Already a vital conflict had set in, which frightened them both. But he was alone, whilst already she had begun to cast round for external resource.
When Ursula had gone, Gudrun felt her own existence had become stark2 and elemental. She went and crouched3 alone in her bedroom, looking out of the window at the big, flashing stars. In front was the faint shadow of the mountain-knot. That was the pivot4. She felt strange and inevitable5, as if she were centred upon the pivot of all existence, there was no further reality.
Presently Gerald opened the door. She knew he would not be long before he came. She was rarely alone, he pressed upon her like a frost, deadening her.
`Are you alone in the dark?' he said. And she could tell by his tone he resented it, he resented this isolation6 she had drawn7 round herself. Yet, feeling static and inevitable, she was kind towards him.
`Would you like to light the candle?' she asked.
He did not answer, but came and stood behind her, in the darkness.
`Look,' she said, `at that lovely star up there. Do you know its name?'
He crouched beside her, to look through the low window.
`No,' he said. `It is very fine.'
`Isn't it beautiful! Do you notice how it darts8 different coloured fires -- it flashes really superbly --'
They remained in silence. With a mute, heavy gesture she put her hand on his knee, and took his hand.
`Are you regretting Ursula?' he asked.
`No, not at all,' she said. Then, in a slow mood, she asked:
`How much do you love me?'
He stiffened9 himself further against her.
`How much do you think I do?' he asked.
`I don't know,' she replied.
`But what is your opinion?' he asked.
There was a pause. At length, in the darkness, came her voice, hard and indifferent:
`Very little indeed,' she said coldly, almost flippant.
His heart went icy at the sound of her voice.
`Why don't I love you?' he asked, as if admitting the truth of her accusation10, yet hating her for it.
`I don't know why you don't -- I've been good to you. You were in a fearful state when you came to me.'
Her heart was beating to suffocate11 her, yet she was strong and unrelenting.
`When was I in a fearful state?' he asked.
`When you first came to me. I had to take pity on you. But it was never love.'
It was that statement `It was never love,' which sounded in his ears with madness.
`Why must you repeat it so often, that there is no love?' he said in a voice strangled with rage.
`Well you don't think you love, do you?' she asked.
He was silent with cold passion of anger.
`You don't think you can love me, do you?' she repeated almost with a sneer12.
`No,' he said.
`You know you never have loved me, don't you?'
`I don't know what you mean by the word `love,' he replied.
`Yes, you do. You know all right that you have never loved me. Have you, do you think?'
`No,' he said, prompted by some barren spirit of truthfulness13 and obstinacy14.
`And you never will love me,' she said finally, `will you?'
There was a diabolic coldness in her, too much to bear.
`No,' he said.
`Then,' she replied, `what have you against me!'
He was silent in cold, frightened rage and despair. `If only I could kill her,' his heart was whispering repeatedly. `If only I could kill her -- I should be free.'
It seemed to him that death was the only severing15 of this Gordian knot.
`Why do you torture me?' he said.
She flung her arms round his neck.
`Ah, I don't want to torture you,' she said pityingly, as if she were comforting a child. The impertinence made his veins16 go cold, he was insensible. She held her arms round his neck, in a triumph of pity. And her pity for him was as cold as stone, its deepest motive17 was hate of him, and fear of his power over her, which she must always counterfoil18.
`Say you love me,' she pleaded. `Say you will love me for ever -- won't you -- won't you?'
But it was her voice only that coaxed19 him. Her senses were entirely20 apart from him, cold and destructive of him. It was her overbearing will that insisted.
`Won't you say you'll love me always?' she coaxed. `Say it, even if it isn't true -- say it Gerald, do.'
`I will love you always,' he repeated, in real agony, forcing the words out.
She gave him a quick kiss.
`Fancy your actually having said it,' she said with a touch of raillery.
He stood as if he had been beaten.
`Try to love me a little more, and to want me a little less,' she said, in a half contemptuous, half coaxing21 tone.
The darkness seemed to be swaying in waves across his mind, great waves of darkness plunging22 across his mind. It seemed to him he was degraded at the very quick, made of no account.
`You mean you don't want me?' he said.
`You are so insistent23, and there is so little grace in you, so little fineness. You are so crude. You break me -- you only waste me -- it is horrible to me.'
`Horrible to you?' he repeated.
`Yes. Don't you think I might have a room to myself, now Ursula has gone? You can say you want a dressing24 room.'
`You do as you like -- you can leave altogether if you like,' he managed to articulate.
`Yes, I know that,' she replied. `So can you. You can leave me whenever you like -- without notice even.'
The great tides of darkness were swinging across his mind, he could hardly stand upright. A terrible weariness overcame him, he felt he must lie on the floor. Dropping off his clothes, he got into bed, and lay like a man suddenly overcome by drunkenness, the darkness lifting and plunging as if he were lying upon a black, giddy sea. He lay still in this strange, horrific reeling for some time, purely25 unconscious.
At length she slipped from her own bed and came over to him. He remained rigid26, his back to her. He was all but unconscious.
She put her arms round his terrifying, insentient body, and laid her cheek against his hard shoulder.
`Gerald,' she whispered. `Gerald.'
There was no change in him. She caught him against her. She pressed her breasts against his shoulders, she kissed his shoulder, through the sleeping jacket. Her mind wondered, over his rigid, unliving body. She was bewildered, and insistent, only her will was set for him to speak to her.
`Gerald, my dear!' she whispered, bending over him, kissing his ear.
Her warm breath playing, flying rhythmically27 over his ear, seemed to relax the tension. She could feel his body gradually relaxing a little, losing its terrifying, unnatural28 rigidity29. Her hands clutched his limbs, his muscles, going over him spasmodically.
The hot blood began to flow again through his veins, his limbs relaxed.
`Turn round to me,' she whispered, forlorn with insistence30 and triumph.
So at last he was given again, warm and flexible. He turned and gathered her in his arms. And feeling her soft against him, so perfectly31 and wondrously32 soft and recipient33, his arms tightened34 on her. She was as if crushed, powerless in him. His brain seemed hard and invincible35 now like a jewel, there was no resisting him.
His passion was awful to her, tense and ghastly, and impersonal36, like a destruction, ultimate. She felt it would kill her. She was being killed.
`My God, my God,' she cried, in anguish37, in his embrace, feeling her life being killed within her. And when he was kissing her, soothing38 her, her breath came slowly, as if she were really spent, dying.
`Shall I die, shall I die?' she repeated to herself.
And in the night, and in him, there was no answer to the question.
And yet, next day, the fragment of her which was not destroyed remained intact and hostile, she did not go away, she remained to finish the holiday, admitting nothing. He scarcely ever left her alone, but followed her like a shadow, he was like a doom39 upon her, a continual `thou shalt,' `thou shalt not.' Sometimes it was he who seemed strongest, whist she was almost gone, creeping near the earth like a spent wind; sometimes it was the reverse. But always it was this eternal see-saw, one destroyed that the other might exist, one ratified40 because the other was nulled.
`In the end,' she said to herself, `I shall go away from him.'
`I can be free of her,' he said to himself in his paroxysms of suffering.
And he set himself to be free. He even prepared to go away, to leave her in the lurch41. But for the first time there was a flaw in his will.
`Where shall I go?' he asked himself.
`Can't you be self-sufficient?' he replied to himself, putting himself upon his pride.
`Self-sufficient!' he repeated.
It seemed to him that Gudrun was sufficient unto herself, closed round and completed, like a thing in a case. In the calm, static reason of his soul, he recognised this, and admitted it was her right, to be closed round upon herself, self-complete, without desire. He realised it, he admitted it, it only needed one last effort on his own part, to win for himself the same completeness. He knew that it only needed one convulsion of his will for him to be able to turn upon himself also, to close upon himself as a stone fixes upon itself, and is impervious42, self-completed, a thing isolated43.
This knowledge threw him into a terrible chaos44. Because, however much he might mentally will to be immune and self-complete, the desire for this state was lacking, and he could not create it. He could see that, to exist at all, he must be perfectly free of Gudrun, leave her if she wanted to be left, demand nothing of her, have no claim upon her.
But then, to have no claim upon her, he must stand by himself, in sheer nothingness. And his brain turned to nought45 at the idea. It was a state of nothingness. On the other hand, he might give in, and fawn46 to her. Or, finally, he might kill her. Or he might become just indifferent, purposeless, dissipated, momentaneous. But his nature was too serious, not gay enough or subtle enough for mocking licentiousness47.
