudrun.

`Or too much,' Birkin answered.

`Oh yes, I'm sure,' said Gudrun, almost vindictively, `one or the other.'

`They all feel they ought to behave in some unnatural fashion,' said Birkin. `When people are in grief, they would do better to cover their faces and keep in retirement, as in the old days.'

`Certainly!' cried Gudrun, flushed and inflammable. `What can be worse than this public grief -- what is more horrible, more false! If grief is not private, and hidden, what is?'

`Exactly,' he said. `I felt ashamed when I was there and they were all going about in a lugubrious false way, feeling they must not be natural or ordinary.'

`Well --' said Mrs Brangwen, offended at this criticism, `it isn't so easy to bear a trouble like that.'

And she went upstairs to the children.

He remained only a few minutes longer, then took his leave. When he was gone Ursula felt such a poignant hatred of him, that all her brain seemed turned into a sharp crystal of fine hatred. Her whole nature seemed sharpened and intensified into a pure dart of hate. She could not imagine what it was. It merely took hold of her, the most poignant and ultimate hatred, pure and clear and beyond thought. She could not think of it at all, she was translated beyond herself. It was like a possession. She felt she was possessed. And for several days she went about possessed by this exquisite force of hatred against him. It surpassed anything she had ever known before, it seemed to throw her out of the world into some terrible region where nothing of her old life held good. She was quite lost and dazed, really dead to her own life.

It was so completely incomprehensible and irrational. She did not know why she hated him, her hate was quite abstract. She had only realised with a shock that stunned her, that she was overcome by this pure transportation. He was the enemy, fine as a diamond, and as hard and jewel-like, the quintessence of all that was inimical.

She thought of his face, white and purely wrought, and of his eyes that had such a dark, constant will of assertion, and she touched her own forehead, to feel if she were mad, she was so transfigured in white flame of essential hate.

It was not temporal, her hatred, she did not hate him for this or for that; she did not want to do anything to him, to have any connection with him. Her relation was ultimate and utterly beyond words, the hate was so pure and gemlike. It was as if he were a beam of essential enmity, a beam of light that did not only destroy her, but denied her altogether, revoked her whole world. She saw him as a clear stroke of uttermost contradiction, a strange gem-like being whose existence defined her own non-existence. When she heard he was ill again, her hatred only intensified itself a few degrees, if that were possible. It stunned her and annihilated her, but she could not escape it. She could not escape this transfiguration of hatred that had come upon her.

 

随着时光流逝，厄秀拉变得不那么有生气了，她心胸空虚，感到极端失望。她的激情之血流干了。她陷入了上不着天下不着地的虚无中，对此，她宁可死也不要忍受。

“如果没什么事的话，”她怀着结束痛苦的想法自言自语道，“我将去死，我的生命快完了。”

她置于一片黑暗之中，她已经心厌意懒，不为人注目，这黑暗濒临着死亡。她意识到自己一生都在向着这个死亡的边界靠近，这里没有彼岸，从这里，你只能象萨福①一样跃入未知世界。对即将降临的死亡的感知就象一帖麻醉药一样。冥冥中，不假什么思索，她就知道她接近死亡了。她一生中一直在沿着自我完善的路旅行，现在这旅程该完结了。她懂得了她该懂得的一切，经过了该经过的一切，在痛苦中成熟了，完善了，现在剩下的事就是从树上落下来，进入死亡的境界。一个人至死非练达，非要冒险到底不可。而下一步就是超越生的界线，进入死的领域。就是这么回事！在领悟了这一切后，人也就平静了。

①古希腊著名女诗人。

归根结底，一个人一旦得到了完善，最幸福的事就是象一颗苦果那样熟透了落下来，落入死亡的领域。死是极完美的事，是对完美的体验。它是生的发展。我们还活着的时候就懂得了这一点。那我们还需要进一步思考什么呢？一个人总也无法超越这种完美。死是一种了不起的，最终的体验，这就够了。我们何必还要问这种体验之后会是什么呢，这种体验对我们来说是未知的。让我们死吧，既然这种了不起的体验就要到来，那么，我们面临的就是一场大危机。如果我们等待，如果我们回避这个问题，我们不过是毫无风度地在死之门前焦躁地徘徊罢了。可是在我们面前，如同在萨福面前一样，是无垠的空间。我们的旅程就是通向那儿的。难道我们没有勇气继续走下去吗，难道我们要大呼一声“我不敢”吗？我们会继续走下去，走向死亡，不管死亡意味着什么。如果一个人知道下一步是什么，那么他为什么要惧怕这倒数第二步呢？再下一步是什么我们可以肯定，它就是死亡。

