Women in Love HTML version

20. Gladiatorial
After the fiasco of the proposal, Birkin had hurried blindly away from Beldover, in
a whirl of fury. He felt he had been a complete fool, that the whole scene had
been a farce of the first water. But that did not trouble him at all. He was deeply,
mockingly angry that Ursula persisted always in this old cry: 'Why do you want to
bully me?' and in her bright, insolent abstraction.
He went straight to Shortlands. There he found Gerald standing with his back to
the fire, in the library, as motionless as a man is, who is completely and emptily
restless, utterly hollow. He had done all the work he wanted to do---and now
there was nothing. He could go out in the car, he could run to town. But he did
not want to go out in the car, he did not want to run to town, he did not want to
call on the Thirlbys. He was suspended motionless, in an agony of inertia, like a
machine that is without power.
This was very bitter to Gerald, who had never known what boredom was, who
had gone from activity to activity, never at a loss. Now, gradually, everything
seemed to be stopping in him. He did not want any more to do the things that
offered. Something dead within him just refused to respond to any suggestion.
He cast over in his mind, what it would be possible to do, to save himself from
this misery of nothingness, relieve the stress of this hollowness. And there were
only three things left, that would rouse him, make him live. One was to drink or
smoke hashish, the other was to be soothed by Birkin, and the third was women.
And there was no-one for the moment to drink with. Nor was there a woman. And
he knew Birkin was out. So there was nothing to do but to bear the stress of his
own emptiness.
When he saw Birkin his face lit up in a sudden, wonderful smile.
'By God, Rupert,' he said, 'I'd just come to the conclusion that nothing in the
world mattered except somebody to take the edge off one's being alone: the right
The smile in his eyes was very astonishing, as he looked at the other man. It was
the pure gleam of relief. His face was pallid and even haggard.
'The right woman, I suppose you mean,' said Birkin spitefully.
'Of course, for choice. Failing that, an amusing man.'
He laughed as he said it. Birkin sat down near the fire.
'What were you doing?' he asked.
'I? Nothing. I'm in a bad way just now, everything's on edge, and I can neither
work nor play. I don't know whether it's a sign of old age, I'm sure.'
'You mean you are bored?'
'Bored, I don't know. I can't apply myself. And I feel the devil is either very
present inside me, or dead.'
Birkin glanced up and looked in his eyes.
'You should try hitting something,' he said.
Gerald smiled.
'Perhaps,' he said. 'So long as it was something worth hitting.'