A strange rent had been torn in him; like a victim that is torn open and given to the heavens, so he had been torn apart and given to Gudrun. How should he close again? This wound, this strange, infinitely48-sensitive opening of his soul, where he was exposed, like an open flower, to all the universe, and in which he was given to his complement49, the other, the unknown, this wound, this disclosure, this unfolding of his own covering, leaving him incomplete, limited, unfinished, like an open flower under the sky, this was his cruellest joy. Why then should he forego it? Why should he close up and become impervious, immune, like a partial thing in a sheath, when he had broken forth51, like a seed that has germinated52, to issue forth in being, embracing the unrealised heavens.
He would keep the unfinished bliss53 of his own yearning54 even through the torture she inflicted55 upon him. A strange obstinacy possessed56 him. He would not go away from her whatever she said or did. A strange, deathly yearning carried him along with her. She was the determinating influence of his very being, though she treated him with contempt, repeated rebuffs, and denials, still he would never be gone, since in being near her, even, he felt the quickening, the going forth in him, the release, the knowledge of his own limitation and the magic of the promise, as well as the mystery of his own destruction and annihilation.
She tortured the open heart of him even as he turned to her. And she was tortured herself. It may have been her will was stronger. She felt, with horror, as if he tore at the bud of her heart, tore it open, like an irreverent persistent57 being. Like a boy who pulls off a fly's wings, or tears open a bud to see what is in the flower, he tore at her privacy, at her very life, he would destroy her as an immature58 bud, torn open, is destroyed.
She might open towards him, a long while hence, in her dreams, when she was a pure spirit. But now she was not to be violated and ruined. She closed against him fiercely.
They climbed together, at evening, up the high slope, to see the sunset. In the finely breathing, keen wind they stood and watched the yellow sun sink in crimson59 and disappear. Then in the east the peaks and ridges60 glowed with living rose, incandescent62 like immortal63 flowers against a brown-purple sky, a miracle, whilst down below the world was a bluish shadow, and above, like an annunciation, hovered64 a rosy66 transport in mid-air.
To her it was so beautiful, it was a delirium67, she wanted to gather the glowing, eternal peaks to her breast, and die. He saw them, saw they were beautiful. But there arose no clamour in his breast, only a bitterness that was visionary in itself. He wished the peaks were grey and unbeautiful, so that she should not get her support from them. Why did she betray the two of them so terribly, in embracing the glow of the evening? Why did she leave him standing68 there, with the ice-wind blowing through his heart, like death, to gratify herself among the rosy snow-tips?
`What does the twilight69 matter?' he said. `Why do you grovel70 before it? Is it so important to you?'
She winced71 in violation72 and in fury.
`Go away,' she cried, `and leave me to it. It is beautiful, beautiful,' she sang in strange, rhapsodic tones. `It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. Don't try to come between it and me. Take yourself away, you are out of place --'
He stood back a little, and left her standing there, statue-like, transported into the mystic glowing east. Already the rose was fading, large white stars were flashing out. He waited. He would forego everything but the yearning.
`That was the most perfect thing I have ever seen,' she said in cold, brutal73 tones, when at last she turned round to him. `It amazes me that you should want to destroy it. If you can't see it yourself, why try to debar me?' But in reality, he had destroyed it for her, she was straining after a dead effect.
`One day,' he said, softly, looking up at her, `I shall destroy you, as you stand looking at the sunset; because you are such a liar74.'
There was a soft, voluptuous75 promise to himself in the words. She was chilled but arrogant76.
`Ha!' she said. `I am not afraid of your threats!' She denied herself to him, she kept her room rigidly77 private to herself. But he waited on, in a curious patience, belonging to his yearning for her.
`In the end,' he said to himself with real voluptuous promise, `when it reaches that point, I shall do away with her.' And he trembled delicately in every limb, in anticipation78, as he trembled in his most violent accesses of passionate79 approach to her, trembling with too much desire.
She had a curious sort of allegiance with Loerke, all the while, now, something insidious80 and traitorous81. Gerald knew of it. But in the unnatural state of patience, and the unwillingness82 to harden himself against her, in which he found himself, he took no notice, although her soft kindliness83 to the other man, whom he hated as a noxious84 insect, made him shiver again with an access of the strange shuddering85 that came over him repeatedly.
He left her alone only when he went skiing, a sport he loved, and which she did not practise. The he seemed to sweep out of life, to be a projectile86 into the beyond. And often, when he went away, she talked to the little German sculptor87. They had an invariable topic, in their art.
They were almost of the same ideas. He hated Mestrovic, was not satisfied with the Futurists, he liked the West African wooden figures, the Aztec art, Mexican and Central American. He saw the grotesque88, and a curious sort of mechanical motion intoxicated89 him, a confusion in nature. They had a curious game with each other, Gudrun and Loerke, of infinite suggestivity, strange and leering, as if they had some esoteric understanding of life, that they alone were initiated90 into the fearful central secrets, that the world dared not know. Their whole correspondence was in a strange, barely comprehensible suggestivity, they kindled91 themselves at the subtle lust92 of the Egyptians or the Mexicans. The whole game was one of subtle inter-suggestivity, and they wanted to keep it on the plane of suggestion. From their verbal and physical nuances they got the highest satisfaction in the nerves, from a queer interchange of half-suggested ideas, looks, expressions and gestures, which were quite intolerable, though incomprehensible, to Gerald. He had no terms in which to think of their commerce, his terms were much too gross.
The suggestion of primitive93 art was their refuge, and the inner mysteries of sensation their object of worship. Art and Life were to them the Reality and the Unreality.
`Of course,' said Gudrun, `life doesn't really matter -- it is one's art which is central. What one does in one's life has peu de rapport94, it doesn't signify much.'
`Yes, that is so, exactly,' replied the sculptor. `What one does in one's art, that is the breath of one's being. What one does in one's life, that is a bagatelle95 for the outsiders to fuss about.'
It was curious what a sense of elation96 and freedom Gudrun found in this communication. She felt established for ever. Of course Gerald was bagatelle. Love was one of the temporal things in her life, except in so far as she was an artist. She thought of Cleopatra -- Cleopatra must have been an artist; she reaped the essential from a man, she harvested the ultimate sensation, and threw away the husk; and Mary Stuart, and the great Rachel, panting with her lovers after the theatre, these were the exoteric exponents97 of love. After all, what was the lover but fuel for the transport of this subtle knowledge, for a female art, the art of pure, perfect knowledge in sensuous98 understanding.
One evening Gerald was arguing with Loerke about Italy and Tripoli. The Englishman was in a strange, inflammable state, the German was excited. It was a contest of words, but it meant a conflict of spirit between the two men. And all the while Gudrun could see in Gerald an arrogant English contempt for a foreigner. Although Gerald was quivering, his eyes flashing, his face flushed, in his argument there was a brusqueness, a savage99 contempt in his manner, that made Gudrun's blood flare100 up, and made Loerke keen and mortified101. For Gerald came down like a sledgehammer with his assertions, anything the little German said was merely contemptible104 rubbish.
At last Loerke turned to Gudrun, raising his hands in helpless irony105, a shrug106 of ironical107 dismissal, something appealing and child-like.
`Sehen sie, gnadige Frau--' he began.
`Bitte sagen Sie nicht immer, gnadige Frau,' cried Gudrun, her eyes flashing, her cheeks burning. She looked like a vivid Medusa. Her voice was loud and clamorous108, the other people in the room were startled.
`Please don't call me Mrs Crich,' she cried aloud.
The name, in Loerke's mouth particularly, had been an intolerable humiliation109 and constraint110 upon her, these many days.
The two men looked at her in amazement111. Gerald went white at the cheek-bones.
`What shall I say, then?' asked Loerke, with soft, mocking insinuation.
`Sagen Sie nur nicht das,' she muttered, her cheeks flushed crimson. `Not that, at least.'
She saw, by the dawning look on Loerke's face, that he had understood. She was not Mrs Crich! So--o--, that explained a great deal.
`Soll ich Fraulein sagen?' he asked, malevolently112.
`I am not married,' she said, with some hauteur113.
Her heart was fluttering now, beating like a bewildered bird. She knew she had dealt a cruel wound, and she could not bear it.
Gerald sat erect114, perfectly still, his face pale and calm, like the face of a statue. He was unaware115 of her, or of Loerke or anybody. He sat perfectly still, in an unalterable calm. Loerke, meanwhile, was crouching116 and glancing up from under his ducked head.
Gudrun was tortured for something to say, to relieve the suspense117. She twisted her face in a smile, and glanced knowingly, almost sneering118, at Gerald.
`Truth is best,' she said to him, with a grimace119.
But now again she was under his domination; now, because she had dealt him this blow; because she had destroyed him, and she did not know how he had taken it. She watched him. He was interesting to her. She had lost her interest in Loerke.
Gerald rose at length, and went over in a leisurely120 still movement, to the Professor. The two began a conversation on Goethe.
