THAT EVENING Ursula returned home very bright-eyed and wondrous -- which irritated her people. Her father came home at suppertime, tired after the evening class, and the long journey home. Gudrun was reading, the mother sat in silence.
Suddenly Ursula said to the company at large, in a bright voice, `Rupert and I are going to be married tomorrow.'
Her father turned round, stiffly.
`You what?' he said.
`Tomorrow!' echoed Gudrun.
`Indeed!' said the mother.
But Ursula only smiled wonderfully, and did not reply.
`Married tomorrow!' cried her father harshly. `What are you talking about.'
`Yes,' said Ursula. `Why not?' Those two words, from her, always drove him mad. `Everything is all right -- we shall go to the registrar's office--'
There was a second's hush in the room, after Ursula's blithe vagueness.
`Really, Ursula!' said Gudrun.
`Might we ask why there has been all this secrecy?' demanded the mother, rather superbly.
`But there hasn't,' said Ursula. `You knew.'
`Who knew?' now cried the father. `Who knew? What do you mean by your "you knew"?'
He was in one of his stupid rages, she instantly closed against him.
`Of course you knew,' she said coolly. `You knew we were going to get married.'
There was a dangerous pause.
`We knew you were going to get married, did we? Knew! Why, does anybody know anything about you, you shifty bitch!'
`Father!' cried Gudrun, flushing deep in violent remonstrance. Then, in a cold, but gentle voice, as if to remind her sister to be tractable: `But isn't it a fearfully sudden decision, Ursula?' she asked.
`No, not really,' replied Ursula, with the same maddening cheerfulness. `He's been wanting me to agree for weeks -- he's had the licence ready. Only I -- I wasn't ready in myself. Now I am ready -- is there anything to be disagreeable about?'
`Certainly not,' said Gudrun, but in a tone of cold reproof. `You are perfectly free to do as you like.'
`"Ready in yourself" -- yourself, that's all that matters, isn't it! "I wasn't ready in myself,"' he mimicked her phrase offensively. `You and yourself, you're of some importance, aren't you?'
She drew herself up and set back her throat, her eyes shining yellow and dangerous.
`I am to myself,' she said, wounded and mortified. `I know I am not to anybody else. You only wanted to bully me -- you never cared for my happiness.'
He was leaning forward watching her, his face intense like a spark.
`Ursula, what are you saying? Keep your tongue still,' cried her mother.
Ursula swung round, and the lights in her eyes flashed.
`No, I won't,' she cried. `I won't hold my tongue and be bullied. What does it matter which day I get married -- what does it matter! It doesn't affect anybody but myself.'
Her father was tense and gathered together like a cat about to spring.
`Doesn't it?' he cried, coming nearer to her. She shrank away.
`No, how can it?' she replied, shrinking but stubborn.
`It doesn't matter to me then, what you do -- what becomes of you?' he cried, in a strange voice like a cry.
The mother and Gudrun stood back as if hypnotised.
`No,' stammered Ursula. Her father was very near to her. `You only want to--'
She knew it was dangerous, and she stopped. He was gathered together, every muscle ready.
`What?' he challenged.
`Bully me,' she muttered, and even as her lips were moving, his hand had caught her smack at the side of the face and she was sent up against the door.
`Father!' cried Gudrun in a high voice, `it is impossible!'
He stood unmoving. Ursula recovered, her hand was on the door handle. She slowly drew herself up. He seemed doubtful now.
`It's true,' she declared, with brilliant tears in her eyes, her head lifted up in defiance. `What has your love meant, what did it ever mean? -bullying, and denial--it did--'
He was advancing again with strange, tense movements, and clenched fist, and the face of a murderer. But swift as lightning she had flashed out of the door, and they heard her running upstairs.
He stood for a moment looking at the door. Then, like a defeated animal, he turned and went back to his seat by the fire.
Gudrun was very white. Out of the intense silence, the mother's voice was heard saying, cold and angry:
`Well, you shouldn't take so much notice of her.'
Again the silence fell, each followed a separate set of emotions and thoughts.
Suddenly the door opened again: Ursula, dressed in hat and furs, with a small valise in her hand:
`Good-bye!' she said, in her maddening, bright, almost mocking tone. `I'm going.'
And in the next instant the door was closed, they heard the outer door, then her quick steps down the garden path, then the gate banged, and her light footfall was gone. There was a silence like death in the house.
Ursula went straight to the station, hastening heedlessly on winged feet. There was no train, she must walk on to the junction. As she went through the darkness, she began to cry, and she wept bitterly, with a dumb, heart-broken, child's anguish, all the way on the road, and in the train. Time passed unheeded and unknown, she did not know where she was, nor what was taking place. Only she wept from fathomless depths of hopeless, hopeless grief, the terrible grief of a child, that knows no extenuation.
Yet her voice had the same defensive brightness as she spoke to Birkin's landlady at the door.
`Good evening! Is Mr Birkin in? Can I see him?'
`Yes, he's in. He's in his study.'
Ursula slipped past the woman. His door opened. He had heard her voice.
`Hello!' he exclaimed in surprise, seeing her standing there with the valise in her hand, and marks of tears on her face. She was one who wept without showing many traces, like a child.
`Do I look a sight?' she said, shrinking.
`No -- why? Come in,' he took the bag from her hand and they went into the study.
There -- immediately, her lips began to tremble like those of a child that remembers again, and the tears came rushing up.
`What's the matter?' he asked, taking her in his arms. She sobbed violently on his shoulder, whilst he held her still, waiting.
`What's the matter?' he said again, when she was quieter. But she only pressed her face further into his shoulder, in pain, like a child that cannot tell.
`What is it, then?' he asked. Suddenly she broke away, wiped her eyes, regained her composure, and went and sat in a chair.
`Father hit me,' she announced, sitting bunched up, rather like a ruffled bird, her eyes very bright.
`What for?' he said.
She looked away, and would not answer. There was a pitiful redness about her sensitive nostrils, and her quivering lips.
`Why?' he repeated, in his strange, soft, penetrating voice.
She looked round at him, rather defiantly.
`Because I said I was going to be married tomorrow, and he bullied me.'
`Why did he bully you?'
Her mouth dropped again, she remembered the scene once more, the tears came up.
`Because I said he didn't care -- and he doesn't, it's only his domineeringness that's hurt --' she said, her mouth pulled awry by her weeping, all the time she spoke, so that he almost smiled, it seemed so childish. Yet it was not childish, it was a mortal conflict, a deep wound.
`It isn't quite true,' he said. `And even so, you shouldn't say it.'
`It is true -- it is true,' she wept, `and I won't be bullied by his pretending it's love -- when it isn't -- he doesn't care, how can he -- no, he can't--'
He sat in silence. She moved him beyond himself.
`Then you shouldn't rouse him, if he can't,' replied Birkin quietly.
`And I have loved him, I have,' she wept. `I've loved him always, and he's always done this to me, he has --'
`It's been a love of opposition, then,' he said. `Never mind -- it will be all right. It's nothing desperate.'
