Chapter 21 Threshold

GUDRUN WAS AWAY in London, having a little show of her work, with a friend, and looking round, preparing for flight from Beldover. Come what might she would be on the wing in a very short time. She received a letter from Winifred Crich, ornamented with drawings.

`Father also has been to London, to be examined by the doctors. It made him very tired. They say he must rest a very great deal, so he is mostly in bed. He brought me a lovely tropical parrot in faience, of Dresden ware, also a man ploughing, and two mice climbing up a stalk, also in faience. The mice were Copenhagen ware. They are the best, but mice don't shine so much, otherwise they are very good, their tails are slim and long. They all shine nearly like glass. Of course it is the glaze, but I don't like it. Gerald likes the man ploughing the best, his trousers are torn, he is ploughing with an ox, being I suppose a German peasant. It is all grey and white, white shirt and grey trousers, but very shiny and clean. Mr Birkin likes the girl best, under the hawthorn blossom, with a lamb, and with daffodils painted on her skirts, in the drawing room. But that is silly, because the lamb is not a real lamb, and she is silly too.

`Dear Miss Brangwen, are you coming back soon, you are very much missed here. I enclose a drawing of father sitting up in bed. He says he hopes you are not going to forsake us. Oh dear Miss Brangwen, I am sure you won't. Do come back and draw the ferrets, they are the most lovely noble darlings in the world. We might carve them in holly-wood, playing against a background of green leaves. Oh do let us, for they are most beautiful.

`Father says we might have a studio. Gerald says we could easily have a beautiful one over the stables, it would only need windows to be put in the slant of the roof, which is a simple matter. Then you could stay here all day and work, and we could live in the studio, like two real artists, like the man in the picture in the hall, with the frying-pan and the walls all covered with drawings. I long to be free, to live the free life of an artist. Even Gerald told father that only an artist is free, because he lives in a creative world of his own --'

Gudrun caught the drift of the family intentions, in this letter. Gerald wanted her to be attached to the household at Shortlands, he was using Winifred as his stalking-horse. The father thought only of his child, he saw a rock of salvation in Gudrun. And Gudrun admired him for his perspicacity. The child, moreover, was really exceptional. Gudrun was quite content. She was quite willing, given a studio, to spend her days at Shortlands. She disliked the Grammar School already thoroughly, she wanted to be free. If a studio were provided, she would be free to go on with her work, she would await the turn of events with complete serenity. And she was really interested in Winifred, she would be quite glad to understand the girl.

So there was quite a little festivity on Winifred's account, the day Gudrun returned to Shortlands.

`You should make a bunch of flowers to give to Miss Brangwen when she arrives,' Gerald said smiling to his sister.

`Oh no,' cried Winifred, `it's silly.'

`Not at all. It is a very charming and ordinary attention.'

`Oh, it is silly,' protested Winifred, with all the extreme mauvaise honte of her years. Nevertheless, the idea appealed to her. She wanted very much to carry it out. She flitted round the green-houses and the conservatory looking wistfully at the flowers on their stems. And the more she looked, the more she longed to have a bunch of the blossoms she saw, the more fascinated she became with her little vision of ceremony, and the more consumedly shy and self-conscious she grew, till she was almost beside herself. She could not get the idea out of her mind. It was as if some haunting challenge prompted her, and she had not enough courage to take it up. So again she drifted into the green-houses, looking at the lovely roses in their pots, and at the virginal cyclamens, and at the mystic white clusters of a creeper. The beauty, oh the beauty of them, and oh the paradisal bliss, if she should have a perfect bouquet and could give it to Gudrun the next day. Her passion and her complete indecision almost made her ill.

At last she slid to her father's side.

`Daddie --' she said.

`What, my precious?'

But she hung back, the tears almost coming to her eyes, in her sensitive confusion. Her father looked at her, and his heart ran hot with tenderness, an anguish of poignant love.

`What do you want to say to me, my love?'

`Daddie -- !' her eyes smiled laconically -- `isn't it silly if I give Miss Brangwen some flowers when she comes?'

The sick man looked at the bright, knowing eyes of his child, and his heart burned with love.

`No, darling, that's not silly. It's what they do to queens.'

This was not very reassuring to Winifred. She half suspected that queens in themselves were a silliness. Yet she so wanted her little romantic occasion.

`Shall I then?' she asked.

`Give Miss Brangwen some flowers? Do, Birdie. Tell Wilson I say you are to have what you want.'

The child smiled a small, subtle, unconscious smile to herself, in anticipation of her way.

`But I won't get them till tomorrow,' she said.

`Not till tomorrow, Birdie. Give me a kiss then --'

Winifred silently kissed the sick man, and drifted out of the room. She again went the round of the green-houses and the conservatory, informing the gardener, in her high, peremptory, simple fashion, of what she wanted, telling him all the blooms she had selected.

`What do you want these for?' Wilson asked.

`I want them,' she said. She wished servants did not ask questions.

`Ay, you've said as much. But what do you want them for, for decoration, or to send away, or what?'

`I want them for a presentation bouquet.'

`A presentation bouquet! Who's coming then? -- the Duchess of Portland?'

`No.'

`Oh, not her? Well you'll have a rare poppy-show if you put all the things you've mentioned into your bouquet.'

`Yes, I want a rare poppy-show.'

`You do! Then there's no more to be said.'

The next day Winifred, in a dress of silvery velvet, and holding a gaudy bunch of flowers in her hand, waited with keen impatience in the schoolroom, looking down the drive for Gudrun's arrival. It was a wet morning. Under her nose was the strange fragrance of hot-house flowers, the bunch was like a little fire to her, she seemed to have a strange new fire in her heart. This slight sense of romance stirred her like an intoxicant.

At last she saw Gudrun coming, and she ran downstairs to warn her father and Gerald. They, laughing at her anxiety and gravity, came with her into the hall. The man-servant came hastening to the door, and there he was, relieving Gudrun of her umbrella, and then of her raincoat. The welcoming party hung back till their visitor entered the hall.

Gudrun was flushed with the rain, her hair was blown in loose little curls, she was like a flower just opened in the rain, the heart of the blossom just newly visible, seeming to emit a warmth of retained sunshine. Gerald winced in spirit, seeing her so beautiful and unknown. She was wearing a soft blue dress, and her stockings were of dark red.

Winifred advanced with odd, stately formality.

`We are so glad you've come back,' she said. `These are your flowers.' She presented the bouquet.

`Mine!' cried Gudrun. She was suspended for a moment, then a vivid flush went over her, she was as if blinded for a moment with a flame of pleasure. Then her eyes, strange and flaming, lifted and looked at the father, and at Gerald. And again Gerald shrank in spirit, as if it would be more than he could bear, as her hot, exposed eyes rested on him. There was something so revealed, she was revealed beyond bearing, to his eyes. He turned his face aside. And he felt he would not be able to avert her. And he writhed under the imprisonment.