She was rather piqued121 by the simplicity122 of Gerald's demeanour this evening. He did not seem angry or disgusted, only he looked curiously123 innocent and pure, really beautiful. Sometimes it came upon him, this look of clear distance, and it always fascinated her.
She waited, troubled, throughout the evening. She thought he would avoid her, or give some sign. But he spoke124 to her simply and unemotionally, as he would to anyone else in the room. A certain peace, an abstraction possessed his soul.
She went to his room, hotly, violently in love with him. He was so beautiful and inaccessible125. He kissed her, he was a lover to her. And she had extreme pleasure of him. But he did not come to, he remained remote and candid126, unconscious. She wanted to speak to him. But this innocent, beautiful state of unconsciousness that had come upon him prevented her. She felt tormented127 and dark.
In the morning, however, he looked at her with a little aversion, some horror and some hatred128 darkening into his eyes. She withdrew on to her old ground. But still he would not gather himself together, against her.
Loerke was waiting for her now. The little artist, isolated in his own complete envelope, felt that here at last was a woman from whom he could get something. He was uneasy all the while, waiting to talk with her, subtly contriving129 to be near her. Her presence filled him with keenness and excitement, he gravitated cunningly towards her, as if she had some unseen force of attraction.
He was not in the least doubtful of himself, as regards Gerald. Gerald was one of the outsiders. Loerke only hated him for being rich and proud and of fine appearance. All these things, however, riches, pride of social standing, handsome physique, were externals. When it came to the relation with a woman such as Gudrun, he, Loerke, had an approach and a power that Gerald never dreamed of.
How should Gerald hope to satisfy a woman of Gudrun's calibre? Did he think that pride or masterful will or physical strength would help him? Loerke knew a secret beyond these things. The greatest power is the one that is subtle and adjusts itself, not one which blindly attacks. And he, Loerke, had understanding where Gerald was a calf130. He, Loerke, could penetrate131 into depths far out of Gerald's knowledge. Gerald was left behind like a postulant in the ante-room of this temple of mysteries, this woman. But he Loerke, could he not penetrate into the inner darkness, find the spirit of the woman in its inner recess132, and wrestle133 with it there, the central serpent that is coiled at the core of life.
What was it, after all, that a woman wanted? Was it mere103 social effect, fulfilment of ambition in the social world, in the community of mankind? Was it even a union in love and goodness? Did she want `goodness'? Who but a fool would accept this of Gudrun? This was but the street view of her wants. Cross the threshold, and you found her completely, completely cynical134 about the social world and its advantages. Once inside the house of her soul and there was a pungent135 atmosphere of corrosion136, an inflamed137 darkness of sensation, and a vivid, subtle, critical consciousness, that saw the world distorted, horrific.
What then, what next? Was it sheer blind force of passion that would satisfy her now? Not this, but the subtle thrills of extreme sensation in reduction. It was an unbroken will reacting against her unbroken will in a myriad139 subtle thrills of reduction, the last subtle activities of analysis and breaking down, carried out in the darkness of her, whilst the outside form, the individual, was utterly140 unchanged, even sentimental141 in its poses.
But between two particular people, any two people on earth, the range of pure sensational142 experience is limited. The climax143 of sensual reaction, once reached in any direction, is reached finally, there is no going on. There is only repetition possible, or the going apart of the two protagonists144, or the subjugating145 of the one will to the other, or death.
Gerald had penetrated146 all the outer places of Gudrun's soul. He was to her the most crucial instance of the existing world, the ne plus ultra of the world of man as it existed for her. In him she knew the world, and had done with it. Knowing him finally she was the Alexander seeking new worlds. But there were no new worlds, there were no more men, there were only creatures, little, ultimate creatures like Loerke. The world was finished now, for her. There was only the inner, individual darkness, sensation within the ego50, the obscene religious mystery of ultimate reduction, the mystic frictional activities of diabolic reducing down, disintegrating147 the vital organic body of life.
All this Gudrun knew in her subconsciousness148, not in her mind. She knew her next step--she knew what she should move on to, when she left Gerald. She was afraid of Gerald, that he might kill her. But she did not intend to be killed. A fine thread still united her to him. It should not be her death which broke it. She had further to go, a further, slow exquisite149 experience to reap, unthinkable subtleties150 of sensation to know, before she was finished.
Of the last series of subtleties, Gerald was not capable. He could not touch the quick of her. But where his ruder blows could not penetrate, the fine, insinuating151 blade of Loerke's insect-like comprehension could. At least, it was time for her now to pass over to the other, the creature, the final craftsman152. She knew that Loerke, in his innermost soul, was detached from everything, for him there was neither heaven nor earth nor hell. He admitted no allegiance, he gave no adherence153 anywhere. He was single and, by abstraction from the rest, absolute in himself.
Whereas in Gerald's soul there still lingered some attachment154 to the rest, to the whole. And this was his limitation. He was limited, borne, subject to his necessity, in the last issue, for goodness, for righteousness, for oneness with the ultimate purpose. That the ultimate purpose might be the perfect and subtle experience of the process of death, the will being kept unimpaired, that was not allowed in him. And this was his limitation.
There was a hovering155 triumph in Loerke, since Gudrun had denied her marriage with Gerald. The artist seemed to hover65 like a creature on the wing, waiting to settle. He did not approach Gudrun violently, he was never ill-timed. But carried on by a sure instinct in the complete darkness of his soul, he corresponded mystically with her, imperceptibly, but palpably.
For two days, he talked to her, continued the discussions of art, of life, in which they both found such pleasure. They praised the by-gone things, they took a sentimental, childish delight in the achieved perfections of the past. Particularly they liked the late eighteenth century, the period of Goethe and of Shelley, and Mozart.
They played with the past, and with the great figures of the past, a sort of little game of chess, or marionettes, all to please themselves. They had all the great men for their marionettes, and they two were the God of the show, working it all. As for the future, that they never mentioned except one laughed out some mocking dream of the destruction of the world by a ridiculous catastrophe156 of man's invention: a man invented such a perfect explosive that it blew the earth in two, and the two halves set off in different directions through space, to the dismay of the inhabitants: or else the people of the world divided into two halves, and each half decided157 it was perfect and right, the other half was wrong and must be destroyed; so another end of the world. Or else, Loerke's dream of fear, the world went cold, and snow fell everywhere, and only white creatures, polar-bears, white foxes, and men like awful white snow-birds, persisted in ice cruelty.
Apart from these stories, they never talked of the future. They delighted most either in mocking imaginations of destruction, or in sentimental, fine marionette-shows of the past. It was a sentimental delight to reconstruct the world of Goethe at Weimar, or of Schiller and poverty and faithful love, or to see again Jean Jacques in his quakings, or Voltaire at Ferney, or Frederick the Great reading his own poetry.
They talked together for hours, of literature and sculpture and painting, amusing themselves with Flaxman and Blake and Fuseli, with tenderness, and with Feuerbach and Bocklin. It would take them a life-time, they felt to live again, in petto, the lives of the great artists. But they preferred to stay in the eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries.
They talked in a mixture of languages. The ground-work was French, in either case. But he ended most of his sentences in a stumble of English and a conclusion of German, she skilfully158 wove herself to her end in whatever phrase came to her. She took a peculiar159 delight in this conversation. It was full of odd, fantastic expression, of double meanings, of evasions160, of suggestive vagueness. It was a real physical pleasure to her to make this thread of conversation out of the different-coloured stands of three languages.
And all the while they two were hovering, hesitating round the flame of some invisible declaration. He wanted it, but was held back by some inevitable reluctance161. She wanted it also, but she wanted to put it off, to put it off indefinitely, she still had some pity for Gerald, some connection with him. And the most fatal of all, she had the reminiscent sentimental compassion162 for herself in connection with him. Because of what had been, she felt herself held to him by immortal, invisible threads--because of what had been, because of his coming to her that first night, into her own house, in his extremity163, because-
Gerald was gradually overcome with a revulsion of loathing164 for Loerke. He did not take the man seriously, he despised him merely, except as he felt in Gudrun's veins the influence of the little creature. It was this that drove Gerald wild, the feeling in Gudrun's veins of Loerke's presence, Loerke's being, flowing dominant165 through her.
`What makes you so smitten166 with that little vermin?' he asked, really puzzled. For he, man-like, could not see anything attractive or important at all in Loerke. Gerald expected to find some handsomeness or nobleness, to account for a woman's subjection. But he saw none here, only an insect-like repulsiveness167.
Gudrun flushed deeply. It was these attacks she would never forgive.
`What do you mean?' she replied. `My God, what a mercy I am not married to you!'
Her voice of flouting168 and contempt scotched169 him. He was brought up short. But he recovered himself.