`Yes,' she wept, `it is, it is.'
`Why?'
`I shall never see him again --'
`Not immediately. Don't cry, you had to break with him, it had to be -don't cry.'
He went over to her and kissed her fine, fragile hair, touching her wet cheeks gently.
`Don't cry,' he repeated, `don't cry any more.'
He held her head close against him, very close and quiet.
At last she was still. Then she looked up, her eyes wide and frightened.
`don't you want me?' she asked.
`Want you?' His darkened, steady eyes puzzled her and did not give her play.
`Do you wish I hadn't come?' she asked, anxious now again for fear she might be out of place.
`No,' he said. `I wish there hadn't been the violence -- so much ugliness -- but perhaps it was inevitable.'
She watched him in silence. He seemed deadened.
`But where shall I stay?' she asked, feeling humiliated.
He thought for a moment.
`Here, with me,' he said. `We're married as much today as we shall be tomorrow.'
`But --'
`I'll tell Mrs Varley,' he said. `Never mind now.'
He sat looking at her. She could feel his darkened steady eyes looking at her all the time. It made her a little bit frightened. She pushed her hair off her forehead nervously.
`Do I look ugly?' she said.
And she blew her nose again.
A small smile came round his eyes.
`No,' he said, `fortunately.'
And he went across to her, and gathered her like a belonging in his arms. She was so tenderly beautiful, he could not bear to see her, he could only bear to hide her against himself. Now; washed all clean by her tears, she was new and frail like a flower just unfolded, a flower so new, so tender, so made perfect by inner light, that he could not bear to look at her, he must hide her against himself, cover his eyes against her. She had the perfect candour of creation, something translucent and simple, like a radiant, shining flower that moment unfolded in primal blessedness. She was so new, so wonder-clear, so undimmed. And he was so old, so steeped in heavy memories. Her soul was new, undefined and glimmering with the unseen. And his soul was dark and gloomy, it had only one grain of living hope, like a grain of mustard seed. But this one living grain in him matched the perfect youth in her.
`I love you,' he whispered as he kissed her, and trembled with pure hope, like a man who is born again to a wonderful, lively hope far exceeding the bounds of death.
She could not know how much it meant to him, how much he meant by the few words. Almost childish, she wanted proof, and statement, even over-statement, for everything seemed still uncertain, unfixed to her.
But the passion of gratitude with which he received her into his soul, the extreme, unthinkable gladness of knowing himself living and fit to unite with her, he, who was so nearly dead, who was so near to being gone with the rest of his race down the slope of mechanical death, could never be understood by her. He worshipped her as age worships youth, he gloried in her, because, in his one grain of faith, he was young as she, he was her proper mate. This marriage with her was his resurrection and his life.
All this she could not know. She wanted to be made much of, to be adored. There were infinite distances of silence between them. How could he tell her of the immanence of her beauty, that was not form, or weight, or colour, but something like a strange, golden light! How could he know himself what her beauty lay in, for him. He said `Your nose is beautiful, your chin is adorable.' But it sounded like lies, and she was disappointed, hurt. Even when he said, whispering with truth, `I love you, I love you,' it was not the real truth. It was something beyond love, such a gladness of having surpassed oneself, of having transcended the old existence. How could he say "I" when he was something new and unknown, not himself at all? This I, this old formula of the age, was a dead letter.
In the new, superfine bliss, a peace superseding knowledge, there was no I and you, there was only the third, unrealised wonder, the wonder of existing not as oneself, but in a consummation of my being and of her being in a new one, a new, paradisal unit regained from the duality. Nor can I say `I love you,' when I have ceased to be, and you have ceased to be: we are both caught up and transcended into a new oneness where everything is silent, because there is nothing to answer, all is perfect and at one. Speech travels between the separate parts. But in the perfect One there is perfect silence of bliss.
They were married by law on the next day, and she did as he bade her, she wrote to her father and mother. Her mother replied, not her father.
She did not go back to school. She stayed with Birkin in his rooms, or at the Mill, moving with him as he moved. But she did not see anybody, save Gudrun and Gerald. She was all strange and wondering as yet, but relieved as by dawn.
Gerald sat talking to her one afternoon in the warm study down at the Mill. Rupert had not yet come home.
`You are happy?' Gerald asked her, with a smile.
`Very happy!' she cried, shrinking a little in her brightness.
`Yes, one can see it.'
`Can one?' cried Ursula in surprise.
He looked up at her with a communicative smile.
`Oh yes, plainly.'
She was pleased. She meditated a moment.
`And can you see that Rupert is happy as well?'
He lowered his eyelids, and looked aside.
`Oh yes,' he said.
`Really!'
`Oh yes.'
He was very quiet, as if it were something not to be talked about by him. He seemed sad.
She was very sensitive to suggestion. She asked the question he wanted her to ask.
`Why don't you be happy as well?' she said. `You could be just the same.'
He paused a moment.
`With Gudrun?' he asked.
`Yes!' she cried, her eyes glowing. But there was a strange tension, an emphasis, as if they were asserting their wishes, against the truth.
`You think Gudrun would have me, and we should be happy?' he said.
`Yes, I'm sure!' she cried.
Her eyes were round with delight. Yet underneath she was constrained, she knew her own insistence.
`Oh, I'm so glad,' she added.
He smiled.
`What makes you glad?' he said.
`For her sake,' she replied. `I'm sure you'd -- you're the right man for her.'
`You are?' he said. `And do you think she would agree with you?'
`Oh yes!' she exclaimed hastily. Then, upon reconsideration, very uneasy: `Though Gudrun isn't so very simple, is she? One doesn't know her in five minutes, does one? She's not like me in that.' She laughed at him with her strange, open, dazzled face.
`You think she's not much like you?' Gerald asked.
She knitted her brows.
`Oh, in many ways she is. But I never know what she will do when anything new comes.'
`You don't?' said Gerald. He was silent for some moments. Then he moved tentatively. `I was going to ask her, in any case, to go away with me at Christmas,' he said, in a very small, cautious voice.
`Go away with you? For a time, you mean?'
`As long as she likes,' he said, with a deprecating movement.
They were both silent for some minutes.
`Of course,' said Ursula at last, `she might just be willing to rush into marriage. You can see.'
`Yes,' smiled Gerald. `I can see. But in case she won't -- do you think she would go abroad with me for a few days -- or for a fortnight?'
`Oh yes,' said Ursula. `I'd ask her.'
`Do you think we might all go together?'
`All of us?' Again Ursula's face lighted up. `It would be rather fun, don't you think?'
`Great fun,' he said.
`And then you could see,' said Ursula.
`What?'
`How things went. I think it is best to take the honeymoon before the wedding -- don't you?'
She was pleased with this mot. He laughed.
`In certain cases,' he said. `I'd rather it were so in my own case.'
`Would you!' exclaimed Ursula. Then doubtingly, `Yes, perhaps you're right. One should please oneself.'
Birkin came in a little later, and Ursula told him what had been said.
