Chapter 31

Exeunt WHEN THEY brought the body home, the next morning, Gudrun was shut up in her room. From her window she saw men coming along with a burden, over the snow. She sat still and let the minutes go by.

There came a tap at her door. She opened. There stood a woman, saying softly, oh, far too reverently:

`They have found him, madam!'

`Il est mort?'

`Yes -- hours ago.'

Gudrun did not know what to say. What should she say? What should she feel? What should she do? What did they expect of her? She was coldly at a loss.

`Thank you,' she said, and she shut the door of her room. The woman went away mortified. Not a word, not a tear -- ha! Gudrun was cold, a cold woman.

Gudrun sat on in her room, her face pale and impassive. What was she to do? She could not weep and make a scene. She could not alter herself. She sat motionless, hiding from people. Her one motive was to avoid actual contact with events. She only wrote out a long telegram to Ursula and Birkin.

In the afternoon, however, she rose suddenly to look for Loerke. She glanced with apprehension at the door of the room that had been Gerald's. Not for worlds would she enter there.

She found Loerke sitting alone in the lounge. She went straight up to him.

`It isn't true, is it?' she said.

He looked up at her. A small smile of misery twisted his face. He shrugged his shoulders.

`True?' he echoed.

`We haven't killed him?' she asked.

He disliked her coming to him in such a manner. He raised his shoulders wearily.

`It has happened,' he said.

She looked at him. He sat crushed and frustrated for the time being, quite as emotionless and barren as herself. My God! this was a barren tragedy, barren, barren.

She returned to her room to wait for Ursula and Birkin. She wanted to get away, only to get away. She could not think or feel until she had got away, till she was loosed from this position.

The day passed, the next day came. She heard the sledge, saw Ursula and Birkin alight, and she shrank from these also.

Ursula came straight up to her.

`Gudrun!' she cried, the tears running down her cheeks. And she took her sister in her arms. Gudrun hid her face on Ursula's shoulder, but still she could not escape the cold devil of irony that froze her soul.

`Ha, ha!' she thought, `this is the right behaviour.'

But she could not weep, and the sight of her cold, pale, impassive face soon stopped the fountain of Ursula's tears. In a few moments, the sisters had nothing to say to each other.

`Was it very vile to be dragged back here again?' Gudrun asked at length.

Ursula looked up in some bewilderment.

`I never thought of it,' she said.

`I felt a beast, fetching you,' said Gudrun. `But I simply couldn't see people. That is too much for me.'

`Yes,' said Ursula, chilled.

Birkin tapped and entered. His face was white and expressionless. She knew he knew. He gave her his hand, saying:

`The end of this trip, at any rate.'

Gudrun glanced at him, afraid.

There was silence between the three of them, nothing to be said. At length Ursula asked in a small voice:

`Have you seen him?'

He looked back at Ursula with a hard, cold look, and did not trouble to answer.

`Have you seen him?' she repeated.

`I have,' he said, coldly.

Then he looked at Gudrun.

`Have you done anything?' he said.

`Nothing,' she replied, `nothing.'

She shrank in cold disgust from making any statement.

`Loerke says that Gerald came to you, when you were sitting on the sledge at the bottom of the Rudelbahn, that you had words, and Gerald walked away. What were the words about? I had better know, so that I can satisfy the authorities, if necessary.'

Gudrun looked up at him, white, childlike, mute with trouble.

`There weren't even any words,' she said. `He knocked Loerke down and stunned him, he half strangled me, then he went away.'

To herself she was saying:

`A pretty little sample of the eternal triangle!' And she turned ironically away, because she knew that the fight had been between Gerald and herself and that the presence of the third party was a mere contingency -an inevitable contingency perhaps, but a contingency none the less. But let them have it as an example of the eternal triangle, the trinity of hate. It would be simpler for them.

Birkin went away, his manner cold and abstracted. But she knew he would do things for her, nevertheless, he would see her through. She smiled slightly to herself, with contempt. Let him do the work, since he was so extremely good at looking after other people.

Birkin went again to Gerald. He had loved him. And yet he felt chiefly disgust at the inert body lying there. It was so inert, so coldly dead, a carcase, Birkin's bowels seemed to turn to ice. He had to stand and look at the frozen dead body that had been Gerald.

It was the frozen carcase of a dead male. Birkin remembered a rabbit which he had once found frozen like a board on the snow. It had been rigid like a dried board when he picked it up. And now this was Gerald, stiff as a board, curled up as if for sleep, yet with the horrible hardness somehow evident. It filled him with horror. The room must be made warm, the body must be thawed. The limbs would break like glass or like wood if they had to be straightened.

