Women in Love. D. H. LawrenceЧитать онлайн книгу.
commercial instinct? And isn’t this what we mean by nationality?”
“Probably,” said Birkin, who felt that such a discussion was out of place and out of time.
But Gerald was now on the scent of argument.
“A race may have its commercial aspect,” he said. “In fact it must. It is like a family. You must make provision. And to make provision you have got to strive against other families, other nations. I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”
Again Hermione made a pause, domineering and cold, before she replied: “Yes, I think it is always wrong to provoke a spirit of rivalry. It makes bad blood. And bad blood accumulates.”
“But you can’t do away with the spirit of emulation altogether?” said Gerald. “It is one of the necessary incentives to production and improvement.”
“Yes,” came Hermione’s sauntering response. “I think you can do away with it.”
“I must say,” said Birkin, “I detest the spirit of emulation.” Hermione was biting a piece of bread, pulling it from between her teeth with her fingers, in a slow, slightly derisive movement. She turned to Birkin.
“You do hate it, yes,” she said, intimate and gratified.
“Detest it,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she murmured, assured and satisfied.
“But,” Gerald insisted, “you don’t allow one man to take away his neighbour’s living, so why should you allow one nation to take away the living from another nation?”
There was a long slow murmur from Hermione before she broke into speech, saying with a laconic indifference:
“It is not always a question of possessions, is it? It is not all a question of goods?”
Gerald was nettled by this implication of vulgar materialism.
“Yes, more or less,” he retorted. “If I go and take a man’s hat from off his head, that hat becomes a symbol of that man’s liberty. When he fights me for his hat, he is fighting me for his liberty.”
Hermione was nonplussed.
“Yes,” she said, irritated. “But that way of arguing by imaginary instances is not supposed to be genuine, is it? A man does not come and take my hat from off my head, does he?”
“Only because the law prevents him,” said Gerald.
“Not only,” said Birkin. “Ninety-nine men out of a hundred don’t want my hat.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” said Gerald.
“Or the hat,” laughed the bridegroom.
“And if he does want my hat, such as it is,” said Birkin, “why, surely it is open to me to decide, which is a greater loss to me, my hat, or my liberty as a free and indifferent man. If I am compelled to offer fight, I lose the latter. It is a question which is worth more to me, my pleasant liberty of conduct, or my hat.”
“Yes,” said Hermione, watching Birkin strangely. “Yes.”
“But would you let somebody come and snatch your hat off your head?” the bride asked of Hermione.
The face of the tall straight woman turned slowly and as if drugged to this new speaker.
“No,” she replied, in a low inhuman tone, that seemed to contain a chuckle. “No, I shouldn’t let anybody take my hat off my head.”
“How would you prevent it?” asked Gerald.
“I don’t know,” replied Hermione slowly. “Probably I should kill him.”
There was a strange chuckle in her tone, a dangerous and convincing humour in her bearing.
“Of course,” said Gerald, “I can see Rupert’s point. It is a question to him whether his hat or his peace of mind is more important.”
“Peace of body,” said Birkin.
“Well, as you like there,” replied Gerald. “But how are you going to decide this for a nation?”
“Heaven preserve me,” laughed Birkin.
“Yes, but suppose you have to?” Gerald persisted.
“Then it is the same. If the national crown-piece is an old hat, then the thieving gent may have it.”
“But can the national or racial hat be an old hat?” insisted Gerald.
“Pretty well bound to be, I believe,” said Birkin.
“I’m not so sure,” said Gerald.
“I don’t agree, Rupert,” said Hermione.
“All right,” said Birkin.
“I’m all for the old national hat,” laughed Gerald.
“And a fool you look in it,” cried Diana, his pert sister who was just in her teens.
“Oh, we’re quite out of our depths with these old hats,” cried Laura Crich. “Dry up now, Gerald. We’re going to drink toasts. Let us drink toasts. Toasts—glasses, glasses—now then, toasts! Speech! Speech!”
Birkin, thinking about race or national death, watched his glass being filled with champagne. The bubbles broke at the rim, the man withdrew, and feeling a sudden thirst at the sight of the fresh wine, Birkin drank up his glass. A queer little tension in the room roused him. He felt a sharp constraint.
“Did I do it by accident, or on purpose?” he asked himself. And he decided that, according to the vulgar phrase, he had done it “accidentally on purpose.” He looked round at the hired footman. And the hired footman came, with a silent step of cold servant-like disapprobation. Birkin decided that he detested toasts, and footmen, and assemblies, and mankind altogether, in most of its aspects. Then he rose to make a speech. But he was somehow disgusted.
At length it was over, the meal. Several men strolled out into the garden. There was a lawn, and flower-beds, and at the boundary an iron fence shutting off the little field or park. The view was pleasant; a highroad curving round the edge of a low lake, under the trees. In the spring air, the water gleamed and the opposite woods were purplish with new life. Charming Jersey cattle came to the fence, breathing hoarsely from their velvet muzzles at the human beings, expecting perhaps a crust.
Birkin leaned on the fence. A cow was breathing wet hotness on his hand.
“Pretty cattle, very pretty,” said Marshall, one of the brothers-in-law. “They give the best milk you can have.”
“Yes,” said Birkin.
“Eh, my little beauty, eh, my beauty!” said Marshall, in a queer high falsetto voice, that caused the other man to have convulsions of laughter in his stomach.
“Who won the race, Lupton?” he called to the bridegroom, to hide the fact that he was laughing.
The bridegroom took his cigar from his mouth.
“The race?” he exclaimed. Then a rather thin smile came over his face. He did not want to say anything about the flight to the church door. “We got there together. At least she touched first, but I had my hand on her shoulder.”
“What’s this?” asked Gerald.
Birkin told him about the race of the bride and the bridegroom.
“H’m!” said Gerald, in disapproval. “What made you late then?”
“Lupton would talk about the immortality of the soul,” said Birkin, “and then he hadn’t got a button-hook.”
“Oh God!” cried Marshall. “The immortality of the soul on your wedding day! Hadn’t you got anything better to occupy your mind?”
“What’s wrong with it?” asked the bridegroom,