`Gudrun!' exclaimed Birkin. `She's a born mistress, just as Gerald is a born lover -- amant en titre. If as somebody says all women are either wives or mistresses, then Gudrun is a mistress.'
`And all men either lovers or husbands,' cried Ursula. `But why not both?'
`The one excludes the other,' he laughed.
`Then I want a lover,' cried Ursula.
`No you don't,' he said.
`But I do,' she wailed.
He kissed her, and laughed.
It was two days after this that Ursula was to go to fetch her things from the house in Beldover. The removal had taken place, the family had gone. Gudrun had rooms in Willey Green.
Ursula had not seen her parents since her marriage. She wept over the rupture, yet what was the good of making it up! Good or not good, she could not go to them. So her things had been left behind and she and Gudrun were to walk over for them, in the afternoon.
It was a wintry afternoon, with red in the sky, when they arrived at the house. The windows were dark and blank, already the place was frightening. A stark, void entrance-hall struck a chill to the hearts of the girls.
`I don't believe I dare have come in alone,' said Ursula. `It frightens me.'
`Ursula!' cried Gudrun. `Isn't it amazing! Can you believe you lived in this place and never felt it? How I lived here a day without dying of terror, I cannot conceive!'
They looked in the big dining-room. It was a good-sized room, but now a cell would have been lovelier. The large bay windows were naked, the floor was stripped, and a border of dark polish went round the tract of pale boarding.
In the faded wallpaper were dark patches where furniture had stood, where pictures had hung. The sense of walls, dry, thin, flimsy-seeming walls, and a flimsy flooring, pale with its artificial black edges, was neutralising to the mind. Everything was null to the senses, there was enclosure without substance, for the walls were dry and papery. Where were they standing, on earth, or suspended in some cardboard box? In the hearth was burnt paper, and scraps of half-burnt paper.
`Imagine that we passed our days here!' said Ursula.
`I know,' cried Gudrun. `It is too appalling. What must we be like, if we are the contents of this!'
`Vile!' said Ursula. `It really is.'
And she recognised half-burnt covers of `Vogue' -- half-burnt representations of women in gowns -- lying under the grate.
They went to the drawing-room. Another piece of shut-in air; without weight or substance, only a sense of intolerable papery imprisonment in nothingness. The kitchen did look more substantial, because of the redtiled floor and the stove, but it was cold and horrid.
The two girls tramped hollowly up the bare stairs. Every sound reechoed under their hearts. They tramped down the bare corridor. Against the wall of Ursula's bedroom were her things -- a trunk, a work-basket, some books, loose coats, a hat-box, standing desolate in the universal emptiness of the dusk.
`A cheerful sight, aren't they?' said Ursula, looking down at her forsaken possessions.
`Very cheerful,' said Gudrun.
The two girls set to, carrying everything down to the front door. Again and again they made the hollow, re-echoing transit. The whole place seemed to resound about them with a noise of hollow, empty futility. In the distance the empty, invisible rooms sent forth a vibration almost of obscenity. They almost fled with the last articles, into the out-of-door.
But it was cold. They were waiting for Birkin, who was coming with the car. They went indoors again, and upstairs to their parents' front bedroom, whose windows looked down on the road, and across the country at the black-barred sunset, black and red barred, without light.
They sat down in the window-seat, to wait. Both girls were looking over the room. It was void, with a meaninglessness that was almost dreadful.
`Really,' said Ursula, `this room couldn't be sacred, could it?'
Gudrun looked over it with slow eyes.
`Impossible,' she replied.
`When I think of their lives -- father's and mother's, their love, and their marriage, and all of us children, and our bringing-up -- would you have such a life, Prune?'
`I wouldn't, Ursula.'
`It all seems so nothing -- their two lives -- there's no meaning in it. Really, if they had not met, and not married, and not lived together -- it wouldn't have mattered, would it?'
`Of course -- you can't tell,' said Gudrun.
`No. But if I thought my life was going to be like it -- Prune,' she caught Gudrun's arm, `I should run.'
Gudrun was silent for a few moments.
`As a matter of fact, one cannot contemplate the ordinary life -- one cannot contemplate it,' replied Gudrun. `With you, Ursula, it is quite different. You will be out of it all, with Birkin. He's a special case. But with the ordinary man, who has his life fixed in one place, marriage is just impossible. There may be, and there are, thousands of women who want it, and could conceive of nothing else. But the very thought of it sends me mad. One must be free, above all, one must be free. One may forfeit everything else, but one must be free -- one must not become 7, Pinchbeck Street -- or Somerset Drive -- or Shortlands. No man will be sufficient to make that good -- no man! To marry, one must have a free lance, or nothing, a comrade-in-arms, a Glckstritter. A man with a position in the social world -- well, it is just impossible, impossible!'
`What a lovely word -- a Glckstritter!' said Ursula. `So much nicer than a soldier of fortune.'
`Yes, isn't it?' said Gudrun. `I'd tilt the world with a Glcksritter. But a home, an establishment! Ursula, what would it mean? -- think!'
`I know,' said Ursula. `We've had one home -- that's enough for me.'
`Quite enough,' said Gudrun.
`The little grey home in the west,' quoted Ursula ironically.
`Doesn't it sound grey, too,' said Gudrun grimly.
They were interrupted by the sound of the car. There was Birkin. Ursula was surprised that she felt so lit up, that she became suddenly so free from the problems of grey homes in the west.
They heard his heels click on the hall pavement below.
`Hello!' he called, his voice echoing alive through the house. Ursula smiled to herself. He was frightened of the place too.
`Hello! Here we are,' she called downstairs. And they heard him quickly running up.
`This is a ghostly situation,' he said.
`These houses don't have ghosts -- they've never had any personality, and only a place with personality can have a ghost,' said Gudrun.
`I suppose so. Are you both weeping over the past?'
`We are,' said Gudrun, grimly.
Ursula laughed.
`Not weeping that it's gone, but weeping that it ever was,' she said.
`Oh,' he replied, relieved.
He sat down for a moment. There was something in his presence, Ursula thought, lambent and alive. It made even the impertinent structure of this null house disappear.
`Gudrun says she could not bear to be married and put into a house,' said Ursula meaningful -- they knew this referred to Gerald.
He was silent for some moments.
`Well,' he said, `if you know beforehand you couldn't stand it, you're safe.'
`Quite!' said Gudrun.
`Why does every woman think her aim in life is to have a hubby and a little grey home in the west? Why is this the goal of life? Why should it be?' said Ursula.
`Il faut avoir le respect de ses btises,' said Birkin.
`But you needn't have the respect for the betise before you've committed it,' laughed Ursula.
`Ah then, des betises du papa?'
`Et de la maman,' added Gudrun satirically.
`Et des voisins,' said Ursula.
They all laughed, and rose. It was getting dark. They carried the things to the car. Gudrun locked the door of the empty house. Birkin had lighted the lamps of the automobile. It all seemed very happy, as if they were setting out.
`Do you mind stopping at Coulsons. I have to leave the key there,' said Gudrun.