Gudrun put her face into the flowers.

`But how beautiful they are!' she said, in a muffled voice. Then, with a strange, suddenly revealed passion, she stooped and kissed Winifred.

Mr Crich went forward with his hand held out to her.

`I was afraid you were going to run away from us,' he said, playfully.

Gudrun looked up at him with a luminous, roguish, unknown face.

`Really!' she replied. `No, I didn't want to stay in London.' Her voice seemed to imply that she was glad to get back to Shortlands, her tone was warm and subtly caressing.

`That is a good thing,' smiled the father. `You see you are very welcome here among us.'

Gudrun only looked into his face with dark-blue, warm, shy eyes. She was unconsciously carried away by her own power.

`And you look as if you came home in every possible triumph,' Mr Crich continued, holding her hand.

`No,' she said, glowing strangely. `I haven't had any triumph till I came here.'

`Ah, come, come! We're not going to hear any of those tales. Haven't we read notices in the newspaper, Gerald?'

`You came off pretty well,' said Gerald to her, shaking hands. `Did you sell anything?'

`No,' she said, `not much.'

`Just as well,' he said.

She wondered what he meant. But she was all aglow with her reception, carried away by this little flattering ceremonial on her behalf.

`Winifred,' said the father, `have you a pair of shoes for Miss Brangwen? You had better change at once --'

Gudrun went out with her bouquet in her hand.

`Quite a remarkable young woman,' said the father to Gerald, when she had gone.

`Yes,' replied Gerald briefly, as if he did not like the observation.

Mr Crich liked Gudrun to sit with him for half an hour. Usually he was ashy and wretched, with all the life gnawed out of him. But as soon as he rallied, he liked to make believe that he was just as before, quite well and in the midst of life -- not of the outer world, but in the midst of a strong essential life. And to this belief, Gudrun contributed perfectly. With her, he could get by stimulation those precious half-hours of strength and exaltation and pure freedom, when he seemed to live more than he had ever lived.

She came to him as he lay propped up in the library. His face was like yellow wax, his eyes darkened, as it were sightless. His black beard, now streaked with grey, seemed to spring out of the waxy flesh of a corpse. Yet the atmosphere about him was energetic and playful. Gudrun subscribed to this, perfectly. To her fancy, he was just an ordinary man. Only his rather terrible appearance was photographed upon her soul, away beneath her consciousness. She knew that, in spite of his playfulness, his eyes could not change from their darkened vacancy, they were the eyes of a man who is dead.

`Ah, this is Miss Brangwen,' he said, suddenly rousing as she entered, announced by the man-servant. `Thomas, put Miss Brangwen a chair here -- that's right.' He looked at her soft, fresh face with pleasure. It gave him the illusion of life. `Now, you will have a glass of sherry and a little piece of cake. Thomas --'

`No thank you,' said Gudrun. And as soon as she had said it, her heart sank horribly. The sick man seemed to fall into a gap of death, at her contradiction. She ought to play up to him, not to contravene him. In an instant she was smiling her rather roguish smile.

`I don't like sherry very much,' she said. `But I like almost anything else.'

The sick man caught at this straw instantly.

`Not sherry! No! Something else! What then? What is there, Thomas?'

`Port wine -- curacao --'

`I would love some curacao --' said Gudrun, looking at the sick man confidingly.

`You would. Well then Thomas, curacao -- and a little cake, or a biscuit?'

`A biscuit,' said Gudrun. She did not want anything, but she was wise.

`Yes.'

He waited till she was settled with her little glass and her biscuit. Then he was satisfied.

`You have heard the plan,' he said with some excitement, `for a studio for Winifred, over the stables?'

`No!' exclaimed Gudrun, in mock wonder.

`Oh! -- I thought Winnie wrote it to you, in her letter!'

`Oh -- yes -- of course. But I thought perhaps it was only her own little idea --' Gudrun smiled subtly, indulgently. The sick man smiled also, elated.

`Oh no. It is a real project. There is a good room under the roof of the stables -- with sloping rafters. We had thought of converting it into a studio.'

`How very nice that would be!' cried Gudrun, with excited warmth. The thought of the rafters stirred her.

`You think it would? Well, it can be done.'

`But how perfectly splendid for Winifred! Of course, it is just what is needed, if she is to work at all seriously. One must have one's workshop, otherwise one never ceases to be an amateur.'

`Is that so? Yes. Of course, I should like you to share it with Winifred.'

`Thank you so much.'

Gudrun knew all these things already, but she must look shy and very grateful, as if overcome.

`Of course, what I should like best, would be if you could give up your work at the Grammar School, and just avail yourself of the studio, and work there -- well, as much or as little as you liked --'

He looked at Gudrun with dark, vacant eyes. She looked back at him as if full of gratitude. These phrases of a dying man were so complete and natural, coming like echoes through his dead mouth.

`And as to your earnings -- you don't mind taking from me what you have taken from the Education Committee, do you? I don't want you to be a loser.'

`Oh,' said Gudrun, `if I can have the studio and work there, I can earn money enough, really I can.'

`Well,' he said, pleased to be the benefactor, `we can see about all that. You wouldn't mind spending your days here?'

`If there were a studio to work in,' said Gudrun, `I could ask for nothing better.'

`Is that so?'

He was really very pleased. But already he was getting tired. She could see the grey, awful semi-consciousness of mere pain and dissolution coming over him again, the torture coming into the vacancy of his darkened eyes. It was not over yet, this process of death. She rose softly saying:

`Perhaps you will sleep. I must look for Winifred.'

She went out, telling the nurse that she had left him. Day by day the tissue of the sick man was further and further reduced, nearer and nearer the process came, towards the last knot which held the human being in its unity. But this knot was hard and unrelaxed, the will of the dying man never gave way. He might be dead in nine-tenths, yet the remaining tenth remained unchanged, till it too was torn apart. With his will he held the unit of himself firm, but the circle of his power was ever and ever reduced, it would be reduced to a point at last, then swept away.

To adhere to life, he must adhere to human relationships, and he caught at every straw. Winifred, the butler, the nurse, Gudrun, these were the people who meant all to him, in these last resources. Gerald, in his father's presence, stiffened with repulsion. It was so, to a less degree, with all the other children except Winifred. They could not see anything but the death, when they looked at their father. It was as if some subterranean dislike overcame them. They could not see the familiar face, hear the familiar voice. They were overwhelmed by the antipathy of visible and audible death. Gerald could not breathe in his father's presence. He must get out at once. And so, in the same way, the father could not bear the presence of his son. It sent a final irritation through the soul of the dying man.

The studio was made ready, Gudrun and Winifred moved in. They enjoyed so much the ordering and the appointing of it. And now they need hardly be in the house at all. They had their meals in the studio, they lived there safely. For the house was becoming dreadful. There were two nurses in white, flitting silently about, like heralds of death. The father was confined to his bed, there was a come and go of sotto-voce sisters and brothers and children.

