The normal consciousness however was returning, ebbing back. Birkin could breathe almost naturally again. Gerald’s hand slowly withdrew, Birkin slowly, dazedly rose to his feet and went towards the table. He poured out a whiskey and soda. Gerald also came for a drink.
“It was a real set-to, wasn’t it?” said Birkin, looking at Gerald with darkened eyes.
“God, yes,” said Gerald. He looked at the delicate body of the other man, and added: “It wasn’t too much for you, was it?”
“No. One ought to wrestle and strive and be physically close. It makes one sane.”
“You do think so?”
“I do. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Gerald.
There were long spaces of silence between their words. The wrestling had some deep meaning to them—an unfinished meaning.
“We are mentally, spiritually intimate, therefore we should be more or less physically intimate too—it is more whole.”
“Certainly it is,” said Gerald. Then he laughed pleasantly, adding: “It’s rather wonderful to me.” He stretched out his arms handsomely.
“Yes,” said Birkin. “I don’t know why one should have to justify oneself.”
“No.”
The two men began to dress.
“I think also that you are beautiful,” said Birkin to Gerald, “and that is enjoyable too. One should enjoy what is given.”
“You think I am beautiful—how do you mean, physically?” asked Gerald, his eyes glistening.
“Yes. You have a northern kind of beauty, like light refracted from snow—and a beautiful, plastic form. Yes, that is there to enjoy as well. We should enjoy everything.”
Gerald laughed in his throat, and said:
“That’s certainly one way of looking at it. I can say this much, I feel better. It has certainly helped me. Is this the Bruderschaft you wanted?”
“Perhaps. Do you think this pledges anything?”
“I don’t know,” laughed Gerald.
“At any rate, one feels freer and more open now—and that is what we want.”
“Certainly,” said Gerald.
They drew to the fire, with the decanters and the glasses and the food.
“I always eat a little before I go to bed,” said Gerald. “I sleep better.”
“I should not sleep so well,” said Birkin.
“No? There you are, we are not alike. I’ll put a dressing-gown on.” Birkin remained alone, looking at the fire. His mind had reverted to Ursula. She seemed to return again into his consciousness. Gerald came down wearing a gown of broad-barred, thick black-and-green silk, brilliant and striking.
“You are very fine,” said Birkin, looking at the full robe.
“It was a caftan in Bokhara,” said Gerald. “I like it.”
“I like it too.”
Birkin was silent, thinking how scrupulous Gerald was in his attire, how expensive too. He wore silk socks, and studs of fine workmanship, and silk underclothing, and silk braces. Curious! This was another of the differences between them. Birkin was careless and unimaginative about his own appearance.
“Of course you,” said Gerald, as if he had been thinking; “there’s something curious about you. You’re curiously strong. One doesn’t expect it, it is rather surprising.”
Birkin laughed. He was looking at the handsome figure of the other man, blond and comely in the rich robe, and he was half thinking of the difference between it and himself—so different; as far, perhaps, apart as man from woman, yet in another direction. But really it was Ursula, it was the woman who was gaining ascendance over Birkin’s being, at this moment. Gerald was becoming dim again, lapsing out of him.
“Do you know,” he said suddenly, “I went and proposed to Ursula Brangwen tonight, that she should marry me.”
He saw the blank shining wonder come over Gerald’s face.
“You did?”
“Yes. Almost formally—speaking first to her father, as it should be, in the world—though that was accident—or mischief.”
Gerald only stared in wonder, as if he did not grasp.
“You don’t mean to say that you seriously went and asked her father to let you marry her?”
“Yes,” said Birkin, “I did.”
“What, had you spoken to her before about it, then?”
“No, not a word. I suddenly thought I would go there and ask her—and her father happened to come instead of her—so I asked him first.”
“If you could have her?” concluded Gerald.
“Ye-es, that.”
“And you didn’t speak to her?”
“Yes. She came in afterwards. So it was put to her as well.”
“It was! And what did she say then? You’re an engaged man?”
“No—she only said she didn’t want to be bullied into answering.”
“She what?”
“Said she didn’t want to be bullied into answering.”
“ ‘Said she didn’t want to be bullied into answering!’ Why, what did she mean by that?”
Birkin raised his shoulders. “Can’t say,” he answered. “Didn’t want to be bothered just then, I suppose.”
“But is this really so? And what did you do then?”
“I walked out of the house and came here.”
“You came straight here?”
“Yes.”
Gerald stared in amazement and amusement. He could not take it in.
“But is this really true, as you say it now?”
“Word for word.”
“It is?”
He leaned back in his chair, filled with delight and amusement.
“Well, that’s good,” he said. “And so you came here to wrestle with your good angel, did you?”
“Did I?” said Birkin.
“Well, it looks like it. Isn’t that what you did?”
Now Birkin could not follow Gerald’s meaning.
“And what’s going to happen?” said Gerald. “You’re going to keep open the proposition, so to speak?”
“I suppose so. I vowed to myself I would see them all to the devil. But I suppose I shall ask her again, in a little while.”
Gerald watched him steadily.
“So you’re fond of her then?” he asked.
“I think—I love her,” said Birkin, his face going very still and fixed.
Gerald glistened for a moment with pleasure, as if it were something done specially to please him. Then his face assumed a fitting gravity, and he nodded his head slowly.
“You know,” he said, “I always believed in love—true love. But where does one find it nowadays?”
“I don’t know,” said Birkin.
“Very rarely,” said Gerald. Then, after a pause, “I’ve never felt it myself—not what I should call love. I’ve gone after women—and been keen enough over some of them. But I’ve never felt love. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt as much love for a woman, as I have for you—not