`Right,' said Birkin, and they moved off.
They stopped in the main street. The shops were just lighted, the last miners were passing home along the causeways, half-visible shadows in their grey pit-dirt, moving through the blue air. But their feet rang harshly in manifold sound, along the pavement.
How pleased Gudrun was to come out of the shop, and enter the car, and be borne swiftly away into the downhill of palpable dusk, with Ursula and Birkin! What an adventure life seemed at this moment! How deeply, how suddenly she envied Ursula! Life for her was so quick, and an open door -- so reckless as if not only this world, but the world that was gone and the world to come were nothing to her. Ah, if she could be just like that, it would be perfect.
For always, except in her moments of excitement, she felt a want within herself. She was unsure. She had felt that now, at last, in Gerald's strong and violent love, she was living fully and finally. But when she compared herself with Ursula, already her soul was jealous, unsatisfied. She was not satisfied -- she was never to be satisfied.
What was she short of now? It was marriage -- it was the wonderful stability of marriage. She did want it, let her say what she might. She had been lying. The old idea of marriage was right even now -- marriage and the home. Yet her mouth gave a little grimace at the words. She thought of Gerald and Shortlands -- marriage and the home! Ah well, let it rest! He meant a great deal to her -- but -- ! Perhaps it was not in her to marry. She was one of life's outcasts, one of the drifting lives that have no root. No, no it could not be so. She suddenly conjured up a rosy room, with herself in a beautiful gown, and a handsome man in evening dress who held her in his arms in the firelight, and kissed her. This picture she entitled `Home.' It would have done for the Royal Academy.
`Come with us to tea -- do,' said Ursula, as they ran nearer to the cottage of Willey Green.
`Thanks awfully -- but I must go in -- ' said Gudrun. She wanted very much to go on with Ursula and Birkin.
That seemed like life indeed to her. Yet a certain perversity would not let her.
`Do come -- yes, it would be so nice,' pleaded Ursula.
`I'm awfully sorry -- I should love to -- but I can't -- really --'
She descended from the car in trembling haste.
`Can't you really!' came Ursula's regretful voice.
`No, really I can't,' responded Gudrun's pathetic, chagrined words out of the dusk.
`All right, are you?' called Birkin.
`Quite!' said Gudrun. `Good-night!'
`Good-night,' they called.
`Come whenever you like, we shall be glad,' called Birkin.
`Thank you very much,' called Gudrun, in the strange, twanging voice of lonely chagrin that was very puzzling to him. She turned away to her cottage gate, and they drove on. But immediately she stood to watch them, as the car ran vague into the distance. And as she went up the path to her strange house, her heart was full of incomprehensible bitterness.
In her parlour was a long-case clock, and inserted into its dial was a ruddy, round, slant-eyed, joyous-painted face, that wagged over with the most ridiculous ogle when the clock ticked, and back again with the same absurd glad-eye at the next tick. All the time the absurd smooth, brownruddy face gave her an obtrusive `glad-eye.' She stood for minutes, watching it, till a sort of maddened disgust overcame her, and she laughed at herself hollowly. And still it rocked, and gave her the glad-eye from one side, then from the other, from one side, then from the other. Ah, how unhappy she was! In the midst of her most active happiness, ah, how unhappy she was! She glanced at the table. Gooseberry jam, and the same home-made cake with too much soda in it! Still, gooseberry jam was good, and one so rarely got it.
All the evening she wanted to go to the Mill. But she coldly refused to allow herself. She went the next afternoon instead. She was happy to find Ursula alone. It was a lovely, intimate secluded atmosphere. They talked endlessly and delightedly. `Aren't you fearfully happy here?' said Gudrun to her sister glancing at her own bright eyes in the mirror. She always envied, almost with resentment, the strange positive fullness that subsisted in the atmosphere around Ursula and Birkin.
How really beautifully this room is done,' she said aloud. `This hard plaited matting -- what a lovely colour it is, the colour of cool light!'
And it seemed to her perfect.
`Ursula,' she said at length, in a voice of question and detachment, `did you know that Gerald Crich had suggested our going away all together at Christmas?'
`Yes, he's spoken to Rupert.'
A deep flush dyed Gudrun's cheek. She was silent a moment, as if taken aback, and not knowing what to say.
`But don't you thing,' she said at last, `it is amazingly cool!'
Ursula laughed.
`I like him for it,' she said.
Gudrun was silent. It was evident that, whilst she was almost mortified by Gerald's taking the liberty of making such a suggestion to Birkin, yet the idea itself attracted her strongly.
`There's rather lovely simplicity about Gerald, I think,' said Ursula, `so defiant, somehow! Oh, I think he's very lovable.'
Gudrun did not reply for some moments. She had still to get over the feeling of insult at the liberty taken with her freedom.
`What did Rupert say -- do you know?' she asked.
`He said it would be most awfully jolly,' said Ursula.
Again Gudrun looked down, and was silent.
`Don't you think it would?' said Ursula, tentatively. She was never quite sure how many defences Gudrun was having round herself.
Gudrun raised her face with difficulty and held it averted.
`I think it might be awfully jolly, as you say,' she replied. `But don't you think it was an unpardonable liberty to take -- to talk of such things to Rupert -- who after all -- you see what I mean, Ursula -- they might have been two men arranging an outing with some little type they'd picked up. Oh, I think it's unforgivable, quite!' She used the French word `type.'
Her eyes flashed, her soft face was flushed and sullen. Ursula looked on, rather frightened, frightened most of all because she thought Gudrun seemed rather common, really like a little type. But she had not the courage quite to think this -- not right out.
`Oh no,' she cried, stammering. `Oh no -- not at all like that -- oh no! No, I think it's rather beautiful, the friendship between Rupert and Gerald. They just are simple -- they say anything to each other, like brothers.'
Gudrun flushed deeper. She could not bear it that Gerald gave her away -even to Birkin.
`But do you think even brothers have any right to exchange confidences of that sort?' she asked, with deep anger.
`Oh yes,' said Ursula. `There's never anything said that isn't perfectly straightforward. No, the thing that's amazed me most in Gerald -- how perfectly simple and direct he can be! And you know, it takes rather a big man. Most of them must be indirect, they are such cowards.'
But Gudrun was still silent with anger. She wanted the absolute secrecy kept, with regard to her movements.
`Won't you go?' said Ursula. `Do, we might all be so happy! There is something I love about Gerald -- he's much more lovable than I thought him. He's free, Gudrun, he really is.'
Gudrun's mouth was still closed, sullen and ugly. She opened it at length.
`Do you know where he proposes to go?' she asked.
`Yes -- to the Tyrol, where he used to go when he was in Germany -- a lovely place where students go, small and rough and lovely, for winter sport!'
Through Gudrun's mind went the angry thought -- `they know everything.'
`Yes,' she said aloud, `about forty kilometres from Innsbruck, isn't it?'
`I don't know exactly where -- but it would be lovely, don't you think, high in the perfect snow -- ?'
`Very lovely!' said Gudrun, sarcastically.
Ursula was put out.