Winifred was her father's constant visitor. Every morning, after breakfast, she went into his room when he was washed and propped up in bed, to spend half an hour with him.

`Are you better, Daddie?' she asked him invariably.

And invariably he answered:

`Yes, I think I'm a little better, pet.'

She held his hand in both her own, lovingly and protectively. And this was very dear to him.

She ran in again as a rule at lunch time, to tell him the course of events, and every evening, when the curtains were drawn, and his room was cosy, she spent a long time with him. Gudrun was gone home, Winifred was alone in the house: she liked best to be with her father. They talked and prattled at random, he always as if he were well, just the same as when he was going about. So that Winifred, with a child's subtle instinct for avoiding the painful things, behaved as if nothing serious was the matter. Instinctively, she withheld her attention, and was happy. Yet in her remoter soul, she knew as well as the adults knew: perhaps better.

Her father was quite well in his make-belief with her. But when she went away, he relapsed under the misery of his dissolution. But still there were these bright moments, though as his strength waned, his faculty for attention grew weaker, and the nurse had to send Winifred away, to save him from exhaustion.

He never admitted that he was going to die. He knew it was so, he knew it was the end. Yet even to himself he did not admit it. He hated the fact, mortally. His will was rigid. He could not bear being overcome by death. For him, there was no death. And yet, at times, he felt a great need to cry out and to wail and complain. He would have liked to cry aloud to Gerald, so that his son should be horrified out of his composure. Gerald was instinctively aware of this, and he recoiled, to avoid any such thing. This uncleanness of death repelled him too much. One should die quickly, like the Romans, one should be master of one's fate in dying as in living. He was convulsed in the clasp of this death of his father's, as in the coils of the great serpent of Laocoon. The great serpent had got the father, and the son was dragged into the embrace of horrifying death along with him. He resisted always. And in some strange way, he was a tower of strength to his father.

The last time the dying man asked to see Gudrun he was grey with near death. Yet he must see someone, he must, in the intervals of consciousness, catch into connection with the living world, lest he should have to accept his own situation. Fortunately he was most of his time dazed and half gone. And he spent many hours dimly thinking of the past, as it were, dimly re-living his old experiences. But there were times even to the end when he was capable of realising what was happening to him in the present, the death that was on him. And these were the times when he called in outside help, no matter whose. For to realise this death that he was dying was a death beyond death, never to be borne. It was an admission never to be made.

Gudrun was shocked by his appearance, and by the darkened, almost disintegrated eyes, that still were unconquered and firm.

`Well,' he said in his weakened voice, `and how are you and Winifred getting on?'

`Oh, very well indeed,' replied Gudrun.

There were slight dead gaps in the conversation, as if the ideas called up were only elusive straws floating on the dark chaos of the sick man's dying.

`The studio answers all right?' he said.

`Splendid. It couldn't be more beautiful and perfect,' said Gudrun.

She waited for what he would say next.

`And you think Winifred has the makings of a sculptor?'

It was strange how hollow the words were, meaningless.

`I'm sure she has. She will do good things one day.'

`Ah! Then her life won't be altogether wasted, you think?'

Gudrun was rather surprised.

`Sure it won't!' she exclaimed softly.

`That's right.'

Again Gudrun waited for what he would say.

`You find life pleasant, it is good to live, isn't it?' he asked, with a pitiful faint smile that was almost too much for Gudrun.

`Yes,' she smiled -- she would lie at random -- `I get a pretty good time I believe.'

`That's right. A happy nature is a great asset.'

Again Gudrun smiled, though her soul was dry with repulsion. Did one have to die like this -- having the life extracted forcibly from one, whilst one smiled and made conversation to the end? Was there no other way? Must one go through all the horror of this victory over death, the triumph of the integral will, that would not be broken till it disappeared utterly? One must, it was the only way. She admired the self-possession and the control of the dying man exceedingly. But she loathed the death itself. She was glad the everyday world held good, and she need not recognise anything beyond.

`You are quite all right here? -- nothing we can do for you? -- nothing you find wrong in your position?'

`Except that you are too good to me,' said Gudrun.

`Ah, well, the fault of that lies with yourself,' he said, and he felt a little exultation, that he had made this speech.

He was still so strong and living! But the nausea of death began to creep back on him, in reaction.

Gudrun went away, back to Winifred. Mademoiselle had left, Gudrun stayed a good deal at Shortlands, and a tutor came in to carry on Winifred's education. But he did not live in the house, he was connected with the Grammar School.

One day, Gudrun was to drive with Winifred and Gerald and Birkin to town, in the car. It was a dark, showery day. Winifred and Gudrun were ready and waiting at the door. Winifred was very quiet, but Gudrun had not noticed. Suddenly the child asked, in a voice of unconcern:

`Do you think my father's going to die, Miss Brangwen?'

Gudrun started.

`I don't know,' she replied.

`Don't you truly?'

`Nobody knows for certain. He may die, of course.'

The child pondered a few moments, then she asked:

`But do you think he will die?'

It was put almost like a question in geography or science, insistent, as if she would force an admission from the adult. The watchful, slightly triumphant child was almost diabolical.

`Do I think he will die?' repeated Gudrun. `Yes, I do.'

But Winifred's large eyes were fixed on her, and the girl did not move.

`He is very ill,' said Gudrun.

A small smile came over Winifred's face, subtle and sceptical.

`I don't believe he will,' the child asserted, mockingly, and she moved away into the drive. Gudrun watched the isolated figure, and her heart stood still. Winifred was playing with a little rivulet of water, absorbedly as if nothing had been said.

`I've made a proper dam,' she said, out of the moist distance.

Gerald came to the door from out of the hall behind.

`It is just as well she doesn't choose to believe it,' he said.

Gudrun looked at him. Their eyes met; and they exchanged a sardonic understanding.

`Just as well,' said Gudrun.

He looked at her again, and a fire flickered up in his eyes.

`Best to dance while Rome burns, since it must burn, don't you think?' he said.

She was rather taken aback. But, gathering herself together, she replied:

`Oh -- better dance than wail, certainly.'

`So I think.'

And they both felt the subterranean desire to let go, to fling away everything, and lapse into a sheer unrestraint, brutal and licentious. A strange black passion surged up pure in Gudrun. She felt strong. She felt her hands so strong, as if she could tear the world asunder with them. She remembered the abandonments of Roman licence, and her heart grew hot. She knew she wanted this herself also -- or something, something equivalent. Ah, if that which was unknown and suppressed in her were once let loose, what an orgiastic and satisfying event it would be. And she wanted it, she trembled slightly from the proximity of the man, who stood just behind her, suggestive of the same black licentiousness that rose in herself. She wanted it with him, this unacknowledged frenzy. For a moment the clear perception of this preoccupied her, distinct and perfect in its final reality. Then she shut it off completely, saying:

`We might as well go down to the lodge after Winifred -- we can get in the care there.'