`Tell me, only tell me,' he reiterated170 in a dangerous narrowed voice -`tell me what it is that fascinates you in him.'
`I am not fascinated,' she said, with cold repelling171 innocence172.
`Yes, you are. You are fascinated by that little dry snake, like a bird gaping173 ready to fall down its throat.'
She looked at him with black fury.
`I don't choose to be discussed by you,' she said.
`It doesn't matter whether you choose or not,' he replied, `that doesn't alter the fact that you are ready to fall down and kiss the feet of that little insect. And I don't want to prevent you -- do it, fall down and kiss his feet. But I want to know, what it is that fascinates you -- what is it?'
She was silent, suffused174 with black rage.
`How dare you come brow-beating me,' she cried, `how dare you, you little squire175, you bully176. What right have you over me, do you think?'
His face was white and gleaming, she knew by the light in his eyes that she was in his power -- the wolf. And because she was in his power, she hated him with a power that she wondered did not kill him. In her will she killed him as he stood, effaced177 him.
`It is not a question of right,' said Gerald, sitting down on a chair. She watched the change in his body. She saw his clenched178, mechanical body moving there like an obsession179. Her hatred of him was tinged180 with fatal contempt.
`It's not a question of my right over you -- though I have some right, remember. I want to know, I only want to know what it is that subjugates181 you to that little scum of a sculptor downstairs, what it is that brings you down like a humble182 maggot, in worship of him. I want to know what you creep after.'
She stood over against the window, listening. Then she turned round.
`Do you?' she said, in her most easy, most cutting voice. `Do you want to know what it is in him? It's because he has some understanding of a woman, because he is not stupid. That's why it is.'
A queer, sinister183, animal-like smile came over Gerald's face.
`But what understanding is it?' he said. `The understanding of a flea184, a hopping185 flea with a proboscis186. Why should you crawl abject187 before the understanding of a flea?'
There passed through Gudrun's mind Blake's representation of the soul of a flea. She wanted to fit it to Loerke. Blake was a clown too. But it was necessary to answer Gerald.
`Don't you think the understanding of a flea is more interesting than the understanding of a fool?' she asked.
`A fool!' he repeated.
`A fool, a conceited188 fool -- a Dummkopf,' she replied, adding the German word.
`Do you call me a fool?' he replied. `Well, wouldn't I rather be the fool I am, than that flea downstairs?'
She looked at him. A certain blunt, blind stupidity in him palled190 on her soul, limiting her.
`You give yourself away by that last,' she said.
He sat and wondered.
`I shall go away soon,' he said.
She turned on him.
`Remember,' she said, `I am completely independent of you -completely. You make your arrangements, I make mine.'
He pondered this.
`You mean we are strangers from this minute?' he asked.
She halted and flushed. He was putting her in a trap, forcing her hand. She turned round on him.
`Strangers,' she said, `we can never be. But if you want to make any movement apart from me, then I wish you to know you are perfectly free to do so. Do not consider me in the slightest.'
Even so slight an implication that she needed him and was depending on him still was sufficient to rouse his passion. As he sat a change came over his body, the hot, molten stream mounted involuntarily through his veins. He groaned191 inwardly, under its bondage192, but he loved it. He looked at her with clear eyes, waiting for her.
She knew at once, and was shaken with cold revulsion. How could he look at her with those clear, warm, waiting eyes, waiting for her, even now? What had been said between them, was it not enough to put them worlds asunder193, to freeze them forever apart! And yet he was all transfused194 and roused, waiting for her.
It confused her. Turning her head aside, she said:
`I shall always tell you, whenever I am going to make any change --'
And with this she moved out of the room.
He sat suspended in a fine recoil195 of disappointment, that seemed gradually to be destroying his understanding. But the unconscious state of patience persisted in him. He remained motionless, without thought or knowledge, for a long time. Then he rose, and went downstairs, to play at chess with one of the students. His face was open and clear, with a certain innocent laisser-aller that troubled Gudrun most, made her almost afraid of him, whilst she disliked him deeply for it.
It was after this that Loerke, who had never yet spoken to her personally, began to ask her of her state.
`You are not married at all, are you?' he asked.
She looked full at him.
`Not in the least,' she replied, in her measured way. Loerke laughed, wrinkling up his face oddly. There was a thin wisp of his hair straying on his forehead, she noticed that his skin was of a clear brown colour, his hands, his wrists. And his hands seemed closely prehensile196. He seemed like topaz, so strangely brownish and pellucid197.
`Good,' he said.
Still it needed some courage for him to go on.
`Was Mrs Birkin your sister?' he asked.
`Yes.'
`And was she married?'
`She was married.'
`Have you parents, then?'
`Yes,' said Gudrun, `we have parents.'
And she told him, briefly198, laconically199, her position. He watched her closely, curiously all the while.
`So!' he exclaimed, with some surprise. `And the Herr Crich, is he rich?'
`Yes, he is rich, a coal owner.'
`How long has your friendship with him lasted?'
`Some months.'
There was a pause.
`Yes, I am surprised,' he said at length. `The English, I thought they were so -- cold. And what do you think to do when you leave here?'
`What do I think to do?' she repeated.
`Yes. You cannot go back to the teaching. No --' he shrugged200 his shoulders -- `that is impossible. Leave that to the canaille who can do nothing else. You, for your part -- you know, you are a remarkable201 woman, eine seltsame Frau. Why deny it -- why make any question of it? You are an extraordinary woman, why should you follow the ordinary course, the ordinary life?'
Gudrun sat looking at her hands, flushed. She was pleased that he said, so simply, that she was a remarkable woman. He would not say that to flatter her -- he was far too self-opinionated and objective by nature. He said it as he would say a piece of sculpture was remarkable, because he knew it was so.
And it gratified her to hear it from him. Other people had such a passion to make everything of one degree, of one pattern. In England it was chic202 to be perfectly ordinary. And it was a relief to her to be acknowledged extraordinary. Then she need not fret203 about the common standards.
`You see,' she said, `I have no money whatsoever204.'
`Ach, money!' he cried, lifting his shoulders. `When one is grown up, money is lying about at one's service. It is only when one is young that it is rare. Take no thought for money -- that always lies to hand.'
`Does it?' she said, laughing.
`Always. The Gerald will give you a sum, if you ask him for it --'
She flushed deeply.
`I will ask anybody else,' she said, with some difficulty -- `but not him.'
Loerke looked closely at her.
`Good,' he said. `Then let it be somebody else. Only don't go back to that England, that school. No, that is stupid.'
Again there was a pause. He was afraid to ask her outright205 to go with him, he was not even quite sure he wanted her; and she was afraid to be asked. He begrudged206 his own isolation, was very chary207 of sharing his life, even for a day.
`The only other place I know is Paris,' she said, `and I can't stand that.'
She looked with her wide, steady eyes full at Loerke. He lowered his head and averted208 his face.
`Paris, no!' he said. `Between the religion d'amour, and the latest 'ism, and the new turning to Jesus, one had better ride on a carrousel all day. But come to Dresden. I have a studio there -- I can give you work, -- oh, that would be easy enough. I haven't seen any of your things, but I believe in you. Come to Dresden -- that is a fine town to be in, and as good a life as you can expect of a town. You have everything there, without the foolishness of Paris or the beer of Munich.'
He sat and looked at her, coldly. What she liked about him was that he spoke to her simple and flat, as to himself. He was a fellow craftsman, a fellow being to her, first.
`No -- Paris,' he resumed, `it makes me sick. Pah -- l'amour. I detest209 it. L'amour, l'amore, die Liebe -- I detest it in every language. Women and love, there is no greater tedium210,' he cried.
She was slightly offended. And yet, this was her own basic feeling. Men, and love -- there was no greater tedium.
`I think the same,' she said.
`A bore,' he repeated. `What does it matter whether I wear this hat or another. So love. I needn't wear a hat at all, only for convenience. Neither need I love except for convenience. I tell you what, gnadige Frau --' and he leaned towards her -- then he made a quick, odd gesture, as of striking something aside -- `gnadige Fraulein, never mind -- I tell you what, I would give everything, everything, all your love, for a little companionship in intelligence --' his eyes flickered212 darkly, evilly at her. `You understand?' he asked, with a faint smile. `It wouldn't matter if she were a hundred years old, a thousand -- it would be all the same to me, so that she can understand.' He shut his eyes with a little snap.
Again Gudrun was rather offended. Did he not think her good looking, then? Suddenly she laughed.
`I shall have to wait about eighty years to suit you, at that!' she said. `I am ugly enough, aren't I?'
He looked at her with an artist's sudden, critical, estimating eye.
