Now suddenly, as by a miracle she remembered that away beyond, below her, lay the dark fruitful earth, that towards the south there were stretches of land dark with orange trees and cypress, grey with olives, that ilex trees lifted wonderful plumy tufts in shadow against a blue sky. Miracle of miracles!—this utterly silent, frozen world of the mountain-tops was not universal! One might leave it and have done with it. One might go away.
She wanted to realise the miracle at once. She wanted at this instant to have done with the snow-world, the terrible, static ice-built mountain tops. She wanted to see the dark earth, to smell its earthy fecundity, to see the patient wintry vegetation, to feel the sunshine touch a response in the buds.
She went back gladly to the house, full of hope. Birkin was reading, lying in bed.
“Rupert,” she said, bursting in on him. “I want to go away.”
He looked up at her slowly.
“Do you?” he replied mildly.
She sat by him und put her arms round his neck. It surprised her that he was so little surprised.
“Don’t you?” she asked troubled.
“I hadn’t thought about it,” he said. “But I’m sure I do.”
She sat up, suddenly erect.
“I hate it,” she said. “I hate the snow, and the unnaturalness of it, the unnatural light it throws on everybody, the ghastly glamour, the unnatural feelings it makes everybody have.”
He lay still and laughed, meditating.
“Well,” he said, “we can go away—we can go tomorrow. We’ll go tomorrow to Verona, and find Romeo and Juliet, and sit in the amphitheatre—shall we?”
Suddenly she hid her face against his shoulder with perplexity and shyness. He lay so untrammelled.
“Yes,” she said softly, filled with relief. She felt her soul had new wings, now he was so uncaring. “I shall love to be Romeo and Juliet,” she said. “My love!”
“Though a fearfully cold wind blows in Verona,” he said, “from out of the Alps. We shall have the smell of the snow in our noses.”
She sat up and looked at him.
“Are you glad to go?” she asked, troubled.
His eyes were inscrutable and laughing. She hid her face against his neck, clinging close to him, pleading:
“Don’t laugh at me—don’t laugh at me.”
“Why how’s that?” he laughed, putting his arms round her.
“Because I don’t want to be laughed at,” she whispered.
He laughed more, as he kissed her delicate, finely perfumed hair.
“Do you love me?” she whispered, in wild seriousness.
“Yes,” he answered, laughing.
Suddenly she lifted her mouth to be kissed. Her lips were taut and quivering and strenuous, his were soft, deep and delicate. He waited a few moments in the kiss. Then a shade of sadness went over his soul.
“Your mouth is so hard,” he said, in faint reproach.
“And yours is so soft and nice,” she said gladly.
“But why do you always grip your lips?” he asked, regretful.
“Never mind,” she said swiftly. “It is my way.”
She knew he loved her; she was sure of him. Yet she could not let go a certain hold over herself, she could not bear him to question her. She gave herself up in delight to being loved by him. She knew that, in spite of his joy when she abandoned herself, he was a little bit saddened too. She could give herself up to his activity. But she could not be herself, she dared not come forth quite nakedly to his nakedness, abandoning all adjustment, lapsing in pure faith with him. She abandoned herself to him, or she took hold of him and gathered her joy of him. And she enjoyed him fully. But they were never quite together, at the same moment, one was always a little left out. Nevertheless she was glad in hope, glorious and free, full of life and liberty. And he was still and soft and patient, for the time.
They made their preparations to leave the next day. First they went to Gudrun’s room, where she and Gerald were just dressed ready for the evening indoors.
“Prune,” said Ursula, “I think we shall go away tomorrow. I can’t stand the snow any more. It hurts my skin and my soul.”
“Does it really hurt your soul, Ursula?” asked Gudrun, in some surprise. “I can believe quite it hurts your skin—it is terrible. But I thought it was admirable for the soul.”
“No, not for mine. It just injures it,” said Ursula.
“Really!” cried Gudrun.
There was a silence in the room. And Ursula and Birkin could feel that Gudrun and Gerald were relieved by their going.
“You will go south?” said Gerald, a little ring of uneasiness in his voice.
“Yes,” said Birkin, turning away. There was a queer, indefinable hostility between the two men, lately. Birkin was on the whole dim and indifferent, drifting along in a dim, easy flow, unnoticing and patient, since he came abroad, whilst Gerald on the other hand, was intense and gripped into white light, agonistes. The two men revoked one another.
Gerald and Gudrun were very kind to the two who were departing, solicitous for their welfare as if they were two children. Gudrun came to Ursula’s bedroom with three pairs of the coloured stockings for which she was notorious, and she threw them on the bed. But these were thick silk stockings, vermilion, cornflower blue, and grey, bought in Paris. The grey ones were knitted, seamless and heavy. Ursula was in raptures. She knew Gudrun must be feeling very loving, to give away such treasures.
“I can’t take them from you, Prune,” she cried. “I can’t possibly deprive you of them—the jewels.”
“Aren’t they jewels!” cried Gudrun, eyeing her gifts with an envious eye. “Aren’t they real lambs!”
“Yes, you must keep them,” said Ursula.
“I don’t want them, I’ve got three more pairs. I want you to keep them—I want you to have them. They’re yours, there—”
And with trembling, excited hands she put the coveted stockings under Ursula’s pillow.
“One gets the greatest joy of all out of really lovely stockings,” said Ursula.
“One does,” replied Gudrun; “the greatest joy of all.”
And she sat down