“我要死，越快越好。”厄秀拉有点发狂地自语道，那副镇定明白的样子是一般人无可比拟的。可是在暮色的笼罩下，她的心在痛苦地哭泣、感到绝望。不管它吧，一个人必须追随自己百折不挠的精神，不要因为恐惧就回避这个问题。如果说现在人最大的意愿就是走向未知的死亡境地，那么他会因为浅薄的想法而丧失最深刻的真理吗？

“结束吧，”她自言自语道，下定了决心。这不是一个结束自己性命的问题——她断乎不会自杀，那太令人恶心，也太残暴了。这是一个弄懂下一步是什么的问题。而下一步则导致死的空间。“是吗？或许，那儿——？”

她思绪万千，神情恍惚起来，似乎昏昏欲睡地坐在火炉边上。一坐下那想法又在头脑中出现了。死亡的空间！她能把自己奉献给它吗？啊，是呀，它是一种睡眠。她活够了，她一直坚持，抵抗得太久了。现在是退却的时候了，她再也不要抵抗了。

一阵精神恍惚中，她垮了，让步了，只觉得一片黑暗。在黑暗中，她可以感到自己的肉体也可怕地发出了宣言。那是难以言表的死亡的愤怒、极端的愤怒和厌恶。

“难道说肉体竟是如此之快地回应精神吗？”她询问自己。凭借她最大限度的知识，她知道肉体不过是一种精神的表现，完整的精神嬗变同样也是肉体的嬗变，除非我有一成不变的意志，除非我远离生活的旋律、人变得静止不动、与生活隔绝、与意志溶为一体。不过，宁可死也不这样机械地过重复又重复的生活。去死就是与看不见的东西一并前行。去死也是一种快乐，快乐地服从那比已知更伟大的事物，也就是说纯粹的未知世界。那是一种快乐。可是机械地活着，与生活隔绝，只生活在自己的意志中，只作为一个与未知世界隔绝的实体生活才是可耻、可鄙的呢。不充实的呆板的生活是最可鄙的。生活的确可以变得可鄙可耻。可死决不会是可耻的。

死之本身同无限的空间一样是无法被玷污的。

明天就是星期一了，是另一个教学周的开始！又一个可耻、空洞无物的教学周，例行公事、呆板的活动又要开始了。难道冒险去死不是很值得称道吗？难道死不是比这种生更可爱、更高尚吗？这种生只是空洞的日常公事，没有任何内在的意义，没有任何真正的意义。生活是多么肮脏，现在活着对灵魂来说这是多么可怕的耻辱啊！死是多么洁净，多么庄严啊！这种肮脏的日常公事和呆板的虚无给人带来的耻辱再也让人无法忍受了。或许死可以使人变得完美。她反正是活够了。哪儿才能寻到生活呢？繁忙的机器上是不会开出花朵来的，对于日常公事来说是没有什么天地的，对于这种旋转的运动来说是没有什么空间可言的。所有的生活都是一种旋转的机械运动，与现实没有关系。无法指望从生活中获得点什么——对所有的国家和所有的人来说都是如此。唯一的出路就是死。人尽可以怀着深情仰望死亡的无垠黑夜，就象一个孩子朝教室外面观看一样，看到的是自由。既然现在不是孩子了，就会懂得灵魂是肮脏的生活大厦中的囚徒，除了死，别无出路。

可这是怎样的欢乐了啊！想想，不管人类做什么，它都无法把握死亡的王国，无法取消这个王国，想想这个道理该是多么令人高兴啊！人类把大海变成了屠杀人的峡谷和肮脏的商业之路，为此他们象争夺每一寸肮脏城市的土地一样争吵不休。连空气他们都声称要占有，将之分割，包装起来为某些人所有，为此他们侵犯领空、相互争夺。一切都失去了，被高墙围住，墙头上还布满了尖铁，人非得可鄙地在这些插了尖铁的墙中爬行，在这迷宫似的生活中过活。

人类却偏偏蔑视那无边无际的黑暗的死亡王国。他们在尘世中有许多事要做，他们是一些五花八门的小神仙。可死亡的王国却最终让人类遭到蔑视，在死亡面前，人们都变得庸俗愚蠢。

死是那么美丽、崇高而完美啊，渴望死是多么美好啊。在那儿一个人可以洗涮掉曾沾染上的谎言，耻辱和污垢，死是一场完美的沐浴和清凉剂，使人变得不可知、毫无争议、毫不谦卑。归根结底，人只有获得了完美的死的诺言后才变得富有。这是高于一切的欢乐，令人神往，这纯粹超人的死，是另一个自我。