`You are beautiful,' he said, `and I am glad of it. But it isn't that -- it isn't that,' he cried, with emphasis that flattered her. `It is that you have a certain wit, it is the kind of understanding. For me, I am little, chetif, insignificant213. Good! Do not ask me to be strong and handsome, then. But it is the me --' he put his fingers to his mouth, oddly -- `it is the me that is looking for a mistress, and my me is waiting for the thee of the mistress, for the match to my particular intelligence. You understand?'
`Yes,' she said, `I understand.'
`As for the other, this amour --' he made a gesture, dashing his hand aside, as if to dash away something troublesome -- `it is unimportant, unimportant. Does it matter, whether I drink white wine this evening, or whether I drink nothing? It does not matter, it does not matter. So this love, this amour, this baiser. Yes or no, soit ou soit pas, today, tomorrow, or never, it is all the same, it does not matter -- no more than the white wine.'
He ended with an odd dropping of the head in a desperate negation214. Gudrun watched him steadily215. She had gone pale.
Suddenly she stretched over and seized his hand in her own.
`That is true,' she said, in rather a high, vehement216 voice, `that is true for me too. It is the understanding that matters.'
He looked up at her almost frightened, furtive217. Then he nodded, a little sullenly218. She let go his hand: he had made not the lightest response. And they sat in silence.
`Do you know,' he said, suddenly looking at her with dark, selfimportant, prophetic eyes, `your fate and mine, they will run together, till --' and he broke off in a little grimace.
`Till when?' she asked, blanched219, her lips going white. She was terribly susceptible220 to these evil prognostications, but he only shook his head.
`I don't know,' he said, `I don't know.'
Gerald did not come in from his skiing until nightfall, he missed the coffee and cake that she took at four o'clock. The snow was in perfect condition, he had travelled a long way, by himself, among the snow ridges, on his skis, he had climbed high, so high that he could see over the top of the pass, five miles distant, could see the Marienhutte, the hostel221 on the crest222 of the pass, half buried in snow, and over into the deep valley beyond, to the dusk of the pine trees. One could go that way home; but he shuddered223 with nausea224 at the thought of home; -- one could travel on skis down there, and come to the old imperial road, below the pass. But why come to any road? He revolted at the thought of finding himself in the world again. He must stay up there in the snow forever. He had been happy by himself, high up there alone, travelling swiftly on skis, taking far flights, and skimming past the dark rocks veined with brilliant snow.
But he felt something icy gathering225 at his heart. This strange mood of patience and innocence which had persisted in him for some days, was passing away, he would be left again a prey226 to the horrible passions and tortures.
So he came down reluctantly, snow-burned, snow-estranged227, to the house in the hollow, between the knuckles228 of the mountain tops. He saw its lights shining yellow, and he held back, wishing he need not go in, to confront those people, to hear the turmoil229 of voices and to feel the confusion of other presences. He was isolated as if there were a vacuum round his heart, or a sheath of pure ice.
The moment he saw Gudrun something jolted230 in his soul. She was looking rather lofty and superb, smiling slowly and graciously to the Germans. A sudden desire leapt in his heart, to kill her. He thought, what a perfect voluptuous fulfilment it would be, to kill her. His mind was absent all the evening, estranged by the snow and his passion. But he kept the idea constant within him, what a perfect voluptuous consummation it would be to strangle her, to strangle every spark of life out of her, till she lay completely inert231, soft, relaxed for ever, a soft heap lying dead between his hands, utterly dead. Then he would have had her finally and for ever; there would be such a perfect voluptuous finality.
Gudrun was unaware of what he was feeling, he seemed so quiet and amiable232, as usual. His amiability233 even made her feel brutal towards him.
She went into his room when he was partially234 undressed. She did not notice the curious, glad gleam of pure hatred, with which he looked at her. She stood near the door, with her hand behind her.
`I have been thinking, Gerald,' she said, with an insulting nonchalance235, `that I shall not go back to England.'
`Oh,' he said, `where will you go then?'
But she ignored his question. She had her own logical statement to make, and it must be made as she had thought it.
`I can't see the use of going back,' she continued. `It is over between me and you --'
She paused for him to speak. But he said nothing. He was only talking to himself, saying `Over, is it? I believe it is over. But it isn't finished. Remember, it isn't finished. We must put some sort of a finish on it. There must be a conclusion, there must be finality.'
So he talked to himself, but aloud he said nothing whatever.
`What has been, has been,' she continued. `There is nothing that I regret. I hope you regret nothing --'
She waited for him to speak.
`Oh, I regret nothing,' he said, accommodatingly.
`Good then,' she answered, `good then. Then neither of us cherishes any regrets, which is as it should be.'
`Quite as it should be,' he said aimlessly.
She paused to gather up her thread again.
`Our attempt has been a failure,' she said. `But we can try again, elsewhere.'
A little flicker211 of rage ran through his blood. It was as if she were rousing him, goading236 him. Why must she do it?
`Attempt at what?' he asked.
`At being lovers, I suppose,' she said, a little baffled, yet so trivial she made it all seem.
`Our attempt at being lovers has been a failure?' he repeated aloud.
To himself he was saying, `I ought to kill her here. There is only this left, for me to kill her.' A heavy, overcharged desire to bring about her death possessed him. She was unaware.
`Hasn't it?' she asked. `Do you think it has been a success?'
Again the insult of the flippant question ran through his blood like a current of fire.
`It had some of the elements of success, our relationship,' he replied. `It -- might have come off.'
But he paused before concluding the last phrase. Even as he began the sentence, he did not believe in what he was going to say. He knew it never could have been a success.
`No,' she replied. `You cannot love.'
`And you?' he asked.
Her wide, dark-filled eyes were fixed237 on him, like two moons of darkness.
`I couldn't love you,' she said, with stark cold truth.
A blinding flash went over his brain, his body jolted. His heart had burst into flame. His consciousness was gone into his wrists, into his hands. He was one blind, incontinent desire, to kill her. His wrists were bursting, there would be no satisfaction till his hands had closed on her.
But even before his body swerved238 forward on her, a sudden, cunning comprehension was expressed on her face, and in a flash she was out of the door. She ran in one flash to her room and locked herself in. She was afraid, but confident. She knew her life trembled on the edge of an abyss. But she was curiously sure of her footing. She knew her cunning could outwit him.
She trembled, as she stood in her room, with excitement and awful exhilaration. She knew she could outwit him. She could depend on her presence of mind, and on her wits. But it was a fight to the death, she knew it now. One slip, and she was lost. She had a strange, tense, exhilarated sickness in her body, as one who is in peril239 of falling from a great height, but who does not look down, does not admit the fear.
`I will go away the day after tomorrow,' she said.
She only did not want Gerald to think that she was afraid of him, that she was running away because she was afraid of him. She was not afraid of him, fundamentally. She knew it was her safeguard to avoid his physical violence. But even physically240 she was not afraid of him. She wanted to prove it to him. When she had proved it, that, whatever he was, she was not afraid of him; when she had proved that, she could leave him forever. But meanwhile the fight between them, terrible as she knew it to be, was inconclusive. And she wanted to be confident in herself. However many terrors she might have, she would be unafraid, uncowed by him. He could never cow her, nor dominate her, nor have any right over her; this she would maintain until she had proved it. Once it was proved, she was free of him forever.
But she had not proved it yet, neither to him nor to herself. And this was what still bound her to him. She was bound to him, she could not live beyond him. She sat up in bed, closely wrapped up, for many hours, thinking endlessly to herself. It was as if she would never have done weaving the great provision of her thoughts.
`It isn't as if he really loved me,' she said to herself. `He doesn't. Every woman he comes across he wants to make her in love with him. He doesn't even know that he is doing it. But there he is, before every woman he unfurls his male attractiveness, displays his great desirability, he tries to make every woman think how wonderful it would be to have him for a lover. His very ignoring of the women is part of the game. He is never unconscious of them. He should have been a cockerel, so he could strut241 before fifty females, all his subjects. But really, his Don Juan does not interest me. I could play Dona Juanita a million times better than he plays Juan. He bores me, you know. His maleness bores me. Nothing is so boring, so inherently stupid and stupidly conceited. Really, the fathomless242 conceit189 of these men, it is ridiculous -- the little strutters.
`They are all alike. Look at Birkin. Built out of the limitation of conceit they are, and nothing else. Really, nothing but their ridiculous limitation and intrinsic insignificance243 could make them so conceited.
`As for Loerke, there is a thousand times more in him than in a Gerald. Gerald is so limited, there is a dead end to him. He would grind on at the old mills forever. And really, there is no corn between the millstones any more. They grind on and on, when there is nothing to grind -- saying the same things, believing the same things, acting138 the same things. Oh, my God, it would wear out the patience of a stone.