`Of course,' she said, `I think Gerald spoke to Rupert so that it shouldn't seem like an outing with a type --'
`I know, of course,' said Gudrun, `that he quite commonly does take up with that sort.'
`Does he!' said Ursula. `Why how do you know?'
`I know of a model in Chelsea,' said Gudrun coldly. Now Ursula was silent. `Well,' she said at last, with a doubtful laugh, `I hope he has a good time with her.' At which Gudrun looked more glum.
那天晚上厄秀拉神采奕奕，眼里闪着奇特的光芒回到家中，这副样子把家人气坏了。父亲上完夜课，晚饭时分回来了，路程又远，他累坏了。戈珍正看书。母亲默默地坐着。突然厄秀拉响亮地冲大伙儿说：“卢伯特和我明儿结婚。”
父亲不自然地转过身问：
“你说什么？”
“明天？”戈珍重复道。
“真的？！”母亲说。
厄秀拉只是开心地笑，并不回答。
“明儿结婚！”父亲严厉地叫着，“你这是在说什么鬼话？”
“是的，”厄秀拉说，“为什么不呢？”这口气总是令父亲发疯。“万事俱备了，我们就去登记处登记——”
厄秀拉高兴地说完以后，人们又沉默了。
“这是真的吗，厄秀拉？！”戈珍说。
“我们是否可以问问，为什么这秘密封得这么严？”母亲很有分寸地问。
“没有秘密呀，”厄秀拉说，“这你们知道的呀！”
“谁知道？”父亲大叫着，“谁知道？你说的‘你们知道’
是什么意思？”
他正在发牛脾气，厄秀拉立即反击。
“你当然知道，”她冷冷地说，“你知道我们将要结婚。”
一阵可怕的沉默。
“我们知道你们要结婚，是吗？知道！谁知道你的事，你这个变化无常的东西！”
“爸爸！”戈珍红着脸抗议道。随后她又冷静、语调柔缓地提醒厄秀拉听父亲的话：“不过，这么着急做决定，行吗，厄秀拉？”
“不，并不急，”厄秀拉高兴地说，“他等我的回话好长时间了——他已经开了证明信了。只是我——我还没准备好。现在，我准备好了，还有什么不同意的吗？”
“当然没有，”戈珍说，但仍嗔怪道：“你愿意怎样就怎样呗。”
“你准备好了，你自己，就这么回事！‘我还没准备好，’”
他学着她的口气。“你，你自己很重要，是吗？”
她打起精神，目光很严厉。
“我就是我，”她说。她感到受到了伤害。“我知道我跟任何别人都没关。你只是想压制我，而不管我是不是幸福。”
他倾着身子看着她，神色很是紧张。
“厄秀拉，瞧你都说些什么话！给我住嘴！”妈妈叫着。
厄秀拉转过身，眼里冒着火。
“不，我就不，”她叫着，“我才不吃哑巴亏呢。我哪天结婚又有什么关系——有什么关系！这是我的事，关别人什么事？”
她父亲很紧张，就象一只缩紧身子要弹跳起来的猫。
“怎么没关系？”他问着逼近她。她向后退着。
“有什么关系？”她退缩着但嘴仍很硬。
“难道你的所做所为，跟我无关吗？”他奇怪地叫道。
母亲和戈珍退到一边一动也不动，象被催眠了一样。
“没有，”厄秀拉嗫嚅着。她父亲逼近她。“你只是想——”
她知道说出来没好处，就住口了。他浑身憋足了劲。
“想什么？”他挑衅道。
“控制我，”她嘟哝着。就在她的嘴唇还在动着的时候他一巴掌打在她脸上，把她打得靠在门上。
“爸爸！”戈珍高声叫着，“这样不行！”
他一动也不动地站着，厄秀拉清醒过来了，她的手还抓着门把手，她缓缓站起来。他现在倒不知道该怎么好了。
“不错，”她眼中含着晶莹的泪，昂着头说，“你的爱意味着什么，到底意味着什么？就是欺压和否定——”
他握紧拳头，扭曲着身子走过来，脸上露出杀气。可厄秀拉却闪电般地打开门，往楼上跑去。
他伫立着盯着门。随后象一头斗败了的动物转身走回炉边的座位中去。
戈珍脸色煞白。紧张的寂静中响起母亲冷漠而气愤的声音：
“嗐，你别把她这事看得太重了。”
人们又不说话了，各自想各自的心事。
突然门又开了，厄秀拉戴着帽子，身穿皮衣，手上提着一个小旅行袋。
“再见了！”她气呼呼、颇带讽刺口味地说。“我要走了。”
门马上就关上了。大家听到外屋的门也关上了，随着一阵脚步声传过来，她走上了花园小径。大门“咣当”一下关上了，她的脚步声消失了。屋里变得死一样寂静。
厄秀拉径直朝车站走去，头也不回，旋风般地奔着。站上没火车，她得走到交叉站去等车。她穿过黑夜时，竟禁不住哭出声来，她哭了一路，到了车上还在哭，象孩子一样感到心酸。时间在不知不觉中过去了，她不知道她身在何处，不知道都发生了些什么。她只是一个劲儿绝望悲哀，象个孩子一样哭着。
可当她来到伯金那儿时，她站在门口对伯金的女房东说话的口气却是轻松的。
“晚上好！伯金在吗？我可以见他吗？”
“在，他在书房里。”
厄秀拉从女人身边擦身而过。他的门开了，他刚才听到她说话了。
“哈啰！”他惊奇地叫着，他看到了她手中提着旅行袋，脸上还有泪痕。她象个孩子，脸都没擦干净。
“我是不是显得很难看？”她退缩着说。
“不，怎么会呢？进来。”他接过她的旅行袋，两人一起走进他的书房。
一进去，就象想起伤心事的孩子一样嘴唇哆嗦起来，泪水不禁涌上眼眶。
“怎么了？”他搂住她问。她伏在他肩上啜泣得很厉害。
“怎么了？”待她平静了一点后他又问。可她不说话，只顾一个劲儿把脸深深地埋进他的怀中，象个孩子一样痛苦难言。
“到底怎么了？”他问。
她突然挣开，擦擦泪水恢复了原状，坐到椅子中去。
“爸爸打我了，”她象一只惊弓之鸟一样坐直身子说，眼睛发亮。
“为什么？”他问。
她看看边上，不说话。她那敏感的鼻尖儿和颤抖的双唇红得有点可怜。