He reached and touched the dead face. And the sharp, heavy bruise of ice bruised his living bowels. He wondered if he himself were freezing too, freezing from the inside. In the short blond moustache the life-breath was frozen into a block of ice, beneath the silent nostrils. And this was Gerald!

Again he touched the sharp, almost glittering fair hair of the frozen body. It was icy-cold, hair icy-cold, almost venomous. Birkin's heart began to freeze. He had loved Gerald. Now he looked at the shapely, strangecoloured face, with the small, fine, pinched nose and the manly cheeks, saw it frozen like an ice-pebble -- yet he had loved it. What was one to think or feel? His brain was beginning to freeze, his blood was turning to ice-water. So cold, so cold, a heavy, bruising cold pressing on his arms from outside, and a heavier cold congealing within him, in his heart and in his bowels.

He went over the snow slopes, to see where the death had been. At last he came to the great shallow among the precipices and slopes, near the summit of the pass. It was a grey day, the third day of greyness and stillness. All was white, icy, pallid, save for the scoring of black rocks that jutted like roots sometimes, and sometimes were in naked faces. In the distance a slope sheered down from a peak, with many black rockslides.

It was like a shallow pot lying among the stone and snow of the upper world. In this pot Gerald had gone to sleep. At the far end, the guides had driven iron stakes deep into the snow-wall, so that, by means of the great rope attached, they could haul themselves up the massive snow-front, out on to the jagged summit of the pass, naked to heaven, where the Marienhutte hid among the naked rocks. Round about, spiked, slashed snow-peaks pricked the heaven.

Gerald might have found this rope. He might have hauled himself up to the crest. He might have heard the dogs in the Marienhutte, and found shelter. He might have gone on, down the steep, steep fall of the south-side, down into the dark valley with its pines, on to the great Imperial road leading south to Italy.

He might! And what then? The Imperial road! The south? Italy? What then? Was it a way out? It was only a way in again. Birkin stood high in the painful air, looking at the peaks, and the way south. Was it any good going south, to Italy? Down the old, old Imperial road?

He turned away. Either the heart would break, or cease to care. Best cease to care. Whatever the mystery which has brought forth man and the universe, it is a non-human mystery, it has its own great ends, man is not the criterion. Best leave it all to the vast, creative, non-human mystery. Best strive with oneself only, not with the universe.

`God cannot do without man.' It was a saying of some great French religious teacher. But surely this is false. God can do without man. God could do without the ichthyosauri and the mastodon. These monsters failed creatively to develop, so God, the creative mystery, dispensed with them. In the same way the mystery could dispense with man, should he too fail creatively to change and develop. The eternal creative mystery could dispose of man, and replace him with a finer created being. Just as the horse has taken the place of the mastodon.

It was very consoling to Birkin, to think this. If humanity ran into a cul de sac and expended itself, the timeless creative mystery would bring forth some other being, finer, more wonderful, some new, more lovely race, to carry on the embodiment of creation. The game was never up. The mystery of creation was fathomless, infallible, inexhaustible, forever. Races came and went, species passed away, but ever new species arose, more lovely, or equally lovely, always surpassing wonder. The fountainhead was incorruptible and unsearchable. It had no limits. It could bring forth miracles, create utter new races and new species, in its own hour, new forms of consciousness, new forms of body, new units of being. To be man was as nothing compared to the possibilities of the creative mystery. To have one's pulse beating direct from the mystery, this was perfection, unutterable satisfaction. Human or inhuman mattered nothing. The perfect pulse throbbed with indescribable being, miraculous unborn species.

Birkin went home again to Gerald. He went into the room, and sat down on the bed. Dead, dead and cold! Imperial Caesar dead, and turned to clay Would stop a hole to keep the wind away.

There was no response from that which had been Gerald. Strange, congealed, icy substance -- no more. No more!

Terribly weary, Birkin went away, about the day's business. He did it all quietly, without bother. To rant, to rave, to be tragic, to make situations -- it was all too late. Best be quiet, and bear one's soul in patience and in fullness.

But when he went in again, at evening, to look at Gerald between the candles, because of his heart's hunger, suddenly his heart contracted, his own candle all but fell from his hand, as, with a strange whimpering cry, the tears broke out. He sat down in a chair, shaken by a sudden access. Ursula who had followed him, recoiled aghast from him, as he sat with sunken head and body convulsively shaken, making a strange, horrible sound of tears.