`I don't worship Loerke, but at any rate, he is a free individual. He is not stiff with conceit of his own maleness. He is not grinding dutifully at the old mills. Oh God, when I think of Gerald, and his work -- those offices at Beldover, and the mines -- it makes my heart sick. What have I to do with it -- and him thinking he can be a lover to a woman! One might as well ask it of a self-satisfied lamp-post. These men, with their eternal jobs -- and their eternal mills of God that keep on grinding at nothing! It is too boring, just boring. However did I come to take him seriously at all!
`At least in Dresden, one will have one's back to it all. And there will be amusing things to do. It will be amusing to go to these eurythmic displays, and the German opera, the German theatre. It will be amusing to take part in German Bohemian life. And Loerke is an artist, he is a free individual. One will escape from so much, that is the chief thing, escape so much hideous244 boring repetition of vulgar actions, vulgar phrases, vulgar postures245. I don't delude247 myself that I shall find an elixir248 of life in Dresden. I know I shan't. But I shall get away from people who have their own homes and their own children and their own acquaintances and their own this and their own that. I shall be among people who don't own things and who haven't got a home and a domestic servant in the background, who haven't got a standing and a status and a degree and a circle of friends of the same. Oh God, the wheels within wheels of people, it makes one's head tick like a clock, with a very madness of dead mechanical monotony and meaninglessness. How I hate life, how I hate it. How I hate the Geralds, that they can offer one nothing else.
`Shortlands! -- Heavens! Think of living there, one week, then the next, and then the third -
`No, I won't think of it -- it is too much.'
And she broke off, really terrified, really unable to bear any more.
The thought of the mechanical succession of day following day, day following day, ad infinitum, was one of the things that made her heart palpitate with a real approach of madness. The terrible bondage of this tick-tack of time, this twitching250 of the hands of the clock, this eternal repetition of hours and days -- oh God, it was too awful to contemplate251. And there was no escape from it, no escape.
She almost wished Gerald were with her to save her from the terror of her own thoughts. Oh, how she suffered, lying there alone, confronted by the terrible clock, with its eternal tick-tack. All life, all life resolved itself into this: tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack; then the striking of the hour; then the tick-tack, tick-tack, and the twitching of the clock-fingers.
Gerald could not save her from it. He, his body, his motion, his life -- it was the same ticking, the same twitching across the dial, a horrible mechanical twitching forward over the face of the hours. What were his kisses, his embraces. She could hear their tick-tack, tick-tack.
Ha -- ha -- she laughed to herself, so frightened that she was trying to laugh it off -- ha -- ha, how maddening it was, to be sure, to be sure!
Then, with a fleeting252 self-conscious motion, she wondered if she would be very much surprised, on rising in the morning, to realise that her hair had turned white. She had felt it turning white so often, under the intolerable burden of her thoughts, und her sensations. Yet there it remained, brown as ever, and there she was herself, looking a picture of health.
Perhaps she was healthy. Perhaps it was only her unabateable health that left her so exposed to the truth. If she were sickly she would have her illusions, imaginations. As it was, there was no escape. She must always see and know and never escape. She could never escape. There she was, placed before the clock-face of life. And if she turned round as in a railway station, to look at the bookstall, still she could see, with her very spine253, she could see the clock, always the great white clock-face. In vain she fluttered the leaves of books, or made statuettes in clay. She knew she was not really reading. She was not really working. She was watching the fingers twitch249 across the eternal, mechanical, monotonous254 clock-face of time. She never really lived, she only watched. Indeed, she was like a little, twelve-hour clock, vis-a-vis with the enormous clock of eternity255 -there she was, like Dignity and Impudence256, or Impudence and Dignity.
The picture pleased her. Didn't her face really look like a clock dial -rather roundish and often pale, and impassive. She would have got up to look, in the mirror, but the thought of the sight of her own face, that was like a twelve-hour clock-dial, filled her with such deep terror, that she hastened to think of something else.
Oh, why wasn't somebody kind to her? Why wasn't there somebody who would take her in their arms, and hold her to their breast, and give her rest, pure, deep, healing rest. Oh, why wasn't there somebody to take her in their arms and fold her safe and perfect, for sleep. She wanted so much this perfect enfolded sleep. She lay always so unsheathed in sleep. She would lie always unsheathed in sleep, unrelieved, unsaved. Oh, how could she bear it, this endless unrelief, this eternal unrelief.
Gerald! Could he fold her in his arms and sheathe257 her in sleep? Ha! He needed putting to sleep himself -- poor Gerald. That was all he needed. What did he do, he made the burden for her greater, the burden of her sleep was the more intolerable, when he was there. He was an added weariness upon her unripening nights, her unfruitful slumbers258. Perhaps he got some repose260 from her. Perhaps he did. Perhaps this was what he was always dogging her for, like a child that is famished261, crying for the breast. Perhaps this was the secret of his passion, his forever unquenched desire for her -- that he needed her to put him to sleep, to give him repose.
What then! Was she his mother? Had she asked for a child, whom she must nurse through the nights, for her lover. She despised him, she despised him, she hardened her heart. An infant crying in the night, this Don Juan.
Ooh, but how she hated the infant crying in the night. She would murder it gladly. She would stifle262 it and bury it, as Hetty Sorrell did. No doubt Hetty Sorrell's infant cried in the night -- no doubt Arthur Donnithorne's infant would. Ha -- the Arthur Donnithornes, the Geralds of this world. So manly263 by day, yet all the while, such a crying of infants in the night. Let them turn into mechanisms264, let them. Let them become instruments, pure machines, pure wills, that work like clock-work, in perpetual repetition. Let them be this, let them be taken up entirely in their work, let them be perfect parts of a great machine, having a slumber259 of constant repetition. Let Gerald manage his firm. There he would be satisfied, as satisfied as a wheelbarrow that goes backwards265 and forwards along a plank266 all day -she had seen it.
The wheel-barrow -- the one humble wheel -- the unit of the firm. Then the cart, with two wheels; then the truck, with four; then the donkey-engine, with eight, then the winding-engine, with sixteen, and so on, till it came to the miner, with a thousand wheels, and then the electrician, with three thousand, and the underground manager, with twenty thousand, and the general manager with a hundred thousand little wheels working away to complete his make-up, and then Gerald, with a million wheels and cogs and axles.
Poor Gerald, such a lot of little wheels to his make-up! He was more intricate than a chronometer-watch. But oh heavens, what weariness! What weariness, God above! A chronometer-watch -- a beetle267 -- her soul fainted with utter ennui268, from the thought. So many wheels to count and consider and calculate! Enough, enough -- there was an end to man's capacity for complications, even. Or perhaps there was no end.
Meanwhile Gerald sat in his room, reading. When Gudrun was gone, he was left stupefied with arrested desire. He sat on the side of the bed for an hour, stupefied, little strands269 of consciousness appearing and reappearing. But he did not move, for a long time he remained inert, his head dropped on his breast.
Then he looked up and realised that he was going to bed. He was cold. Soon he was lying down in the dark.
But what he could not bear was the darkness. The solid darkness confronting him drove him mad. So he rose, and made a light. He remained seated for a while, staring in front. He did not think of Gudrun, he did not think of anything.
Then suddenly he went downstairs for a book. He had all his life been in terror of the nights that should come, when he could not sleep. He knew that this would be too much for him, to have to face nights of sleeplessness270 and of horrified271 watching the hours.
So he sat for hours in bed, like a statue, reading. His mind, hard and acute, read on rapidly, his body understood nothing. In a state of rigid unconsciousness, he read on through the night, till morning, when, weary and disgusted in spirit, disgusted most of all with himself, he slept for two hours.
Then he got up, hard and full of energy. Gudrun scarcely spoke to him, except at coffee when she said:
`I shall be leaving tomorrow.'
`We will go together as far as Innsbruck, for appearance's sake?' he asked.
`Perhaps,' she said.
She said `Perhaps' between the sips272 of her coffee. And the sound of her taking her breath in the word, was nauseous to him. He rose quickly to be away from her.
He went and made arrangements for the departure on the morrow. Then, taking some food, he set out for the day on the skis. Perhaps, he said to the Wirt, he would go up to the Marienhutte, perhaps to the village below.
To Gudrun this day was full of a promise like spring. She felt an approaching release, a new fountain of life rising up in her. It gave her pleasure to dawdle273 through her packing, it gave her pleasure to dip into books, to try on her different garments, to look at herself in the glass. She felt a new lease of life was come upon her, and she was happy like a child, very attractive and beautiful to everybody, with her soft, luxuriant figure, and her happiness. Yet underneath274 was death itself.
In the afternoon she had to go out with Loerke. Her tomorrow was perfectly vague before her. This was what gave her pleasure. She might be going to England with Gerald, she might be going to Dresden with Loerke, she might be going to Munich, to a girl-friend she had there. Anything might come to pass on the morrow. And today was the white, snowy iridescent275 threshold of all possibility. All possibility -- that was the charm to her, the lovely, iridescent, indefinite charm, -- pure illusion All possibility -- because death was inevitable, and nothing was possible but death.
