It filled him with almost insane fury, this calm assumption of the Magna Mater, that all was hers, because she had borne it. Man was hers because she had borne him. A Mater Dolorosa, she had borne him, a Magna Mater, she now claimed him again, soul and body, sex, meaning, and all. He had a horror of the Magna Mater, she was detestable.
She was on a very high horse again, was woman, the Great Mother. Did he not know it in Hermione. Hermione, the humble, the subservient, what was she all the while but the Mater Dolorosa, in her subservience, claiming with horrible, insidious arrogance and female tyranny, her own again, claiming back the man she had borne in suffering. By her very suffering and humility she bound her son with chains, she held him her everlasting prisoner.
And Ursula, Ursula was the same—or the inverse. She too was the awful, arrogant queen of life, as if she were a queen bee on whom all the rest depended. He saw the yellow flare in her eyes, he knew the unthinkable overweening assumption of primacy in her. She was unconscious of it herself. She was only too ready to knock her head on the ground before a man. But this was only when she was so certain of her man, that she could worship him as a woman worships her own infant, with a worship of perfect possession.
It was intolerable, this possession at the hands of woman. Always a man must be considered as the broken off fragment of a woman, and the sex was the still aching scar of the laceration. Man must be added on to a woman, before he had any real place or wholeness.
And why? Why should we consider ourselves, men and women, as broken fragments of one whole? It is not true. We are not broken fragments of one whole. Rather we are the singling away into purity and clear being, of things that were mixed. Rather the sex is that which remains in us of the mixed, the unresolved. And passion is the further separating of this mixture, that which is manly being taken into the being of the man, that which is womanly passing to the woman, till the two are clear and whole as angels, the admixture of sex in the highest sense surpassed, leaving two single beings constellated together like two stars.
In the old age, before sex was, we were mixed, each one a mixture. The process of singling into individuality resulted into the great polarisation of sex. The womanly drew to one side, the manly to the other. But the separation was imperfect even them. And so our world-cycle passes. There is now to come the new day, when we are beings each of us, fulfilled in difference. The man is pure man, the woman pure woman, they are perfectly polarised. But there is no longer any of the horrible merging, mingling self-abnegation of love. There is only the pure duality of polarisation, each one free from any contamination of the other. In each, the individual is primal, sex is subordinate, but perfectly polarised. Each has a single, separate being, with its own laws. The man has his pure freedom, the woman hers. Each acknowledges the perfection of the polarised sex-circuit. Each admits the different nature in the other.
So Birkin meditated whilst he was ill. He liked sometimes to be ill enough to take to his bed. For then he got better very quickly, and things came to him clear and sure.
Whilst he was laid up, Gerald came to see him. The two men had a deep, uneasy feeling for each other. Gerald’s eyes were quick and restless, his whole manner tense and impatient, he seemed strung up to some activity. According to conventionality, he wore black clothes, he looked formal, handsome and comme il faut. His hair was fair almost to whiteness, sharp like splinters of light, his face was keen and ruddy, his body seemed full of northern energy. Gerald really loved Birkin, though he never quite believed in him. Birkin was too unreal;—clever, whimsical, wonderful, but not practical enough. Gerald felt that his own understanding was much sounder and safer. Birkin was delightful, a wonderful spirit, but after all, not to be taken seriously, not quite to be counted as a man among men.
“Why are you laid up again?” he asked kindly, taking the sick man’s hand. It was always Gerald who was protective, offering the warm shelter of his physical strength.
“For my sins, I suppose,” Birkin said, smiling a little ironically.
“For your sins? Yes, probably that is so. You should sin less, and keep better in health?”
“You’d better teach me.”
He looked at Gerald with ironic eyes.
“How are things with you?” asked Birkin.
“With me?” Gerald looked at Birkin, saw he was serious, and a warm light came into his eyes.
“I don’t know that they’re any different. I don’t see how they could be. There’s nothing to change.”
“I suppose you are conducting the business as successfully as ever, and ignoring the demand of the soul.”
“That’s it,” said Gerald. “At least as far as the business is concerned. I couldn’t say about the soul, I’am sure.”
“No.”
“Surely you don’t expect me to?” laughed Gerald.
“No. How are the rest of your affairs progressing, apart from the business?”
“The rest of my affairs? What are those? I couldn’t say; I don’t know what you refer to.”
“Yes, you do,” said Birkin. “Are you gloomy or cheerful? And what about Gudrun Brangwen?”
“What about her?” A confused look came over Gerald. “Well,” he added, “I don’t know. I can only tell you she gave me a hit over the face last time I saw her.”
“A hit over the face! What for?”
“That I couldn’t tell you, either.”
“Really! But when?”
“The night of the party—when Diana was drowned. She was driving the cattle up the hill, and I went after her—you remember.”
“Yes, I remember. But what made her do that? You didn’t definitely ask her for it, I suppose?”
“I?