`I didn't want it to be like this -- I didn't want it to be like this,' he cried to himself. Ursula could but think of the Kaiser's: `Ich habe as nicht gewollt.' She looked almost with horror on Birkin.

Suddenly he was silent. But he sat with his head dropped, to hide his face. Then furtively he wiped his face with his fingers. Then suddenly he lifted his head, and looked straight at Ursula, with dark, almost vengeful eyes.

`He should have loved me,' he said. `I offered him.'

She, afraid, white, with mute lips answered:

`What difference would it have made!'

`It would!' he said. `It would.'

He forgot her, and turned to look at Gerald. With head oddly lifted, like a man who draws his head back from an insult, half haughtily, he watched the cold, mute, material face. It had a bluish cast. It sent a shaft like ice through the heart of the living man. Cold, mute, material! Birkin remembered how once Gerald had clutched his hand, with a warm, momentaneous grip of final love. For one second -- then let go again, let go for ever. If he had kept true to that clasp, death would not have mattered. Those who die, and dying still can love, still believe, do not die. They live still in the beloved. Gerald might still have been living in the spirit with Birkin, even after death. He might have lived with his friend, a further life.

But now he was dead, like clay, like bluish, corruptible ice. Birkin looked at the pale fingers, the inert mass. He remembered a dead stallion he had seen: a dead mass of maleness, repugnant. He remembered also the beautiful face of one whom he had loved, and who had died still having the faith to yield to the mystery. That dead face was beautiful, no one could call it cold, mute, material. No one could remember it without gaining faith in the mystery, without the soul's warming with new, deep life-trust.

And Gerald! The denier! He left the heart cold, frozen, hardly able to beat. Gerald's father had looked wistful, to break the heart: but not this last terrible look of cold, mute Matter. Birkin watched and watched.

Ursula stood aside watching the living man stare at the frozen face of the dead man. Both faces were unmoved and unmoving. The candle-flames flickered in the frozen air, in the intense silence.

`Haven't you seen enough?' she said.

He got up.

`It's a bitter thing to me,' he said.

`What -- that he's dead?' she said.

His eyes just met hers. He did not answer.

`You've got me,' she said.

He smiled and kissed her.

`If I die,' he said, `you'll know I haven't left you.'

`And me?' she cried.

`And you won't have left me,' he said. `We shan't have any need to despair, in death.'

She took hold of his hand.

`But need you despair over Gerald?' she said.

`Yes,' he answered.

They went away. Gerald was taken to England, to be buried. Birkin and Ursula accompanied the body, along with one of Gerald's brothers. It was the Crich brothers and sisters who insisted on the burial in England. Birkin wanted to leave the dead man in the Alps, near the snow. But the family was strident, loudly insistent.

Gudrun went to Dresden. She wrote no particulars of herself. Ursula stayed at the Mill with Birkin for a week or two. They were both very quiet.

`Did you need Gerald?' she asked one evening.

`Yes,' he said.

`Aren't I enough for you?' she asked.

`No,' he said. `You are enough for me, as far as a woman is concerned. You are all women to me. But I wanted a man friend, as eternal as you and I are eternal.'

`Why aren't I enough?' she said. `You are enough for me. I don't want anybody else but you. Why isn't it the same with you?'

`Having you, I can live all my life without anybody else, any other sheer intimacy. But to make it complete, really happy, I wanted eternal union with a man too: another kind of love,' he said.

`I don't believe it,' she said. `It's an obstinacy, a theory, a perversity.'

`Well --' he said.

`You can't have two kinds of love. Why should you!'

It seems as if I can't,' he said. `Yet I wanted it.'

`You can't have it, because it's false, impossible,' she said.

`I don't believe that,' he answered.

翌日清晨别人把杰拉德的尸体运了回来，此时戈珍还闭门未出。她看到窗外几个男人抬着什么重负踏雪走来。她静静地坐着磨时间。

有人敲门。她打开门，门外站着一个女人，轻柔地很有礼貌地说：

“夫人，他们找到了他！”

“他死了？”

“是的，死了好几个小时了。”

戈珍不知说什么好。她应该说什么呢？她做何感想？她该做什么？他们指望她做什么？她茫然无措，露出一副冷漠相。

“谢谢，”说完她关上了卧室的门。那女人窝着火走开了。没有一句话，没有一滴泪，戈珍就是这么冷，一个冷酷的女人。

戈珍继续在屋里坐着，苍白的脸上毫无表情。她怎么办？她哭不出来，也不能闹一通。她无法改变自己。她纹丝不动地坐着，躲着别人。她的一招儿就是避免介入这事。然后她给厄秀拉和伯金发了一封长长的电报。