`So we can,' he answered, going with her.

They found Winifred at the lodge admiring the litter of purebred white puppies. The girl looked up, and there was a rather ugly, unseeing cast in her eyes as she turned to Gerald and Gudrun. She did not want to see them.

`Look!' she cried. `Three new puppies! Marshall says this one seems perfect. Isn't it a sweetling? But it isn't so nice as its mother.' She turned to caress the fine white bull-terrier bitch that stood uneasily near her.

`My dearest Lady Crich,' she said, `you are beautiful as an angel on earth. Angel -- angel -- don't you think she's good enough and beautiful enough to go to heaven, Gudrun? They will be in heaven, won't they -- and especially my darling Lady Crich! Mrs Marshall, I say!'

`Yes, Miss Winifred?' said the woman, appearing at the door.

`Oh do call this one Lady Winifred, if she turns out perfect, will you? Do tell Marshall to call it Lady Winifred.'

`I'll tell him -- but I'm afraid that's a gentleman puppy, Miss Winifred.'

`Oh no!' There was the sound of a car. `There's Rupert!' cried the child, and she ran to the gate.

Birkin, driving his car, pulled up outside the lodge gate.

`We're ready!' cried Winifred. `I want to sit in front with you, Rupert. May I?'

`I'm afraid you'll fidget about and fall out,' he said.

`No I won't. I do want to sit in front next to you. It makes my feet so lovely and warm, from the engines.'

Birkin helped her up, amused at sending Gerald to sit by Gudrun in the body of the car.

`Have you any news, Rupert?' Gerald called, as they rushed along the lanes.

`News?' exclaimed Birkin.

`Yes,' Gerald looked at Gudrun, who sat by his side, and he said, his eyes narrowly laughing, `I want to know whether I ought to congratulate him, but I can't get anything definite out of him.'

Gudrun flushed deeply.

`Congratulate him on what?' she asked.

`There was some mention of an engagement -- at least, he said something to me about it.'

Gudrun flushed darkly.

`You mean with Ursula?' she said, in challenge.

`Yes. That is so, isn't it?'

`I don't think there's any engagement,' said Gudrun, coldly.

`That so? Still no developments, Rupert?' he called.

`Where? Matrimonial? No.'

`How's that?' called Gudrun.

Birkin glanced quickly round. There was irritation in his eyes also.

`Why?' he replied. `What do you think of it, Gudrun?'

`Oh,' she cried, determined to fling her stone also into the pool, since they had begun, `I don't think she wants an engagement. Naturally, she's a bird that prefers the bush.' Gudrun's voice was clear and gong-like. It reminded Rupert of her father's, so strong and vibrant.

`And I,' said Birkin, his face playful but yet determined, `I want a binding contract, and am not keen on love, particularly free love.'

They were both amused. Why this public avowal? Gerald seemed suspended a moment, in amusement.

`Love isn't good enough for you?' he called.

`No!' shouted Birkin.

`Ha, well that's being over-refined,' said Gerald, and the car ran through the mud.

`What's the matter, really?' said Gerald, turning to Gudrun.

This was an assumption of a sort of intimacy that irritated Gudrun almost like an affront. It seemed to her that Gerald was deliberately insulting her, and infringing on the decent privacy of them all.

`What is it?' she said, in her high, repellent voice. `Don't ask me! -- I know nothing about ultimate marriage, I assure you: or even penultimate.'

`Only the ordinary unwarrantable brand!' replied Gerald. `Just so -- same here. I am no expert on marriage, and degrees of ultimateness. It seems to be a bee that buzzes loudly in Rupert's bonnet.'

`Exactly! But that is his trouble, exactly! Instead of wanting a woman for herself, he wants his ideas fulfilled. Which, when it comes to actual practice, is not good enough.'

`Oh no. Best go slap for what's womanly in woman, like a bull at a gate.' Then he seemed to glimmer in himself. `You think love is the ticket, do you?' he asked.

`Certainly, while it lasts -- you only can't insist on permanency,' came Gudrun's voice, strident above the noise.

`Marriage or no marriage, ultimate or penultimate or just so-so? -- take the love as you find it.'

`As you please, or as you don't please,' she echoed. `Marriage is a social arrangement, I take it, and has nothing to do with the question of love.'

His eyes were flickering on her all the time. She felt as is he were kissing her freely and malevolently. It made the colour burn in her cheeks, but her heart was quite firm and unfailing.

`You think Rupert is off his head a bit?' Gerald asked.

Her eyes flashed with acknowledgment.

`As regards a woman, yes,' she said, `I do. There is such a thing as two people being in love for the whole of their lives -- perhaps. But marriage is neither here nor there, even then. If they are in love, well and good. If not -- why break eggs about it!'

`Yes,' said Gerald. `That's how it strikes me. But what about Rupert?'

`I can't make out -- neither can he nor anybody. He seems to think that if you marry you can get through marriage into a third heaven, or something -- all very vague.'

`Very! And who wants a third heaven? As a matter of fact, Rupert has a great yearning to be safe -- to tie himself to the mast.'

`Yes. It seems to me he's mistaken there too,' said Gudrun. `I'm sure a mistress is more likely to be faithful than a wife -- just because she is her own mistress. No -- he says he believes that a man and wife can go further than any other two beings -- but where, is not explained. They can know each other, heavenly and hellish, but particularly hellish, so perfectly that they go beyond heaven and hell -- into -- there it all breaks down -- into nowhere.'

`Into Paradise, he says,' laughed Gerald.

Gudrun shrugged her shoulders. `Fe m'en fiche of your Paradise!' she said.

`Not being a Mohammedan,' said Gerald. Birkin sat motionless, driving the car, quite unconscious of what they said. And Gudrun, sitting immediately behind him, felt a sort of ironic pleasure in thus exposing him.

`He says,' she added, with a grimace of irony, `that you can find an eternal equilibrium in marriage, if you accept the unison, and still leave yourself separate, don't try to fuse.'

`Doesn't inspire me,' said Gerald.

`That's just it,' said Gudrun.

`I believe in love, in a real abandon, if you're capable of it,' said Gerald.

`So do I,' said she.

`And so does Rupert, too -- though he is always shouting.'

`No,' said Gudrun. `He won't abandon himself to the other person. You can't be sure of him. That's the trouble I think.'

`Yet he wants marriage! Marriage -- et puis?'

`Le paradis!' mocked Gudrun.

Birkin, as he drove, felt a creeping of the spine, as if somebody was threatening his neck. But he shrugged with indifference. It began to rain. Here was a change. He stopped the car and got down to put up the hood.