“为什么？”他的声音柔和得出奇，但很有穿透力。
她挑衅般地打量着他说：
“因为我说我明天要结婚，于是他就欺负我。”
“为什么这样？”
她撇撇嘴，记起那一幕，泪水又涌上来。
“因为我说他不关心我，但他那霸道样伤害了我。”她边哭边说，哭得嘴都歪了。她这种孩子相，把他逗笑了。可这不是孩子气，她深深地受到了伤害。
“并不全是那么回事吧，”他说，“即便如此你也不该说。”
“是真的，是真的，”她哭道，“他装作爱我，欺负我，其实他不爱，不关心我，他怎么会呢？不，他不会的——”
他沉默地坐着。想了许多许多。
“如果他不爱、不关心你，你就不该跟他闹。”伯金平静地说。
“可我爱他，爱过，”她哭道，“我一直爱他，可他却对我这样，他——”
“这是敌对者之间的爱，”他说，“别在乎，会好起来的，没什么了不起的。”
“对，”她哭道，“是这样的。”
“为什么？”
“我再也不见他了——”
“但不是马上。别哭，你是得离开他，是得这样，别哭。”
他走过去，吻她娇好、细细的头发，轻轻地抚摸她哭湿了的脸。
“别哭，”他重复说，“别再哭了。”
他紧紧地抱着她的头，默默地一言不发。
她终于抬起头睁大恐惧的眼睛问：
“你不需要我吗？”
“需要你？”他神色黯淡的眼睛令她迷惑不解。
“你希望我不来，是吗？”她焦急地问。她生怕自己问得不对。
“不，”他说。“我不希望这种粗暴的事情发生，太糟糕了。
不过，或许这是难以避免的。”
她默默地看着他。他木然了。
“可我呆在哪儿呀？”她问，她感到耻辱。
他思忖着。
“在这儿，和我在一起，”他说，“咱们明天结婚和今天结婚是一样的。”
“可是——”
“我去告诉瓦莉太太，”他说，“别在意。”
他坐着，眼睛看着她。她可以感觉到他黑色的目光在凝视她。这让她感到有点害怕。她紧张地摸着额头上的刘海。
“我丑吗？”
说着她又抽抽鼻子。
他微笑道：
“不丑，还算幸运。”
他走过去抱住她。她太温柔太美了，他不敢看她，只能这样拥着她。现在，她的脸被泪水洗净了，看上去象一朵初绽的花朵，娇媚、新鲜、柔美，花芯放射着异彩，令他不敢看她，他只能拥抱着她，用她的身体挡住自己的双眼。她洁白、透明、纯洁，象始初绽开的鲜花，象阳光在闪烁光芒。她那么新鲜，那么洁净，没有一丝阴影。而他则是那么古老、沉浸在沉重的记忆中。她的灵魂是清新的，与未知世界一起闪烁光芒。而他的灵魂则是晦黯的，只有一丝希望，象一粒黄色的种子。但仅仅这一粒活生生的种子却点燃了她的青春。
“我爱你，”他吻着她喃言道。他因着希望而颤抖，就象一个复活的人获得了超越死亡的希望。
她不知道这对他有多么重大的意义，不知道他这几句话到底有多大分量。她象孩子一样需要证实，需要说明，甚至夸大的说明，因为一切似乎仍然不确定、不稳定。
在他濒临死亡，即将和他的民族一起沉入死谷的时刻；他接受她时所流露出的那股恋情和感激之情；当他知道自己还活着并且能够与她结合时那种难以言表的幸福感，这一切的一切她是无法理解的。他崇拜她，就象老人崇拜青年，他为她感到自豪，是因为他深信他同她一样年轻，他是她合适的配偶。与她的结合意味着他的复活，这婚姻是他的生命。
这些她并不知道。她想对他变得重要起来，让他崇拜自己。他们中间隔着无限的沉寂距离。他怎么能告诉她，她内在的美不是形体、重量和色彩，而是一种奇怪的金光！他自己怎么能知道她对他来说是一个怎样的美人呐。他说：“你的鼻子很美，你的下巴让人崇拜。”可他的话象是谎言，让她失望、伤心。甚至当他喃言絮语“我爱你，我爱你”时，她也觉得这话不真实。它是某种超越爱的东西，超越了个人，超越了故有的存在。当他是某个新的未知人，不是他自己时，他何以能说“我”？这个“我”是一个旧的形式，因此是一个死掉的字母。
在这新的，超越感知的宁馨和欢愉中，没有我，没有你，只有第三个未被意识到的奇迹，这不是自我的存在，而是我的生命与她的生命合成的一个新的极乐结合体。当我的生命终止了，你的生命也终止了的时候，我怎么能说“我爱你”呢？我们都被对方吸住，浑然一体，世界的一切都沉默了，因为没什么需要我们回答，一切都是完美的，天衣无缝。他们在沉默中交流着语言，这完美的整体是欢乐的沉寂体。
第二天他们就结成了法律上的婚姻。她依从他的要求给父亲和母亲写了信。母亲回了信，父亲却没有。
她没有回学校。她和伯金一起或呆在他的房中，或去磨房，他俩形影相随。可她谁也不去看，只去看了戈珍和杰拉德。她变得十分陌生，让人猜不透，不过她情绪开朗了，就象破晓的天空一样。
一天下午，杰拉德和她在磨房那温暖的书房中聊着天。卢伯特还没回家。
“你幸福吗？”杰拉德笑问道。
“很幸福！”她很有精神地叫着。
“是啊，看得出。”
“是吗？”厄秀拉吃惊地问。
他笑着看着她。
“是的，很简单。”
她很高兴。思忖了片刻她问他：
“你看卢伯特是不是也很幸福？”
他垂下眼皮向一边看去。
“是的。”他说。
“真的！”
“是的。”
他十分平静，似乎这种事不该由他来谈论。他看上去有点不高兴。
她对他的提示很敏感。于是她提出了他想要她问的问题。
“那你为什么不感到幸福呢？你也应该一样。”
他不说话了。
“同戈珍一起？”他问。
“对！”她目光炯炯地叫着。可是他们都感到莫名其妙的紧张，似乎他们是在违背真实说话。
“你以为戈珍会拥有我，我们会幸福？”他问。
“对，我敢肯定！”她说。
她的眼睛兴奋地睁得圆圆的。但她心里挺紧张，她知道她这是在强求。
“哦，我太高兴了。”她补充道。
他笑了。
“什么让你这么高兴？”他说。
“为了她，”她说。“我相信，你会的，你会是她合适的郎君。”
“是吗？”他说，“你以为她会同意你的看法吗？”
“当然了！”她马上说。但又一想，她又不安起来。“当然戈珍并不那么简单，对吗？她并不那么容易让人懂，对吗？在这一点上她跟我可不一样。”她戏弄他，笑得人眼花缭乱。
“你觉得她并不太象你吗？”杰拉德问。
她皱紧了眉头。
“在好多方面象我。可我不知道有了新情况她会怎样。”