下午，她突然起身去找洛克。她害怕地朝杰拉德住过的屋子瞟了一眼。她无论如何是不会再进那间屋了。

她看到洛克独自一人坐在客厅里，就径直向他走过去。

“是真的吗？”她问。

他抬头看看他，苦笑一下，耸耸肩。

“真的吗？”他重复道。

“不是我们害的他吧？”她问。

他不喜欢她这副样子。他疲乏地耸耸肩道：

“可是，事儿是出了。”

她看看他。他颓唐地坐着，同她一样冷漠无情，倍觉无聊。我的天！这是一场无聊的悲剧，无聊，无聊透了。

她回到自己屋里去等厄秀拉和伯金。她想离开这儿，一个心眼儿要离开这儿。除非离开这儿，否则她就无法思想，没有感觉，不脱离这种境况她就完了。

一天过去了。翌日。她听到一阵雪橇声响。随后看到厄秀拉和伯金从高坡上滑下来，她想躲开他们。

厄秀拉直奔她而来。

“戈珍！”她叫着，泪水淌下了面颊。她一下子搂住了妹妹。戈珍把脸埋进她的怀中，可她仍然无法摆脱心头那冷酷、嘲弄人的魔鬼。

“哈，哈！”她想，“这种表现最恰当。”

可她哭不出来。看着戈珍那冷漠之情，苍白的脸，厄秀拉的泪泉也干涸了。一时间，姐妹二人竟无言以对。

“把你们又拉到这儿来是不是太可恶了？”戈珍终于说。

厄秀拉十分吃惊地抬头看着戈珍。

“我可没这么想。”她说。

“我觉得把你们叫来，真太难为你们了，”戈珍说，“可我简直不能见人。这事儿太让我无法忍受了。”

“是啊，”厄秀拉说着，心里发凉。

伯金敲敲门走了进来。他脸色苍白，毫无表情。她知道他什么都知道了。他向她伸出手说：

“这次旅行算结束了。”

戈珍有点害怕地看看他。

三个人都沉默了，没什么可说的。最后还是厄秀拉小声问：

“你见过他了？”

伯金看看厄秀拉，目光冷酷得很。他没回答。

“你见过他了？”她重复道。

“见了。”他冷冷地说。

然后他看看戈珍。

“你都做了些什么？”他问。

“什么也没有，”她说，“什么也没有。”

她感到恶心，回避回答任何问题。

“洛克说，你们在路德巴亨谷底坐在雪橇上时，杰拉德来找你，你们吵了一架，杰拉德就走了。你们为什么吵？我最好知道一下，如果当局来调查，我也好说点什么。”

戈珍面色苍白，象个孩子似地看看他，心烦意乱，一言不发。

“我们根本就没吵，”她说，“他把洛克打倒，打晕，还差点掐死我，然后他就走了。

可她心里却对自己说：

“这是永恒的三角恋的绝妙例子！”但她明白，这场斗争是杰拉德和她之间的斗争，第三者插足只是个偶然现象——或许是不可避免的偶然，但毕竟是个偶然。就让他们把这事当成三角恋的一例吧，是三人的仇恨所致。对他们来说这样更容易理解。

伯金冷漠地走开了。但她知道他无论如何总会替她出把力，他会帮忙帮到底的。她情不自禁轻蔑地笑了。让他去干吧，反正他是关心别人的好榜样。

伯金又去看杰拉德。他爱过他。可一看到那具纹丝不动的尸体他又感到厌恶。这尸体冰冷、僵硬，令伯金五脏发凉。

他站在那儿，看着冻僵的杰拉德。

这是一个冻死的男性。他让伯金想起一只冻死的兔子，象一块木板冻在雪地上。他拣起那兔子时，它早已冻成了一块干木头。现在，杰拉德也象一块冻僵的木块，缩着身子似乎是在睡，可他明显得僵硬了，硬得吓人。伯金感到十分恐惧。这房子得弄暖和点才行，尸首得化一化，否则一拉直，他的四肢就会象玻璃或木头一样碎裂。