 

戈珍在伦敦同一位朋友举办了一个小小的画展，办完以后就找机会回贝多佛。不管发生了什么事，她都会很快变得无忧无虑。那天她收到一封配有图画的信，是温妮弗莱德·克里奇寄来的：

父亲也去伦敦检查病情了。他很疲劳。大家都

说他必须好好休息一下，所以现在他几乎整日卧床。

他给我带来一只上彩釉的热带麻雀，还是德累斯顿的瓷器呢。还有一个耕夫和两只爬杆儿的小老鼠，都是上了彩釉的。小老鼠是哥本哈根的瓷器。这是最

好的瓷器，小老鼠身上的彩釉并不太亮，否则就更好了，它们的尾巴又细又长。这几种东西都象玻璃

一样亮。当然这是釉子的原因，不过我不喜欢。杰拉德最喜欢那个耕田的农夫，他的裤子破了，赶着

牛在耕地，我想这是一位德国农夫。他穿着白衬衫和灰裤子，不过亮度不错。伯金先生喜欢山楂花下

的那位姑娘，她身边有一只羊，裙子上印有水仙花，这件东西摆在客厅里。可我觉得那姑娘有点傻里傻

气的，那羊也不是真的。

“亲爱的布朗温女士，你很快就回来吗？我们可想你了。随信寄上我画的一张画儿，画的是父亲坐

在床上的样子。他说你不会抛弃我们的，哦，亲爱的布朗温小姐，我相信你不会这样的。回来吧，来

画这儿的雪貂吧，这是世界上最可爱，最高尚的宝贝。我们还应该在冬青树上刻上它们，背景就是绿

色的树叶。哦，就这样吧，它们太可爱了。

“父亲说我们应该有一间画室。杰拉德说这很容易，在马厩上就可以，只需在斜屋顶上开一扇窗户

即可。那样的话你就可以整天在边儿做你的事，我们就可以象两个真正的艺术家那样住在这儿，我们

就象厅里挂的那幅画上的人一样，把所有的墙都画上图画。我想要自由，过一种艺术家的生活。杰拉

德对父亲说，一位艺术家是自由的，因为他生活在他自己创造性的世界里——”

通过这封信戈珍弄明白了克里奇家人的意图。杰拉德想让她附属于他们家，他不过是拿温妮弗莱德来打掩护。做父亲的只想到了自己的女儿，认为戈珍可以救温妮。戈珍很羡慕他的智慧。当然温妮的确很不一般，戈珍对她很满意。既然有了画室，戈珍当然很愿意去。她早就厌恶小学校了，她想自由，如果给她提供一间工作室，他就可以自由自在地做她的工作，平静地等待事情的转变。再说她的确对温妮弗莱德感兴趣，她很高兴去理解温妮。

所以当戈珍回到肖特兰兹那天，温妮别提多高兴了。

“布朗温小姐来的时候你应该献给她一束鲜花。”杰拉德笑着对妹妹说。

“啊，不，”温妮弗莱德叫道：“这太冒傻气了。”

“才不呢。这样很好，也很常见。”

“不，这样很傻，”温妮弗莱德羞涩地为自己辩护说。不过她很喜欢这个主意，极想这样做。她在暖室里跑来跑去，寻找着鲜花。越看越想扎一束鲜花，想着献花的仪式，她越想越着迷，也就越来越羞涩，她简直不知该怎么办才好。她无法放弃这种想法。似乎有什么在向她提出挑战而她又没有勇气迎战。于是她又一次溜进暖室，看着花盆里可爱的玫瑰、娇洁的仙客来和神秘的蔓草上一束束的白花儿。太美了，哦，这些花儿太美了，令人太幸福了，如果她能够扎一束漂亮的鲜花送给戈珍该多好啊。她的激情和犹豫几乎让她为难死了。

最终她溜进父亲房中走到他身边说：

“爸爸——”

“什么事，我的宝贝儿？”

可她却向后退着，几乎要哭出来，她真为难。父亲看着她，心中淌过一股温情的热流，那是一种深深的爱。

“你想对我说什么，亲爱的？”

“爸爸！”她的眼中闪过一丝短暂的笑意，说：“如果我送一束花儿给布朗温小姐是不是太傻气了？”

卧病在床的父亲看着女儿那明亮、聪颖的眼睛心中充满了爱。

“不，亲爱的，一点都不傻。对女王我们才这样做呢。”

温妮弗莱德仍然没被说服。她甚至有点怀疑，女王们自己就很傻。可她又很想有一个浪漫的场合。

“那我就送花儿了？”

“送给布朗温小姐鲜花吗？送吧，小鸟儿。告诉威尔逊，我说的你要花儿。”

孩子笑了，她期望什么的时候就会无意识中露出这种笑容来。

“可我明天才要呢。”她说。

“好，明天，小鸟儿。亲亲我——”

温妮弗莱德默默地吻了病中的父亲，然后走出屋去。她又一次在暖室里转来转去，颐指气使地向园丁下着命令，告诉他她选定的都是哪些花。

“你要这些花干什么？”威尔逊问。

“我需要，”她说。她不希望仆人提问题。

“啊，是这样的。可你要它们做什么？装饰、送人、还是另有用？”

“我要送人。”

“送人？谁要驾到？是波特兰的公爵夫人？”

“不是。”

“不是她？哦，如果你把这些花儿都弄在一起，那就乱套了。”

“对，我就喜欢这种少见的乱套。”

“真的！那就没什么好说的了。”

第二天，温妮弗莱德身着银色的天鹅绒，手捧一束艳丽的鲜花，站在教室里盯着车道耐心地等待戈珍的到来。这天早晨空气很湿润。她的鼻子下面散发着温室里采来的鲜花的芬芳，这束花儿对她来说就象一团火，而她似乎心里燃着一团奇特的火焰。一种淡淡的浪漫气息令她沉醉。

她终于看到戈珍了，马上下楼去通知父亲和哥哥。他们一边往前厅走一边笑她太着急了。男仆赶忙来到门口接过戈珍的伞和雨衣。迎接她的人让出一条路来，请她进厅。

戈珍红朴朴的脸上沾着雨水珠，头上的小发卷在随风飘舞，她真象雨中开放的花朵，花蕊微露，似乎释放出保存着的阳光。看到她这样美，这样陌生，杰拉德不禁胆小了。戈珍的衣服是浅蓝色的，袜子是紫红的。

温妮弗莱德异常庄重，正式地走上前来说：

“你回来了，我们非常高兴。这些鲜花献给你。”说着她捧上花束。

“给我！？”戈珍叫道，一时间不知所措，绯红了脸，高兴得忘乎所以。然后她抬起头奇特、热切的目光盯着父亲和杰拉德。杰拉德的精神又垮了，似乎他无法承受戈珍那热烈的目光。在他看来，她太外露了，令人无法忍受。于是他把脸扭向一边。他感到他无法躲避她，为此他十分痛苦。

戈珍把脸埋进花儿中。

“真是太可爱了！”她压低嗓门说。然后她突然满怀激情地伏下身子吻了温妮弗莱德。

克里奇先生走上前来向她伸出手快活地说：

“我还担心你会从我们这儿跑掉呢。”

戈珍抬头看看他，脸上露出迷人、调皮的神情道：

“真的！我才不想呆在伦敦呢。”