“是吗？”杰拉德问。他好半天没有说话。随后他动动身子说：“我将要求她不管怎样也要在圣诞节时跟我走。”他声音很小，话说得很谨慎。
“跟你走，你是说短期内？”
“她愿多久就多久。”他说。
他们都沉默了。
“当然，”厄秀拉说，“她很可能急于成婚。你看得出来吧。”
“对，”杰拉德说，“我看得出。可就怕她不乐意。你觉得她会跟我出国几天或两周吗？”
“会的，”她说，“我会问问她的。”
“你觉得咱们都去怎么样？”
“咱们大伙儿？”厄秀拉脸色又开朗了。“这一定会十分有意思，对吗？”
“太好了。”他说。
“到那时你会发现，”厄秀拉说。
“发现什么？”
“发现事情的进展。我想最好在婚礼前度蜜月，你说呢？”
她对自己的妙语感到满意。他笑了。
“在某些情况下是这样，”他说，“我希望我就这样做。”
“是吗？！”厄秀拉叫道，“是啊，也许你是对的，人应该自得其乐。”
伯金回来后，厄秀拉把谈话内容告诉给他听。
“戈珍！”伯金叫道。“她天生就是个情妇，就象杰拉德是个情夫一样，绝妙的情人。有人说，女人不是妻子就是情妇，戈珍就是情妇。”
“男人们不是情夫就是丈夫，”厄秀拉叫道，“为什么不身兼二职呢？”
“它们是不相容的。”他笑道。
“那我需要情夫。”厄秀拉叫道。
“不，你不需要。”他说。
“可我需要！”她大叫。
他吻了她，笑了。
两天以后，厄秀拉回贝多弗家中去取自己的东西。家搬走了。戈珍在威利·格林有了自己的房子。
婚后厄秀拉还未见过自己的父母。她为这场磨擦哭了，唉，这有什么好处！不管怎么样，她是不能去找他们了。她东西被留在了贝多弗，她和戈珍不得不步行去取东西。
这是一个冬日的下午，来到家中时，夕阳已落山。窗户黑洞洞的，这地方有点吓人。一迈进黑乎乎空荡荡的前厅，两个姑娘就感到不寒而栗。
“我不相信我敢一个人来这儿。”厄秀拉说，“我害怕。”
“厄秀拉！”戈珍叫道，“这不是很奇怪吗？你能够想象你会毫无知觉地住在这儿吗？我可以想象我在这儿住上一天都会吓死的！”
她们看了看大饭厅。这屋子是够大的，不过小点才可爱呢。凸窗现在是光秃秃的，地板已脱了漆，浅浅的地板上涂有一圈黑漆线。褪色的墙纸上有一块块的暗迹，那儿是原先靠放家具和挂着画框的地方。干燥、薄脆的墙和薄脆易裂的地板，淡淡的地板上黑色的装饰线让人的恐惧感有所减轻。一切都无法激动人的感官，因为这屋里没有任何实在的物体，那墙象纸做的一样。她们这是站在什么地方？是站在地球上还是悬在纸箱中？壁炉中燃烧着一些纸片，有的还没烧完。
“真难以想象我们怎么会生活在这个地方！”厄秀拉说。
“就是嘛，”戈珍叫道，“这太可怕了。如果我们住在现在这个环境中我们会成为什么样子？”
“讨厌！”厄秀拉说，“这可真让人讨厌。”
这时她发现壁炉架上燃烧着的纸，那是时髦的包装纸——两个身着袍子的女人像正在燃烧。
她们走进客厅。这里又有一种与世隔绝的气氛。没有重量，没有实体，只有一种被纸张包围在虚无之中的感觉。厨房看上去还实在，因为里面铺着红砖地面，还有炉子，可一切都冷冰冰的，挺可怕的。
两个姑娘六神无主地爬上空旷的楼梯。每一个声音都在她们心头回响。随后她们又走上空荡荡的走廊。厄秀拉卧室里靠墙的地方堆着她自己的东西：一只皮箱，一只针线筐，一些书本，衣物，一只帽箱。暮色中，这些东西在空屋子里显得孤孤零零的。
“一幅多么令人欣慰的景象啊，不是吗？”厄秀拉看着她这堆被遗弃的财产说。
“很好玩儿”戈珍说。
两个姑娘开始把所有东西都搬到前门来。她们就这样一遍又一遍地在空屋子中来来回回搬着。整座房屋似乎都回荡着空旷的、虚无的声音。那空旷的房屋在身后发生可憎的颤音。她们几乎是提着最后一件东西跑出来的。
外面很冷。她们在等伯金，他会开车来的。等了一会儿她们又进了屋，上楼来到父母的卧室中。从窗口可看到下面的大路，放眼望去可望到晦暗的夕阳，一片暗红，没有一丝光芒。
她们坐在凹进去的窗台上等着伯金。她们环视着屋里，空旷的屋子，空得让人害怕。
“真的，”厄秀拉说，“这屋子无法变得神圣，你说呢？”
戈珍缓缓地看着屋子说：
“不可能。”
“我常想起爸爸和妈妈的生活，他们的爱他们的婚姻，我们这群孩子和我们的成长，你愿意过这样的生活吗？”
“不愿意，厄秀拉。”
“这一切似乎没什么意义——他们的生命，没一点意义。真的，如果他们没有相遇，没有结婚，没有一起生活，就无所谓，对吗？”
“当然，这没法儿说。”戈珍说。
“是的。可是，如果我以为我的生活也要成为这个样子，”
她抓住戈珍的胳膊说，“我就会逃跑。”
戈珍沉默了一会儿才说话。
“其实，一个人是无法思索普通的生活的，无法。”戈珍说，“厄秀拉，对你来说这不同。你会同伯金一起脱离这一切。他是个特殊的人。可对于一个普通的人来说，他的生活是固定在一处的，婚姻是不可能的。或许有，的确有千百个女人需要这个，她们不会想别的。可一想到这个我就会发疯。一个人首要的是自由，是自由。一个人可以放弃一切，可他必须自由，他不应该变成品切克街７号，或索莫塞特街７号，或肖特兰兹７号。那样谁也好不了，谁也不会！要结婚，就得找一个自由行动的人，一个战友，一个幸福的骑士。找一个在社会上有地位的人，这是不可能的，不可能！”
“一个多好的词儿呀——幸福骑士！”厄秀拉说，“比说‘有福的战士’要好得多。”
“是的，难道不是吗？”戈珍说，“我愿意和一个幸福骑士一起推翻世界。可是，家！固定的职业！厄秀拉，这都意味着什么？想想吧！”
“我知道，”厄秀拉说，“我们有一个家，对我来说这就够了。”
“足够了？”戈珍说。
“‘西边灰色的小屋①，’”厄秀拉嘲弄地引了一句诗。
“这诗听着就有点灰。”戈珍忧郁地说。
①英国十九世纪诗人D·厄德利·威尔莫特诗《我灰色的小屋》。
她们的谈话被汽车声打断了。伯金到了。厄秀拉感到惊奇的是她感到激动，一下子从“西边灰色小屋”的问题中解脱了出来。
她们听到他在楼下甬路上走路的脚步声。
“哈啰！”他招呼着，他的声音在屋里回荡着。厄秀拉自顾笑了：原来他也怕这个地方。
“哈啰！我们在这儿。”她冲下面叫道。随后她们听到他快步跑上来。