She did not want things to materialise, to take any definite shape. She wanted, suddenly, at one moment of the journey tomorrow, to be wafted276 into an utterly new course, by some utterly unforeseen event, or motion. So that, although she wanted to go out with Loerke for the last time into the snow, she did not want to be serious or businesslike.
And Loerke was not a serious figure. In his brown velvet277 cap, that made his head as round as a chestnut278, with the brown-velvet flaps loose and wild over his ears, and a wisp of elf-like, thin black hair blowing above his full, elf-like dark eyes, the shiny, transparent279 brown skin crinkling up into odd grimaces280 on his small-featured face, he looked an odd little boyman, a bat. But in his figure, in the greeny loden suit, he looked chetif and puny281, still strangely different from the rest.
He had taken a little toboggan, for the two of them, and they trudged282 between the blinding slopes of snow, that burned their now hardening faces, laughing in an endless sequence of quips and jests and polyglot283 fancies. The fancies were the reality to both of them, they were both so happy, tossing about the little coloured balls of verbal humour and whimsicality. Their natures seemed to sparkle in full interplay, they were enjoying a pure game. And they wanted to keep it on the level of a game, their relationship: such a fine game.
Loerke did not take the toboganning very seriously. He put no fire and intensity284 into it, as Gerald did. Which pleased Gudrun. She was weary, oh so weary of Gerald's gripped intensity of physical motion. Loerke let the sledge102 go wildly, and gaily285, like a flying leaf, and when, at a bend, he pitched both her and him out into the snow, he only waited for them both to pick themselves up unhurt off the keen white ground, to be laughing and pert as a pixie. She knew he would be making ironical, playful remarks as he wandered in hell -- if he were in the humour. And that pleased her immensely. It seemed like a rising above the dreariness286 of actuality, the monotony of contingencies287.
They played till the sun went down, in pure amusement, careless and timeless. Then, as the little sledge twirled riskily288 to rest at the bottom of the slope,
`Wait!' he said suddenly, and he produced from somewhere a large thermos289 flask290, a packet of Keks, and a bottle of Schnapps.
`Oh Loerke,' she cried. `What an inspiration! What a comble de joie indeed! What is the Schnapps?'
He looked at it, and laughed.
`Heidelbeer!' he said.
`No! From the bilberries under the snow. Doesn't it look as if it were distilled291 from snow. Can you --' she sniffed292, and sniffed at the bottle -`can you smell bilberries? Isn't it wonderful? It is exactly as if one could smell them through the snow.'
She stamped her foot lightly on the ground. He kneeled down and whistled, and put his ear to the snow. As he did so his black eyes twinkled up.
`Ha! Ha!' she laughed, warmed by the whimsical way in which he mocked at her verbal extravagances. He was always teasing her, mocking her ways. But as he in his mockery was even more absurd than she in her extravagances, what could one do but laugh and feel liberated293.
She could feel their voices, hers and his, ringing silvery like bells in the frozen, motionless air of the first twilight. How perfect it was, how very perfect it was, this silvery isolation and interplay.
She sipped294 the hot coffee, whose fragrance295 flew around them like bees murmuring around flowers, in the snowy air, she drank tiny sips of the Heidelbeerwasser, she ate the cold, sweet, creamy wafers. How good everything was! How perfect everything tasted and smelled and sounded, here in this utter stillness of snow and falling twilight.
`You are going away tomorrow?' his voice came at last.
`Yes.'
There was a pause, when the evening seemed to rise in its silent, ringing pallor infinitely high, to the infinite which was near at hand.
`Wohin?'
That was the question -- wohin? Whither? Wohin? What a lovely word! She never wanted it answered. Let it chime for ever.
`I don't know,' she said, smiling at him.
He caught the smile from her.
`One never does,' he said.
`One never does,' she repeated.
There was a silence, wherein he ate biscuits rapidly, as a rabbit eats leaves.
`But,' he laughed, `where will you take a ticket to?'
`Oh heaven!' she cried. `One must take a ticket.'
Here was a blow. She saw herself at the wicket, at the railway station. Then a relieving thought came to her. She breathed freely.
`But one needn't go,' she cried.
`Certainly not,' he said.
`I mean one needn't go where one's ticket says.'
That struck him. One might take a ticket, so as not to travel to the destination it indicated. One might break off, and avoid the destination. A point located. That was an idea!
`Then take a ticket to London,' he said. `One should never go there.'
`Right,' she answered.
He poured a little coffee into a tin can.
`You won't tell me where you will go?' he asked.
`Really and truly,' she said, `I don't know. It depends which way the wind blows.'
He looked at her quizzically, then he pursed up his lips, like Zephyrus, blowing across the snow.
`It goes towards Germany,' he said.
`I believe so,' she laughed.
Suddenly, they were aware of a vague white figure near them. It was Gerald. Gudrun's heart leapt in sudden terror, profound terror. She rose to her feet.
`They told me where you were,' came Gerald's voice, like a judgment296 in the whitish air of twilight.
`Maria! You come like a ghost,' exclaimed Loerke.
Gerald did not answer. His presence was unnatural and ghostly to them.
Loerke shook the flask -- then he held it inverted297 over the snow. Only a few brown drops trickled298 out.
`All gone!' he said.
To Gerald, the smallish, odd figure of the German was distinct and objective, as if seen through field glasses. And he disliked the small figure exceedingly, he wanted it removed.
Then Loerke rattled299 the box which held the biscuits.
`Biscuits there are still,' he said.
And reaching from his seated posture246 in the sledge, he handed them to Gudrun. She fumbled300, and took one. He would have held them to Gerald, but Gerald so definitely did not want to be offered a biscuit, that Loerke, rather vaguely301, put the box aside. Then he took up the small bottle, and held it to the light.
`Also there is some Schnapps,' he said to himself.
Then suddenly, he elevated the battle gallantly302 in the air, a strange, grotesque figure leaning towards Gudrun, and said:
`Gnadiges Fraulein,' he said, `wohl --'
There was a crack, the bottle was flying, Loerke had started back, the three stood quivering in violent emotion.
Loerke turned to Gerald, a devilish leer on his bright-skinned face.
`Well done!' he said, in a satirical demoniac frenzy303. `C'est le sport, sans doute.'
The next instant he was sitting ludicrously in the snow, Gerald's fist having rung against the side of his head. But Loerke pulled himself together, rose, quivering, looking full at Gerald, his body weak and furtive, but his eyes demoniacal with satire304.
`Vive le heros, vive --'
But he flinched305, as, in a black flash Gerald's fist came upon him, banged into the other side of his head, and sent him aside like a broken straw.
But Gudrun moved forward. She raised her clenched hand high, and brought it down, with a great downward stroke on to the face and on to the breast of Gerald.
A great astonishment306 burst upon him, as if the air had broken. Wide, wide his soul opened, in wonder, feeling the pain. Then it laughed, turning, with strong hands outstretched, at last to take the apple of his desire. At last he could finish his desire.
He took the throat of Gudrun between his hands, that were hard and indomitably powerful. And her throat was beautifully, so beautifully soft, save that, within, he could feel the slippery chords of her life. And this he crushed, this he could crush. What bliss! Oh what bliss, at last, what satisfaction, at last! The pure zest307 of satisfaction filled his soul. He was watching the unconsciousness come unto her swollen308 face, watching the eyes roll back. How ugly she was! What a fulfilment, what a satisfaction! How good this was, oh how good it was, what a God-given gratification, at last! He was unconscious of her fighting and struggling. The struggling was her reciprocal lustful309 passion in this embrace, the more violent it became, the greater the frenzy of delight, till the zenith was reached, the crisis, the struggle was overborne, her movement became softer, appeased310.
Loerke roused himself on the snow, too dazed and hurt to get up. Only his eyes were conscious.
`Monsieur!' he said, in his thin, roused voice: `Quand vous aurez fini --'
A revulsion of contempt and disgust came over Gerald's soul. The disgust went to the very bottom of him, a nausea. Ah, what was he doing, to what depths was he letting himself go! As if he cared about her enough to kill her, to have her life on his hands!
A weakness ran over his body, a terrible relaxing, a thaw311, a decay of strength. Without knowing, he had let go his grip, and Gudrun had fallen to her knees. Must he see, must he know?
A fearful weakness possessed him, his joints312 were turned to water. He drifted, as on a wind, veered313, and went drifting away.
`I didn't want it, really,' was the last confession314 of disgust in his soul, as he drifted up the slope, weak, finished, only sheering off unconsciously from any further contact. `I've had enough -- I want to go to sleep. I've had enough.' He was sunk under a sense of nausea.