她的话意味着她很高兴回肖特兰兹，她的声音热情而温柔。

“太好了，”父亲说，“你瞧，我们都非常欢迎你。”

戈珍深蓝色的眼睛闪着热情但羞涩的光芒，凝视着他的脸。她自己早已茫然了。

“你看上去就象胜利还乡，”克里奇先生握着她的手继续说。

“不，”她奇怪地说，“我到了这儿才算胜利了。”

“啊，来，来！咱们不要听这些故事了。咱们不是在报纸上看到这些消息了吗，杰拉德？”

“你大获全胜，”杰拉德握着她的手说，“都卖了吗？”

“不，”她说，“卖得不太多。”

“还行。”他说。

她不知道他指的是什么。但是，受到这样的欢迎，她十分高兴。

“温妮弗莱德，”父亲说，“给布朗温小姐拿双鞋来。你最好马上换鞋——”

戈珍手捧鲜花走了出去。

“是个了不起的女人，”戈珍走后父亲对杰拉德说。

“是啊。”杰拉德敷衍着，似乎他不喜欢父亲的评语。

克里奇先生想让戈珍小姐陪他坐半小时。平时他总是脸色苍白，浑身不舒服，生活把他折磨苦了。可一旦他振作起精神来，他就说服自己，相信自己同原先一样，很健康，不是置身于生活之外，而是身处生活的中心，身处强壮的生命中心。戈珍加强了他的自信心。同戈珍在一起，他就会获得半小时宝贵的力量和兴奋，获得自由，他就会觉得自己从未生活得如此愉快。

戈珍进来时发现他正支撑着身体半躺半坐在书房里。他脸色蜡黄，目光暗淡而浑沌。他的黑胡子中已有少许灰白，似乎生长在一具蜡黄的尸体上。可他仍带着活力和快活的气息。戈珍认为他这样挺好。她甚至想，他不过是个普通人罢了。不过，他那可怕的形象却印在她的心中了，这一点是她意识不到的。她知道，尽管他显得快活，可他的目光中的空虚是无法改变的。那是一双死人的眼睛。

“啊，布朗温小姐，”一听到男仆宣布她的到来，他忙起身回应。“托玛斯，为布朗温小姐搬一把椅子来，好。”他高兴地凝视着她柔和，红润的面孔，这张脸让他感觉到一种活力。“喝一杯雪利酒，再吃点饼干好吗？托玛斯——”

“不，谢谢，”戈珍说。说完后她的心可怕地沉了下去。见她内心这样矛盾，生病的老人非常难过。她应该顺从他而不是抗拒他。很快她又调皮地冲他笑了。

“我不太喜欢雪利，”戈珍说。“不过，别的饮料我几乎都喜欢。”

病中的老人象抓住了一根救命草一样。

“不要雪利，不要！要别的！什么呢？都有什么，托玛斯？”

“葡萄酒——柑香酒——”

“我喜欢来点柑香酒——”戈珍看着病人拘谨地说。

“那好，托玛斯，就上点柑香酒，再来点小饼干。”

“来点饼干。”戈珍说。她并不想要任何吃食，但不要就失礼了。

“好。”

他等着，直到她手捧酒杯和饼干坐好，他才说话。

“你是否听说，”他激动地说，“听说我们在马厩上为温妮弗莱德准备了一间画室？”

“没有！”戈珍不无惊奇地说。

“哦，我以为温妮在信中告诉你了呢！”

“哦——对。不过我还以为那是她自己的想法呢。”戈珍放声笑了起来。病人也高兴地笑了。

“不是她一个人的主意，这是一项真正的工程。马厩上有一间很好的房子，房顶上铺着椽子。我们打算把它改装成画室。”

“那可太好了！”戈珍非常兴奋地叫道。房顶上的椽子令她激动。

“你觉得好吗？好，那就行。”

“对温妮弗莱德来说这可太妙了！当然，如果她打算认真画画儿的话，就需要一间这样的工作室。一个人必须得有自己的工作室，否则他就永远无法成熟。”

“是吗？当然，如果你和温妮弗莱德共用一间画室的话，我会很高兴的。”

“太谢谢了。”

戈珍对此早就心中有数，但她非要表现出羞涩和感激的样子，似乎受宠若惊一样。

“当然，最令我高兴的是，如果你能辞去小学校的工作，利用画室工作，随你的便——”

他黑色的眼睛茫然地盯着戈珍。她报之以感激的目光。这些话出自这位行将就没的老人之口，意思表达得那么完整，那么自然。

“至于你的收入，你从我这里拿到的同从教育委员会那里拿到的一样多，有什么意见吗？我不希望你吃亏。”

“哦”戈珍说，“如果我能在画室里工作，我就可以挣足够的钱，真的，我可以。”

“好啊，”他很高兴地说，“你可以去看看。在这儿工作，行吗？”

“只要有工作室，”戈珍说，“没有比这更好的了。”

“是吗？”

他实在很高兴。不过您已经感到疲倦了。戈珍看得出痛苦与失意又袭上了他的心头，他空虚的目光中带着痛苦的神色。他还没死。于是她站起身轻声道：

“你或许要睡了吧，我要去找温妮弗莱德。”

她走出去告诉护士说她走了。日复一日，病人的神经渐渐不行了，渐渐地只剩下了一个支撑他生命的硬结。这个硬结太坚实，是他毫不松垮的意志，这意志决不屈服。他可以死掉十分之九，可最后那一丝生命仍然丝毫不改变。他就是用自己的意志支撑着自己。但他的活力大大不如从前了，快要耗尽了。

为了扼守生命，他必须扼守人与人之间的关系，任何一根救命草他都要抓紧。温妮弗莱德、男仆、护士和戈珍，这些人对他这个行将就没的人来说意义十分重大，他们就是一切。杰拉德在他父亲面前变得很呆板、反感。除了温妮弗莱德以外的其它孩子也颇有同感。当他们观察父亲时，他们从他身上看到的只有死亡。似乎他们潜意识中对父亲很不满意。他们无法认识父亲那张熟悉的脸，听到的也不是那熟悉的声音。他们听到的和看到的只是死亡。在父亲面前，杰拉德感到难以将息。他必须逃出去。同样，父亲也不能容忍儿子的存在。一看到他，这位濒临死亡的人就气不打一处来。

画室一准备好，温妮弗莱德和戈珍就搬了进去。她们在那儿可以发号施令。她们现在用不着到家中去，因为她们就在画室中吃住。家中现在可有点让人害怕，两个身着白衣的护士在屋里默默地穿梭，象是死亡的预言者。父亲只限于躺在床上，他的儿女们出出进进时都压着嗓门说话。

温妮弗莱德常来看父亲。每天早饭以后，待父亲洗漱完毕坐在床上，她就进去同他在一起待上半小时。

“你好些了吗，爸爸？”她总是这样问。

而他也总是这样回答：

“对，我想我好点了，宝贝儿。”

