strange, white figure between the unliving furniture. He came back with the towels, and took his former position, crouching seated before the fire on the fender.
‘Don’t you love to feel the fire on your skin?’ he said.
‘It IS rather pleasant,’ said Gerald.
‘How perfectly splendid it must be to be in a climate where one could do without clothing altogether,’ said Halliday.
‘Yes,’ said Gerald, ‘if there weren’t so many things that sting and bite.’
‘That’s a disadvantage,’ murmured Maxim.
Gerald looked at him, and with a slight revulsion saw the human animal, golden skinned and bare, somehow humiliating. Halliday was different. He had a rather heavy, slack, broken beauty, white and firm. He was like a Christ in a Pieta. The animal was not there at all, only the heavy, broken beauty. And Gerald realised how Halliday’s eyes were beautiful too, so blue and warm and confused, broken also in their expression. The fireglow fell on his heavy, rather bowed shoulders, he sat slackly crouched on the fender, his face was uplifted, weak, perhaps slightly disintegrate, and yet with a moving beauty of its own.
‘Of course,’ said Maxim, ‘you’ve been in hot countries where the people go about naked.’
‘Oh really!’ exclaimed Halliday. ‘Where?’
‘South America—Amazon,’ said Gerald.
‘Oh but how perfectly splendid! It’s one of the things I want most to do—to live from day to day without EVER putting on any sort of clothing whatever. If I could do that, I should feel I had lived.’
‘But why?’ said Gerald. ‘I can’t see that it makes so much difference.’
‘Oh, I think it would be perfectly splendid. I’m sure life would be entirely another thing—entirely different, and perfectly wonderful.’
‘But why?’ asked Gerald. ‘Why should it?’
‘Oh—one would FEEL things instead of merely looking at them. I should feel the air move against me, and feel the things I touched, instead of having only to look at them. I’m sure life is all wrong because it has become much too visual—we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, we can only see. I’m sure that is entirely wrong.’
‘Yes, that is true, that is true,’ said the Russian.
Gerald glanced at him, and saw him, his suave, golden coloured body with the black hair growing fine and freely, like tendrils, and his limbs like smooth plant-stems. He was so healthy and well-made, why did he make one ashamed, why did one feel repelled? Why should Gerald even dislike it, why did it seem to him to detract from his own dignity. Was that all a human being amounted to? So uninspired! thought Gerald.
Birkin suddenly appeared in the doorway, in white pyjamas and wet hair, and a towel over his arm. He was aloof and white, and somehow evanescent.
‘There’s the bathroom now, if you want it,’ he said generally, and was going away again, when Gerald called:
‘I say, Rupert!’
‘What?’ The single white figure appeared again, a presence in the room.
‘What do you think of that figure there? I want to know,’ Gerald asked.
Birkin, white and strangely ghostly, went over to the carved figure of the negro woman in labour. Her nude, protuberant body crouched in a strange, clutching posture, her hands gripping the ends of the band, above her breast.
‘It is art,’ said Birkin.
‘Very beautiful, it’s very beautiful,’ said the Russian.
They all drew near to look. Gerald looked at the group of men, the Russian golden and like a water-plant, Halliday tall and heavily, brokenly beautiful, Birkin very white and indefinite, not to be assigned, as he looked closely at the carven woman. Strangely elated, Gerald also lifted his eyes to the face of the wooden figure. And his heart contracted.
He saw vividly with his spirit the grey, forward-stretching face of the negro woman, African and tense, abstracted in utter physical stress. It was a terrible face, void, peaked, abstracted almost into meaninglessness by the weight of sensation beneath. He saw the Pussum in it. As in a dream, he knew her.
‘Why is it art?’ Gerald asked, shocked, resentful.
‘It conveys a complete truth,’ said Birkin. ‘It contains the whole truth of that state, whatever you feel about it.’
‘But you can’t call it HIGH art,’ said Gerald.
‘High! There are centuries and hundreds of centuries of development in a straight line, behind that carving; it is an awful pitch of culture, of a definite sort.’
‘What culture?’ Gerald asked, in opposition. He hated the sheer African thing.
‘Pure culture in sensation, culture in the physical consciousness, really ultimate PHYSICAL consciousness, mindless, utterly sensual. It is so sensual as to be final, supreme.’
But Gerald resented it. He wanted to keep certain illusions, certain ideas like clothing.
‘You like the wrong things, Rupert,’ he said, ‘things against yourself.’
‘Oh, I know, this isn’t everything,’ Birkin replied, moving away.
When Gerald went back to his room from the bath, he also carried his clothes. He was so conventional at