He was weak, but he did not want to rest, he wanted to go on and on, to the end. Never again to stay, till he came to the end, that was all the desire that remained to him. So he drifted on and on, unconscious and weak, not thinking of anything, so long as he could keep in action.
The twilight spread a weird315, unearthly light overhead, bluish-rose in colour, the cold blue night sank on the snow. In the valley below, behind, in the great bed of snow, were two small figures: Gudrun dropped on her knees, like one executed, and Loerke sitting propped316 up near her. That was all.
Gerald stumbled on up the slope of snow, in the bluish darkness, always climbing, always unconsciously climbing, weary though he was. On his left was a steep slope with black rocks and fallen masses of rock and veins of snow slashing317 in and about the blackness of rock, veins of snow slashing vaguely in and about the blackness of rock. Yet there was no sound, all this made no noise.
To add to his difficulty, a small bright moon shone brilliantly just ahead, on the right, a painful brilliant thing that was always there, unremitting, from which there was no escape. He wanted so to come to the end -- he had had enough. Yet he did not sleep.
He surged painfully up, sometimes having to cross a slope of black rock, that was blown bare of snow. Here he was afraid of falling, very much afraid of falling. And high up here, on the crest, moved a wind that almost overpowered him with a sleep-heavy iciness. Only it was not here, the end, and he must still go on. His indefinite nausea would not let him stay.
Having gained one ridge61, he saw the vague shadow of something higher in front. Always higher, always higher. He knew he was following the track towards the summit of the slopes, where was the marienhutte, and the descent on the other side. But he was not really conscious. He only wanted to go on, to go on whilst he could, to move, to keep going, that was all, to keep going, until it was finished. He had lost all his sense of place. And yet in the remaining instinct of life, his feet sought the track where the skis had gone.
He slithered down a sheer snow slope. That frightened him. He had no alpenstock, nothing. But having come safely to rest, he began to walk on, in the illuminated318 darkness. It was as cold as sleep. He was between two ridges, in a hollow. So he swerved. Should he climb the other ridge, or wander along the hollow? How frail319 the thread of his being was stretched! He would perhaps climb the ridge. The snow was firm and simple. He went along. There was something standing out of the snow. He approached, with dimmest curiosity.
It was a half-buried Crucifix, a little Christ under a little sloping hood320, at the top of a pole. He sheered away. Somebody was going to murder him. He had a great dread321 of being murdered. But it was a dread which stood outside him, like his own ghost.
Yet why be afraid? It was bound to happen. To be murdered! He looked round in terror at the snow, the rocking, pale, shadowy slopes of the upper world. He was bound to be murdered, he could see it. This was the moment when the death was uplifted, and there was no escape.
Lord Jesus, was it then bound to be -- Lord Jesus! He could feel the blow descending322, he knew he was murdered. Vaguely wandering forward, his hands lifted as if to feel what would happen, he was waiting for the moment when he would stop, when it would cease. It was not over yet.
He had come to the hollow basin of snow, surrounded by sheer slopes and precipices323, out of which rose a track that brought one to the top of the mountain. But he wandered unconsciously, till he slipped and fell down, and as he fell something broke in his soul, and immediately he went to sleep.
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收听单词发音
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1
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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10
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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suffocate
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| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
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12
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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13
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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15
severing
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的现在分词 )；断，裂 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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18
counterfoil
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| n.(支票、邮局汇款单、收据等的)存根，票根 | |
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19
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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21
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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22
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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23
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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25
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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26
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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rhythmically
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| adv.有节奏地 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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32
wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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33
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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34
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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35
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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40
ratified
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| v.批准，签认（合约等）( ratify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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42
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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43
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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45
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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46
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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47
licentiousness
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| n.放肆，无法无天 | |
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48
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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49
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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50
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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51
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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52
germinated
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| v.（使）发芽( germinate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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54
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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55
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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58
immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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59
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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60
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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61
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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62
incandescent
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| adj.遇热发光的， 白炽的，感情强烈的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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64
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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65
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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66
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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68
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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69
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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70
grovel
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| vi.卑躬屈膝，奴颜婢膝 | |
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71
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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74
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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75
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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76
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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77
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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78
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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79
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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80
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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81
traitorous
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| adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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82
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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83
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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84
noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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85
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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86
projectile
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| n.投射物，发射体；adj.向前开进的；推进的；抛掷的 | |
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87
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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88
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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89
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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90
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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91
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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92
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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93
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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94
rapport
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| n.和睦，意见一致 | |
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95
bagatelle
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| n.琐事；小曲儿 | |
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96
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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97
exponents
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| n.倡导者( exponent的名词复数 )；说明者；指数；能手 | |
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98
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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99
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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100
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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101
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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102
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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103
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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104
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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105
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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106
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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107
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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108
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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109
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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110
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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111
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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112
malevolently
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113
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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114
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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115
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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116
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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117
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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118
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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119
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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120
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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121
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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122
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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123
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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124
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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125
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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126
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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127
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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128
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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129
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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130
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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131
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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132
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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133
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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134
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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135
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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136
corrosion
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| n.腐蚀，侵蚀；渐渐毁坏，渐衰 | |
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137
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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139
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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140
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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141
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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142
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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143
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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144
protagonists
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| n.（戏剧的）主角( protagonist的名词复数 )；（故事的）主人公；现实事件（尤指冲突和争端的）主要参与者；领导者 | |
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145
subjugating
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的现在分词 ) | |
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146
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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147
disintegrating
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的现在分词 ) | |
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148
subconsciousness
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| 潜意识；下意识 | |
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149
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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150
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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151
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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152
craftsman
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| n.技工，精于一门工艺的匠人 | |
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153
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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154
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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155
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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156
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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157
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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158
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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159
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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160
evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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161
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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162
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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163
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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164
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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165
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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166
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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167
repulsiveness
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168
flouting
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的现在分词 ) | |
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169
scotched
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| v.阻止( scotch的过去式和过去分词 )；制止（车轮）转动；弄伤；镇压 | |
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170
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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172
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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173
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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174
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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176
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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177
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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178
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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180
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181
subjugates
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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182
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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183
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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184
flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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185
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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186
proboscis
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| n.（象的）长鼻 | |
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187
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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188
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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189
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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190
palled
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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192
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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193
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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194
transfused
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| v.输（血或别的液体）( transfuse的过去式和过去分词 )；渗透；使…被灌输或传达 | |
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195
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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196
prehensile
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| adj.（足等）适于抓握的 | |
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197
pellucid
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| adj.透明的，简单的 | |
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198
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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199
laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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200
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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201
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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202
chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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203
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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204
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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205
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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206
begrudged
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| 嫉妒( begrudge的过去式和过去分词 )； 勉强做； 不乐意地付出； 吝惜 | |
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207
chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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208
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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209
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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210
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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211
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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212
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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213
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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214
negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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215
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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216
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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217
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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218
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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219
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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220
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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221
hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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222
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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223
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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224
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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225
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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226
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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227
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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228
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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229
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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230
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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231
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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232
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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233
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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234
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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235
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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236
goading
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| v.刺激( goad的现在分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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237
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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238
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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239
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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240
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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241
strut
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| v.肿胀，鼓起；大摇大摆地走；炫耀；支撑；撑开；n.高视阔步；支柱，撑杆 | |
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242
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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243
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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244
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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245
postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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246
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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247
delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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248
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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249
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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250
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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251
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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252
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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253
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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254
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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255
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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256
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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257
sheathe
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| v.（将刀剑）插入鞘；包，覆盖 | |
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258
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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259
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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260
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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261
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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262
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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263
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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264
mechanisms
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| n.机械( mechanism的名词复数 )；机械装置；[生物学] 机制；机械作用 | |
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265
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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266
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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267
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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268
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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269
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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270
sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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271
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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272
sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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273
dawdle
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| vi.浪费时间；闲荡 | |
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274
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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275
iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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276
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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277
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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278
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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279
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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280
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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281
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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282
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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283
polyglot
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| adj.通晓数种语言的；n.通晓多种语言的人 | |
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284
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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285
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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286
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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287
contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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288
riskily
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| 冒险地，危险万分地 | |
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289
thermos
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| n.保湿瓶，热水瓶 | |
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290
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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291
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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292
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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293
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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294
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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295
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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296
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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297
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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298
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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299
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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300
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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301
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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302
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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303
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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304
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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305
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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306
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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307
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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308
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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309
lustful
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| a.贪婪的；渴望的 | |
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310
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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311
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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312
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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313
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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314
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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315
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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316
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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317
slashing
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| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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318
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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319
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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320
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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321
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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322
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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323
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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