她用自己的双手爱抚地捧着父亲的手。他感到这样十分宝贵。

午饭时她又会跑进来告诉他发生了什么事。到晚上，窗帘垂下后屋里气氛很宜人，她会再来同父亲多待上一会儿。戈珍晚上回家了，这时温妮弗莱德最愿同父亲单独在一起。他们父女二人海阔天空地聊着，这时他总会显得自己身体很好，如同他当年工作时一样。温妮弗莱德很敏感，她有意避免谈到痛苦的事，装出一副无所谓的样子。她本能地控制自己的注意力，这样就会感到幸福。但她的心灵深处也和其它大人一样有同感：或许是好点了吧。

父亲在她面前装得很象。可她一走，他就又没入了死亡的痛苦中。好在他仍有这样兴奋的时候。但是他的体力大大减弱了，注意力无法集中起来，这时候护士不得不让温妮弗莱德走开以免他太疲劳。

他从来不承认他就要死了。但他知道自己要死了，他的末日到了。但他就是不肯承认。对这一事实他恨透了。他的意志仍旧很顽固，他不甘心让死亡战胜自己，他认为压根儿就没有死亡这回事。但他时时感到自己要大喊大叫抱怨一番。他真想冲杰拉德大叫一通，吓得他魂不附体。杰拉德本能地感觉到了这一点，所以他有意地躲避着父亲。这种肮脏的死亡实在令他厌恶。一个人要死就该象罗马人那样迅速死去，通过死来掌握自己的命运，就象在生活中一样。杰拉德在父亲死亡的钳制中挣扎着，如同被毒蛇缠住的拉奥孔①父子一样：那巨蟒缠住了父亲，又把两个儿子也拽了进去与他同死。杰拉德一直在抵抗着，奇怪的是，有时在父亲眼里他竟是一座力量之塔。

①希腊神话：特洛伊祭师拉奥孔因警告特洛伊人勿中木马计而触怒天神，和两个儿子一起被巨蟒缠死。著名的雕塑“拉奥孔”就取自这个题材。

他最后一次要求见戈珍是他临死之前。他一定要见到某个人，在弥留之际清醒的时候，他一定要与活生生的世界保持联系，否则他就得接受死亡的现实。值得庆幸的是，大多数时间中他都处于昏昏然状态中，在冥冥中思考着自己的过去，再一次重新回到过去的生活中。但在他最后的时光中，他仍能意识到眼前的情况：死神就要降临了。于是他呼唤着别人的帮助，不管谁来帮他都行。能够意识到死亡，这是一种超越死亡的死亡，再也不能再生了。他决不要承认这一点。

戈珍被他的形象吓坏了：目光无神，但仍然显得顽强不屈。

“啊，”他声音虚弱地说，“你和温妮弗莱德怎么样？”

“很好，真的。”戈珍回答。

他们的对话就象隔着死亡的鸿沟，似乎他们的想法不过是他死亡之海上漂乎不定的稻草。

“画室还好用吧？”他问。

“太好了，不能比这再好，再完美了。”戈珍说。

说完她就等待着他说话。

“你是否认为温妮弗莱德具有雕塑家的气质？”

真奇怪，这话多么空洞无味！

“我相信她有。总有一天她会塑出好作品来的。”

“那她的生活就不会荒废了，你说呢？”

戈珍很惊奇地轻声感叹道：

“当然不会！”

“那是。”

戈珍又等着他发话。

“你认为生活很愉快，活着很好，是吗？”他问着，脸上那苍白的笑简直令她无法忍受。

“对，”她笑了，她可以随意撒谎。“我相信日子会过得不错。”

“很对。快乐的天性是巨大的财富。”

戈珍又笑了，但她的心却因为厌恶而干枯。难道一个人应该这样死去吗？当生命被夺走时另一个人却微笑着跟他谈话？能不能以另外的方式死去？难道一个人一定要经历从战胜死亡的恐惧胜利——完整的意志的胜利——到彻底消亡的历程吗？人必须这样，这是唯一的出路。她太敬慕这位弥留之际的人那种自控能力了。但她仇恨死亡本身。令她高兴的是，日常生活的世界还令人满意，因此她用不着担心别的。

“你在这儿很好，我们不能为你做点什么吗？你没发现有什么不好的吗？”

“你对我太好了。”戈珍说。

“那好，你不说只能怪你自己不好，”他说。他感到很兴奋，因为他说了这么一番话。他仍然很强壮、还活着！但是，死的烦恼又开始重新向他袭来。

戈珍来到温妮弗莱德这里。法国女教师走了，戈珍在肖特兰兹待得时间很长。温妮的教育由另一位教师负责。但那个男教师并不住在肖特兰兹，他是小学校的人。

这天，戈珍准备和温妮弗莱德、杰拉德及伯金乘车到城里去。天下着毛毛雨，天色阴沉沉的。温妮弗莱德和戈珍准备好等在门口。温妮弗莱德很缄默，但戈珍没注意她这一点。

突然这孩子漠然地问：

“布朗温小姐，你认为我父亲要死了吗？”

戈珍一惊，说：“我不知道。”

“真不知道？”

“谁也说不准。当然，他总会死的。”

孩子思考了片刻又问：

“你认为他会死？”

这问题就象一道地理或科学题，她那么固执，似乎强迫大人回答。这孩子真有点象恶魔一样盯着戈珍，一副得胜的神态。

“他会死吗？”戈珍重复道，“是的，我想他会死的。”

可温妮弗莱德瞪大了眼睛目不转睛地盯着她。

“他病得很厉害。”戈珍说。

温妮弗莱德脸上闪过一丝微妙怀疑的笑。

“我不相信他会死。”这孩子嘲讽地说着走向车道。戈珍看着她孤独的身影，心滞住了。温妮弗莱德正在小溪旁玩耍，那副认真的样子，看上去倒象什么事也没发生过。

“我筑了一道水坝。”她的声音在远处响了起来。

这时杰拉德从后面的厅里走出来。

“她不相信，是有她的道理的。”他说。

戈珍看看他，两人的目光相遇了，交换了某种不无嘲讽的理解。

“是啊，”戈珍说。

他又看看她，眼中闪烁着火光。

“当罗马起火时，我们最好跳舞，反正它也是要被烧毁。

你说呢？”他说。

她很吃惊，但还是振作精神回答：

“当然，跳舞比哀嚎要好。”

“我也是这么想。”

说到此，他们双方都觉得有一种强烈的放松欲望，要把一切都甩开，沉入一种野性的放纵中。戈珍只觉得浑身荡着一股强壮的激情。她感到自己很强壮，她的双手如此强壮，她似乎可以把整个世界撕碎。她记起了罗马人的放纵，于是心里热乎乎的。她知道她自己也需要这种或别的与之相同的东西。啊，如果她身上那未知和被压抑的东西一旦放松，那是多么令人欣喜若狂的事啊！她需要这个。那站在她身后的男人紧挨着她，他令她体内那强烈的放纵欲升腾起来，她只觉得浑身发抖。她要同他一起放纵、狂疯。一时间这个想法完全占据了她的身心。但她马上又放弃了它。她说：