不管生活是什么样子，它也无法消除死亡，它是人间超验的死亡。哦，我们别问它是什么或不是什么这样的问题吧。了解欲是人的天性，可在死亡中我们什么都不了解，我们不是人了。死的快乐补偿了智识的痛苦和人类的肮脏。在死亡中我们将不再是人，我们不再了解什么。死亡的许诺是我们的传统，我们象继承人一样渴望着死的许诺。

厄秀拉坐在客厅里的火炉旁，娴静、孤独、失神落魄。孩子们在厨房里玩耍，别人都去教堂了，而她则离开了这里进入了自己灵魂的最黑暗处。

门铃响了，她吃了一惊，隔着很远，孩子们疾跑着过来叫道：

“厄秀拉，有人找。”

“我知道了，别犯傻。”她说。她感到吃惊，几乎感到害怕。她几乎不敢去门口。

伯金站在门口，雨衣的领子翻到耳际。在她远离现实的时候，他来了。她发现他的身后是雨夜。

“啊，是你吗？”她说。

“你在家，我很高兴。”他声音低沉地说着走进屋里。

“他们都上教堂去了。”

他脱下雨衣挂了起来。孩子们在角落里偷偷看他。“去，脱衣服睡觉去，比利，朵拉，”厄秀拉说，“妈妈就要回来了，如果你们不上床她会失望的。”

孩子们立刻象天使一样一言不发地退了下去。伯金和厄秀拉进到客厅里。火势减弱了。他看着她，不禁为她丰采照人的娇美所惊叹，她的眼睛又大又明亮。他看着她，心里直叹服，她似乎在灯光下变了个样儿似的。

“你这一天里都做些什么？”他问她。

“就这么干坐着无所事事。”她说。

他看看她，发现她变了。她同他不是一条心了，她自己独自一人显得很有丰采。他们两人坐在柔和的灯光里。他感到他应该离去，他不该来这儿。可他又没勇气一走了之。他知道他在这儿是多余的人，她心不在焉，若即若离。

这时屋里两个孩子羞涩地叫起来，那声音很柔、很细微。

“厄秀拉！厄秀拉！”

她站起来打开了门，发现两个孩子正身穿睡衣站在门口，大睁着眼睛，一副天使般的表情。这时他们表现很好，完全象两个听话的孩子。

“你陪我们上床好吗？”比利大声嘟哝道。

“为什么呢？你今天可是个天使啊。”她温柔地说，“来，向伯金先生道晚安好吗？”

两个孩子光着脚腼腆地挪进屋里来。比利宽大的脸上带着笑容，可他圆圆的眼睛显得他很严肃，是个好孩子。朵拉的眼睛在刘海后面偷看他，象没有灵魂的森林女神那样向后躲闪着。

“跟我道晚安再见好吗？”伯金的声音奇怪得温柔和蔼。朵拉听到他的话立即象风吹下的一片树叶一样飘走了。可比利却慢慢地悄然走过来，紧闭着的小嘴凑了上来很明显是要人吻。厄秀拉看着这个男人的嘴唇异常温柔地吻了小男孩儿的嘴巴。然后，伯金抬起手抚爱地摸着孩子圆圆的、露着信任表情的小脸儿。谁都没有说话。比利看上去很象个天真无邪的天使，又象个小待僧。伯金则象个高大庄重的天使那样俯视着孩子。

“你想让人吻吗？”厄秀拉冲口对女孩儿说。可朵拉象那小小的森林女神一样躲开了，她不让人碰。

“向伯金先生道晚安再见好吗？去吧，他在等你呢。”厄秀拉说，可那女孩儿只是一个劲儿躲他。

“傻瓜朵拉！傻瓜朵拉！”厄秀拉说。

伯金看得出这孩子有点不信任他，跟他不对眼。他弄不明白这是怎么回事。

“来吧，”厄秀拉说，“趁妈妈还没回来咱们上床去吧。”

“那谁来听我们的祈祷呢？”比利不安地问。

“你喜欢让谁听？”

“你愿意吗？”

“好，我愿意。”

“厄秀拉？”

“什么，比利？”

“‘谁’这个字怎么念成了Whom？”

“是的。”

“那，‘Whom’是什么？”

“它是‘谁’这个词的宾格。”

孩子沉默了一会儿，思忖一下后表示信任地说：

“是吗？”

伯金坐在火炉边笑了。当厄秀拉下楼来时，他正稳稳地坐着，胳膊放在膝盖上。她觉得他真象个纹丝不动的天使，象某个蜷缩着的偶像，象某种消亡了的宗教象征。他打量着她时，苍白如同幻影的脸上似乎闪烁着磷光。