他伸手去抚摸那张死者的脸，那脸上被冰雪划出的伤口令他五内俱焚。他怀疑自己是否也冻住了。自己的内心冻住了。棕色短髭下，鼻孔已不再喷出生命的气息。这就是杰拉德！

他又摸了摸那冰冷的尸体和那冻得闪闪发亮、刺人的黄头发。头发冰凉，几乎象毒药一样可怕。伯金的心冻住了。他爱过杰拉德。现在他看着这张颜色奇特、形状奇特的脸。他鼻子不大，很漂亮地向上翘着，面颊很有男子气。这张脸冻得象一块石头。可不管怎么说他是爱过他的。这让人做何感想啊？他的头脑开始感到冻结了，他的血液也开始变成冰水。真冷，一种沉重的，刺人的冰冷力量从外界压向他的四肢，而他的体内也开始冻结，他的心，他的内脏都开始封冻了。

他踏着雪上了山坡去看出事地点。他终于来到了山谷下为悬崖包围的大盆地中。这天天色阴沉沉的，已经三天了，一直这么阴沉、这么寂静。四下里一片惨白、冰冷、毫无生气，只有绵绵不断的黑色岩石象树根一样凸出来，有的地方那黑石又象一张张裸脸。远处，一面山坡从山顶上铺下来，坡上布满了滚下的黑色岩石。

这儿就象一只被石头和白雪包围的浅谷。杰拉德就在这里睡过去了。远处，导游们已经把铁桩深深打入雪墙之中，这样他们可以拉着栓在铁桩上的大绳索上到巨大的雪墙顶上，攀上天际下凸兀的山顶，玛丽安乎特旅馆就在山顶的一片乱石丛中。周围的雪峰象剑戟一样直刺苍穹。

杰拉德本来可以发现这根绳索，可以凭借它上到山顶。他可能听到了玛丽安乎特旅馆中的狗吠，可以在那儿找到住处。他本来可以滑下南面的悬崖，落到下面长满松柏的黑色深谷中，落到通往意大利的大路上。

他可能！那又会怎样？大路！南面？意大利？然后又会怎样？难道那就是出路？那是另一条死路。伯金顶着刺骨的寒风站在高处看着峰顶和向南的通路。往南走，去意大利有什么好？走上那条老而又老的大路吗？

他转过身。要么心碎裂，要么别再忧虑。最好是别再忧虑，不管创造人和宇宙的是什么神秘物，它终究是不以人的意志为转移的，它有它自身的伟大目标，人并非它的评判标准，让那庞大的、具有创造性的非人的神秘去解决一切问题吧。最好是我行我素，不与这宇宙发生联系。

“没有人类就没有上帝”。这是一位法国宗教大师的话。不过这话并不符合实际。没有人上帝照样存在，没有鱼龙和蛀牙象，上帝照样存在。那些怪物无法创造和发展了，所以上帝这个神秘的造物主就抛弃了它们。同样，如果人也无法创造、变化和发展，上帝也会抛弃他们。上帝这永恒的神秘造物主可以抛弃人，用另一种更优秀的生命取代人类，就象马取代了蛀牙象一样。

想想这些，伯金感到莫大的安慰。如果人类发展到了尽头，耗尽了自身的力量，那永恒的神秘造物主就会创造出另一类更优秀、更奇妙、更新颖、更可爱的生命来继续造物主创造的意图。这场戏永远也唱不完。创造的神秘永远是深不可测、无不正确，永不衰竭的，永远是这样。种族和物种出现了又消亡了，但总有会新的、更好或同样好的崛起，总会有奇迹诞生。创造的源泉是不会干涸的，谁也找不到它。它没有局限。它可以创造奇迹，按自己的时间表创造出全新的种族，新型的意识，新型的肉体和新的生命统一体。与创造的神秘相比，人是太微不足道了。让人的脉搏从那神秘处跳起来，这是如此完美，难以名状的满足。至于是否是人倒无关紧要。那完美的脉搏是与难以名状的生命和神秘、未来的物种一起跳动的。

伯金又回到杰拉德身旁。他进了屋坐在床上。这里弥漫着死人气和阴冷气息。

“凯撒大帝死了，变成了泥土，

他会堵住一个洞挡风。”①

①《哈姆雷特》第五幕，第一场。

杰拉德的躯体没有一点反应。他这个人已变成了一堆陌生、冰冷的东西——就这些。他死了！

伯金异常疲惫地走开了，去处理一天的事物。他默默地、毫不费力地做他的事。去吼叫、哀伤、兴师动众——这都晚了。最好是保持沉默、耐心地忍受痛苦。

可是到了晚上，他被心中的欲望驱使着，手持蜡烛又进来了。他又看到了杰拉德，他的心突然缩紧，蜡烛从手中滑落，他抽啜着，泪水淆然而下。他坐在椅子上，突然的感情爆发令他浑身颤抖起来。随他进来的厄秀拉看到他垂头而坐，浑身抽搐，边落泪、边奇异地哭泣，吓得退了回去。