“咱们跟温妮弗莱德一起到门房去等车吧。”

“行。”他答应着随她而去。

他们进去后发现温妮弗莱德正爱抚着一窝纯种的小白狗。姑娘抬起头，漠然地扫了杰拉德和戈珍一眼。她并不想看到他们。

“看！”她叫道。“三只刚出生的小狗！马歇尔说这只狗很纯。多可爱啊，不过它不如它的妈妈好看。”她边说边抚摸着身边那头不安分的狗。

“我最亲爱的克里奇女士，”她说，“你象地球上的天使一样美丽。天使，天使，戈珍，你觉得她这么好，这么美，不可以进天堂吗？他们都会进天堂的，特别是我亲爱的克里奇女士！马歇尔太太，对吧？”

“你是说温妮弗莱德小姐？”那女人说着出现在门口。

“噢，叫它温妮弗莱德女士吧，好吗？告诉马歇尔，管它叫温妮弗莱德女士。”

“我会告诉他的，不过，这只狗是一位绅士，温妮弗莱德小姐。”

“哦，不！”这时响起了汽车声。“卢伯特来了！”孩子叫着跑向大门口。

伯金驾着车停在了门口。

“我们都准备好了！”温妮弗莱德叫道。“卢伯特，我想跟你一起坐在前面，行吗？”

“我怕你不安分从车上摔出去。”他说。

“不，我不。我就是想同你一起坐在车前。那样我的脚挨着发动机可以取暖。”

伯金扶她上了车，杰拉德和戈珍在后排落了座。

“有什么新闻吗，卢伯特？”杰拉德问。

“新闻？”伯金问。

“是的，”杰拉德看看身旁的戈珍，眯起眼睛笑道，“我不知道是否该祝贺他，可我无法从他这儿得到准信儿。”

戈珍绯红了脸道：

“祝贺他什么？”

“我们说起过订婚的事，至少他对我说起过。”

戈珍的脸红透了。

“你是说跟厄秀拉？”她有点挑战地说。

“对，就是，难道不是吗？”

“我不认为订了什么婚。”戈珍冷冷地说。

“是吗？没有进展吗，卢伯特？”他问。

“什么？结婚？没有。”

“这是怎么回事？”戈珍问。

伯金迅速环视了一下，目光中透着愤懑。

“怎么了？”他说，“你怎么看这事，戈珍？”

“哦，”她叫道，既然大家都往水里扔石头，她也下决心扔。“我不认为她想订婚。论本性，她是一只爱在丛林中飞翱的鸟儿。”戈珍的声音清澈、宏亮，很象她父亲。

“可是我，”伯金说，“我需要一个起约束作用的条约，我对爱，特别是自由爱不感兴趣。”他神情快活但声音很坚定。

他们二人都觉得好笑。为什么要当众宣言？杰拉德一时不知所措了。

“爱对你来说不够么？”他问。

“不！”伯金叫道。

“哈，那就，有点过分了。”杰拉德说话时汽车从泥泞中驶过。

“到底怎么了？”杰拉德问戈珍。

他这种故做亲昵之态激怒了戈珍，她觉得自己受到了侮辱。似乎杰拉德故意侮辱她，侵犯了她的隐私。

“谁知道怎么回事？”她尖着嗓子厌恶地说。“少问我！我根本不知道什么最终的婚姻，告你说吧，我连什么叫次最终婚姻都不知道。”

“你只知道毫无道理的婚姻！”杰拉德说。“说起来，我并不是婚姻方面的专家，也不精通最终是一种什么程度，这似乎是一只蜜蜂在伯金的帽子里嗡嗡作响。”

“太对了！他的烦恼正是这个！他并不是需要女人，他只是要实现自己的想法。一旦付诸实践，就没那么好了。”

“最好象一头牛冲向门口一样去寻找女人身上的特点。”然后他似乎闪烁其词地说：“你认为爱是这张门票，对吗？”

“当然，反正是那么回事，只是你无法坚持要获得永恒的爱。”戈珍的声音很刺耳。

“结婚或不结婚，永恒或次永恒或一般化，你寻到什么样的爱就是什么样。”

“喜欢也罢，不喜欢也罢，”她附和说，“婚姻是一种社会安排，我接受它，但这跟爱的问题无关。”

他的目光一直在她身上留滞着。她感到自己被他放任、恶毒地吻着。她两颊火烧般地热，但她的心却十分坚定。

“你是否觉得卢伯特有点头脑发昏？”杰拉德问。

“对一个女人来说，是这样，”她说，“我是觉得他发昏了。或许，的的确确有两个人一辈子都相爱这种事。可是，即便这样，照旧可以没有婚姻。如果他们相爱，那很好。如果不爱，干吗要刨根问底？”

“是啊，”杰拉德说。“我就为此感到惊奇。可卢伯特怎么想？”

“我说不清。他说不清，谁也说不清。他似乎认为，如果你结婚，你就可以通过婚姻进入天堂什么的，反正很朦胧。”

“很朦胧！谁需要那个天堂？其实，卢伯特很渴望稳妥安全。”

“对。我似乎觉得他在这一点上想得不对，”戈珍说。“我相信，情妇比妻子更忠诚，那是因为她是自己的主人。可卢伯特认为，一对夫妻可以比任何两个别人走得更远，至于走向何方，他没解释。他们相互了解，无论在天堂上还是在地狱中，特别是在地狱中，他们太了解对方了，因此他们可以超越天堂和地狱、去到——某个地方，在那儿一切都粉碎了——不知什么地方。”

“到天堂嘛，他说的。”杰拉德笑道。

戈珍耸耸肩道：“去你的天堂吧！”

“但不是伊斯兰教徒。”杰拉德说。

伯金不动声色地开着车，对他们的话毫不在意。戈珍就坐在伯金身后，她感到出伯金的洋相是一种说不出来的快活。

“他说，”戈珍扮个鬼脸补充说，“你可以在婚姻中找到永久的平衡，同时仍然保持自己的独立性，两者不会混淆。”

“这对我没什么启发。”杰拉德说。

“就是这样的。”戈珍说。

“我相信爱，相信真正的放纵。”杰拉德说。

“我也一样。”她说。

“其实伯金也这样，别看他整天乱叫。”

“不，”戈珍说，“他不会对另一个人放纵自己。你无法摸透他。我觉得这是件麻烦事。”

“可他需要婚姻！婚姻，难道是别的？”

“天堂！”戈珍调侃道。

伯金驾驶着汽车，感到脊背发凉，似乎有人要砍他的头。但他抖抖肩不予理会。天空开始落雨了。他停了车、下去给发动机盖上罩子。