“你不舒服吗？”她问，心中有种说不出的不快。

“我没想过。”

“难道你不想就不知道吗？”

他看看她，目光很黑、很迅速，他发现了她的不快。他没回答她的问题。

“你如果不想的话难道就不知道自己身体健康与否吗？”

她坚持问。

“并不总是这样。”他冷漠地说。

“可你不觉得这样太恶毒了点儿吗？”

“恶毒？”

“是的。我觉得当你病了你都不知道，对自己的身体这样漠不关心就是在犯罪。”

他的脸色变得很沉郁。

“你说得对。”他说。

“你病了为什么不卧床休息？你脸色很不好。”

“让人厌恶吗？”他嘲弄地说。

“是的，很让人讨厌，很讨人嫌。”

“啊，这可真太不幸了。”

“下雨了，这个夜晚很可怕。真的，你真不该这样糟践自己的身体——一个如此对待自己身体的人是注定要吃苦头的。”

“如此对待自己的身体，”他呆板地重复着。

她不说话，沉默了。

别人都从教堂做完礼拜回来了，先是姑娘们，而后是母亲和戈珍，最后是父亲和一个男孩儿。

“晚上好啊，”布朗温有点吃惊地说，“是来看我吗？”

“不，”伯金说，“我不是为什么专门的事来的。今天天气不好，我来您不会见怪吧？”

“这天儿是挺让人发闷的，”布朗温太太同情地说。这时只听得楼上的孩子们在叫：“妈妈！妈妈！”她抬起头向远处温和地说：“我这就上去。”然后她对伯金说：“肖特兰兹那儿没什么新鲜玩意儿？唉，”她叹口气道，“没有，真可怜，我想是没有。”

“你今儿个去那儿了？”父亲问。

“杰拉德到我那儿去吃茶，吃完茶我陪他步行回肖特兰兹的。他们家的人过分哀伤，情绪不健康。”

“我觉得他们家的人都缺少节制。”戈珍说。

“太没节制了。”伯金说。

“对，肯定是这么回事。”戈珍有点报复性地说，“有那么一两个人这样。”

“他们都觉得他们应该表现得有点出格儿，”伯金说，“说个悲痛，他们就该象古代人那样捂起脸来退避三舍。”

“是这样的！”戈珍红着脸叫道，“没比这种当众表示悲哀更坏、更可怕，更虚假的了！悲哀是个人的事，要躲起来自顾悲伤才是，他们这算什么？”

“就是，”伯金说。“我在那儿看到他们一个个儿假惺惺悲哀的样子我都替他们害羞，他们非要那么不自然，跟别人不一样不行。”

“可是——”布朗温太太对这种批评表示异意说，“忍受那样的苦恼可不容易。”

说完她上楼去看孩子。

伯金又坐了几分钟就告辞了。他一走，厄秀拉觉得自己恨透他了，她整个身心都恨他，都因为恨他而变得锋芒毕露，紧张起来。她无法想象这是怎么一回事。只是这种深刻的仇恨完全攫住了她，纯粹的仇恨，超越任何思想的仇恨。她无法思考这是怎么回事，她已经无法自持了。她感到自己被控制住了。一连几天，她都被这股仇恨力量控制着，它超过了她已知的任何东西，它似乎要把她抛出尘世，抛入某个可怕的地方，在那儿她以前的自我不再起作用。她感到非常迷惘、惊恐，生活中的她确实死了。

这太不可理解，也太没有理性了。她不知道她为什么恨他，她的恨说不清道不明。她惊恐地意识到她被这纯粹的仇恨所战胜。他是敌人，象钻石一样宝贵，象珠宝一样坚硬，是所有敌意的精华。

她想着他的脸，白净而纯洁，他的黑眼睛里透着坚强的意志。想到这儿，她摸摸自己的前额，试试自己是否疯了，她怒火中烧，人都变样了。

她的仇恨并非暂时，她并不是因为什么这事那事才恨他的；她不想对他采取什么行动，不想跟他有什么瓜葛。她跟他的关系完结了，非语言所能说得清，那仇恨太纯洁、象宝玉一样。似乎他是一道敌对之光，这道光芒不仅毁灭她，还整个儿地否定了她，取消了她的世界。她把他看作是一个极端矛盾着的人，一个宝玉一样的怪人，他的存在宣判了她的死亡。当她听说他又生病了时，她的仇恨立时又增添了几分。这仇恨令她惊恐，也毁了她，但她无法摆脱它，无法摆脱变形的仇恨攫住自己。