“这儿鬼气十足。”他说。
“这些屋子中没有鬼，这儿从来没有名人，只有有名人的地方才会有鬼。”戈珍说。
“我想是的。你们正为过去哀伤吗？”
“是的。”戈珍阴郁地说。
厄秀拉笑了。
“不是哀悼它的逝去，而是哀悼它的存在。”她说。
“哦，”他松了一口气道。
他坐下了。他身上有什么东西在闪烁，活生生的，厄秀拉想。他的存在令这虚无的房屋消失了。
“戈珍说她不忍心结婚并被关在家中。”厄秀拉意味深长地说，大家都知道她指的是杰拉德。
他沉默了一会儿说：“如果你在婚前就知道你无法忍受的话，那很好。”
“对！”戈珍说。
“为什么每个女人都认为她生活的目的就是有个丈夫和一处西边灰色的小屋？为什么这就是生活的目标？为什么应该这样？”厄秀拉问。
“你应该尊重自己做出的傻事，”伯金说。
“可是在你做傻事之前你不应该尊重它。”厄秀拉笑道。
“可如果是爸爸做的傻事呢？”
“还有妈妈做的傻事。”戈珍调侃地补充上一句。
“还有邻居做的。”厄秀拉说。
大家都笑着站起来。夜幕降临了。他们把东西搬到车上，戈珍锁上空房的门。伯金打开了汽车上的灯。大家都显得很幸福，似乎要出游一样。
“在库尔森斯停一下好吗。我得把钥匙留在那儿。”戈珍说。
“好哩。”伯金说完就开动了车子。
他们停在大街上。商店刚刚掌灯。最后一批矿工沿着人行道回家，他们穿着肮脏的工作服，让人看不大清。可他们的脚步声却听得清。
戈珍走出商店回到车中。跟厄秀拉和伯金一起乘车在夜色中下山是多么惬意呀！在这一时刻，生活多象一场冒险呀！突然，她感到自己是那么强烈地忌妒厄秀拉！生活对厄秀拉来说竟是那么活生生的，是一扇敞开的门，似乎不仅仅这个世界，就是过去的世界和未来的世界对她来说都不算什么。
啊，如果她也能象她那样，那该多好。
除了激动的时候以外，她总感到自己心中有一种欲望，她还拿不准。她感到，在杰拉德强烈的爱中，她获得了完整的生命。可她同厄秀拉相比就感到不满足了，她心里已经开始嫉妒厄秀拉了。她不满，她永远也不会满足。
她现在缺少什么呢？缺少婚姻——美妙、安宁的婚姻。她的确需要它。以前她的话都是在骗人。旧的婚姻观念甚至于今都是对的——婚姻和家庭。可说起来她又嘴硬。她想念杰拉德和肖特兰兹——婚姻和家！啊，让这成为现实吧！他对她来说太重要了——可是——！也许她并不适合结婚。她是生活的弃儿，是没有根的生命。不，不，不会是这样。她突然想象有那么一间玫瑰色的房子，她身着美丽的袍子，一个穿晚礼服的漂亮男人在火光中拥抱着她、吻她。她给这幅画起名为《家》。这幅画可以送给皇家学院了。
“来和我们一起喝茶吧，来，”快到威利·格林村舍时厄秀拉说。
“太谢谢了，可我必须去——”戈珍说。她非常想同厄秀拉和伯金一起去，那样才象生活的样子。可她的怪想法又不允许她这样。
“来吧，那该多好呀。”厄秀拉请求道。
“太抱歉了，我很愿意去，可我不能，真的——”
说着她急急忙忙下了车。
“你真不能来吗？！”厄秀拉遗憾地说。
“不能去，真的。”戈珍懊悔地说。
“你，行吗？”伯金问。
“行！”戈珍说，“再见。”
“再见。”他们说。
“什么时候想来就来，我们会很高兴见到你。”伯金说。
“非常感谢，”戈珍说。她那奇怪的鼻音显得她孤独、懊悔，令伯金不解。戈珍转身向村舍大门走去，他们开车走了。等他们的车一开动，她就停住脚步看他们，直看着车子消失在夜色朦胧的远方。她走上通往陌生的家的路，心里感到难言的痛苦。
她的起居室里挂着一座长型钟，数字盘上镶着一张红润、欢快的人脸画像，眼睛是斜的，秒针一动那人就飞动起媚眼儿。这张光滑、红润的怪脸一直向她炫耀着这双媚眼。她站着看了它一会儿，最后她感到十分厌恶，不禁自嘲来。可这双眼还在晃动，一会儿这边，一会儿那边向她飞着媚眼儿。啊，这东西可真高兴啊！正是兴高采烈的时候！她朝桌上看去：醋栗果酱，还有家做蛋糕，里面苏达太多了！不过，醋栗果酱还不错，人们很少吃到。
整个晚上她都想到磨房去，可她还是冷酷地阻止自己这样做。第二天下午她才去。她很高兴看到只有厄秀拉一个人在。她们之间很亲热，没完没了地兴高采烈地大聊特聊。“你在这儿简直太幸福了吧？”戈珍看着镜子里姐那明亮的眼睛说。她对厄秀拉和伯金周围那种奇特的热烈而完美的气氛总感到忌妒，甚至气愤。
“这屋子布置得太漂亮了。”她大声说，“这张硬席子的颜色很可爱，很淡雅！”
她觉得这很完美。
“厄秀拉，”她似问非问地说，“你知道杰拉德·克里奇建议我们在圣诞节时出走吗？”
“知道，他对卢伯特说了。”
戈珍的脸红透了。她沉默了片刻，似乎惊得说不出话来。
“可你是不是觉得，”戈珍终于说，“这建议太冷酷了！”
厄秀拉笑了。
“我喜欢他这样。”她说。
戈珍不说话了。很明显，她听说杰拉德擅自对伯金透露计划后感到受到了污辱，可这建议本身却强烈地吸引着她。
“杰拉德天真得有点可爱，我觉得，”厄秀拉带着点挑战的味道说，“我觉得他很可爱。”
戈珍半天没说话。她仍旧对杰拉德随意冒犯她感到屈辱。
“那卢伯特说什么，你知道吗？”她问。
“他说那可是太好了。”厄秀拉回答。
戈珍垂下眼皮沉默了。
“你觉得会吗？”厄秀拉试探着问。她从来都弄不清戈珍到底如何在保护自身。
戈珍艰难地抬起头，向一边扭去。
“我觉得可能会象你说的那样十分有意思，”她说，“可是，你不认为他这样太无礼了吗——同卢伯特说这种事，不能原谅他，卢伯特——当然，你知道我的意思。厄秀拉，很可能这是他们两个人安排好的一次出游，捎带上什么伙伴。我觉得不能原谅，真的！”
她目光闪烁，柔和的脸红了，面带怒色。厄秀拉很害怕，怕的是戈珍太平庸了，可她又不敢这样想。
“哦，不，”她结结巴巴地说，“不，不，不是那样的，不！我以为卢伯特和杰拉德之间的友情很好。他们很单纯——他们之间无话不说，就象兄弟一样。”
戈珍的脸更红了。她不能容忍杰拉德出卖了她，甚至对伯金出卖她。
“可是，你认为兄弟间也可以交换那
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