“我并不想这样，并不想这样，”他哭着自言自语。厄秀拉不禁想起德国皇帝的话：“我并不想这么做。”她几乎是恐惧地看着伯金。

伯金突然安静下来。可他仍然垂着头把脸埋在胸前，偷偷用手指抹去泪水。随后他突然抬起头，黑色、复仇样的目光直刺厄秀拉。

“他那时应该爱我，”他说，“我曾表示过。”

她脸色苍白，恐惧、咬着牙说：

“即使如此又会怎么样？！”

“会不一样的！”他说，“就不会是这样的下场！”

他撇下她，转脸去看杰拉德。他奇怪地抬着头，就象一个傲岸对待辱没他的人那样昂着头凝视杰拉德那冰冷、僵死的脸。他的脸发青，就象一根冷箭刺穿活人的心灵。冰冷、僵死的东西！伯金记起杰拉德曾热切地握住他的手表达对他的无限爱恋，那一瞬间说明了一切。只那么一下就松开了，永远松开了手。如果他仍忠于那一下紧紧的握手，死亡并不能改变一切。那死去的和正在死去仍然可以爱，可以相互信任，他们不会死，他们仍活在所爱者的心中。杰拉德死后仍旧同伯金一起在精神上共存。他可以和朋友在一起，他的生命在伯金身上继续存在。

可现在他是死了，就象一团泥、象一块蓝色、可以溶化的冰。伯金看看他苍白的手指，都不能动了。这让他想起他见过的一匹死马：一堆雄性的死肉，令人恶心。他又想起他所爱的人那张英俊的脸，他死时仍信服那神秘物。那张脸很英俊，没有人会说它冷漠、僵死。一想起它，你就会相信造物主，心中就会因为对生活有了新的、深刻的信念而温暖。

可是杰拉德！他不相信生活！他去了，他的心是冰冻的，几乎跳动不起来。他父亲当年死时，那充满希冀的表情令人心碎。可杰拉德却是这种可怕的冷漠、僵死相。伯金把他的脸看了又看。

厄秀拉在一旁观察着这个活人如何凝视死人那冻僵了的脸。活人和死人的脸都那么毫无表情。紧张的空气中蜡烛爆着火花。

“还没看够吗？”她问。

他站起身来。

“这真让我难受，”他说。

“什么——他的死？”她问。

他们的目光相遇了。他没回答。

“还有我呢。”她说。

他笑笑，吻着她说：

“如果我死了，你会知道我并没离开你。”

“那我呢？”她叫道。

“你也不会离开我的。”他说，“咱们不必因为死而绝望。”

她握住他的手说：

“可是杰拉德的死让你绝望吗？”

“是的。”他说。

说完他们就走了。杰拉德的尸体被带回英国埋了，是伯金、厄秀拉和杰拉德的一个弟弟送他回去的。克里奇家的兄弟姐妹坚持要把他葬在英国。而伯金则想让他留在阿尔卑斯雪山上。但是克里奇家不同意，态度很坚决。

戈珍去了德累斯顿。也没写封详细点的信来。厄秀拉和伯金在磨坊的住处住了一二个星期，心境都很平静。

“你需要杰拉德吗？”一天晚上她问他。

“需要。”他说。

“有我，你还不够吗？”她问。

“不够，”他说，“作为女人，你对我来说足够了。你对我来说就是所有的女人。可我需要一个男性朋友，如同你我是永恒的朋友一样，他也是我永恒的朋友。”

“我为什么让你不满足呢？”她问，“你对我来说足够了。

除了你我谁也不再想了。为什么你就跟我不一样呢？”

“有了你，我可以不需要别人过一辈子，不需要别的亲密关系。可要让我的生活更完整，真正幸福，我还需要同另一个男子结成永恒的同盟，这是另一种爱。”他说。

“我不相信，”她说，“这是固执，是一种理念，是变态。”

“那——”

“你不可能有两种爱。为什么要这样！”

“似乎我不能，”他说，“可我想这样。”

“你无法这样，因为这是假的，不可能的。”她说。

“可我不信。”他回答说。