There was nothing to look for from life -- it was the same in all countries and all peoples.The only window was death.One could look out on to the great dark sky of death with elation, as one had looked out of the classroom window as a child, and seen perfect freedom in the outside.Now one was not a child, and one knew that the soul was a prisoner within this sordid vast edifice of life, and there was no escape, save in death.
But what a joy! What a gladness to think that whatever humanity did, it could not seize hold of the kingdom of death, to nullify that.The sea they turned into a murderous alley and a soiled road of commerce, disputed like the dirty land of a city every inch of it.The air they claimed too, shared it up, parcelled it out to certain owners, they trespassed in the air to fight for it.Everything was gone, walled in, with spikes on top of the walls, and one must ignominiously creep between the spiky walls through a labyrinth of life.
But the great, dark, illimitable kingdom of death, there humanity was put to scorn.So much they could do upon earth, the multifarious little gods that they were.But the kingdom of death put them all to scorn, they dwindled into their true vulgar silliness in face of it.
How beautiful, how grand and perfect death was, how good to look forward to.There one would wash off all the lies and ignominy and dirt that had been put upon one here, a perfect bath of cleanness and glad refreshment, and go unknown, unquestioned, unabased.After all, one was rich, if only in the promise of perfect death.It was a gladness above all, that this remained to look forward to, the pure inhuman otherness of death.
Whatever life might be, it could not take away death, the inhuman transcendent death.Oh, let us ask no question of it, what it is or is not.To know is human, and in death we do not know, we are not human.And the joy of this compensates for all the bitterness of knowledge and the sordidness of our humanity.In death we shall not be human, and we shall not know.
The promise of this is our heritage, we look forward like heirs to their majority.
Ursula sat quite still and quite forgotten, alone by the fire in the drawing-room.The children were playing in the kitchen, all the others were gone to church.And she was gone into the ultimate darkness of her own soul.
She was startled by hearing the bell ring, away in the kitchen, the children came scudding along the passage in delicious alarm.
`Ursula, there's somebody.'
`I know.Don't be silly,' she replied.She too was startled, almost frightened.She dared hardly go to the door.
Birkin stood on the threshold, his rain-coat turned up to his ears.
He had come now, now she was gone far away.She was aware of the rainy night behind him.
`Oh is it you?' she said.
`I am glad you are at home,' he said in a low voice, entering the house.
`They are all gone to church.'
He took off his coat and hung it up.The children were peeping at him round the corner.
`Go and get undressed now, Billy and Dora,' said Ursula.`Mother will be back soon, and she'll be disappointed if you're not in bed.'
The children, in a sudden angelic mood, retired without a word.Birkin and Ursula went into the drawing-room.
The fire burned low.He looked at her and wondered at the luminous delicacy of her beauty, and the wide shining of her eyes.He watched from a distance, with wonder in his heart, she seemed transfigured with light.
`What have you been doing all day?' he asked her.
`Only sitting about,' she said.
He looked at her.There was a change in her.But she was separate from him.She remained apart, in a kind of brightness.They both sat silent in the soft light of the lamp.He felt he ought to go away again, he ought not to have come.Still he did not gather enough resolution to move.But he was de trop, her mood was absent and separate.
Then there came the voices of the two children calling shyly outside the door, softly, with self-excited timidity:
`Ursula! Ursula!'
She rose and opened the door.On the threshold stood the two children in their long nightgowns, with wide-eyed, angelic faces.They were being very good for the moment, playing the role perfectly of two obedient children.
`Shall you take us to bed!' said Billy, in a loud whisper.
`Why you are angels tonight,' she said softly.`Won't you come and say good-night to Mr Birkin?'
The children merged shyly into the room, on bare feet.Billy's face was wide and grinning, but there was a great solemnity of being good in his round blue eyes.Dora, peeping from the floss of her fair hair, hung back like some tiny Dryad, that has no soul.
`Will you say good-night to me?' asked Birkin, in a voice that was strangely soft and smooth.Dora drifted away at once, like a leaf lifted on a breath of wind.But Billy went softly forward, slow and willing, lifting his pinched-up mouth implicitly to be kissed.Ursula watched the full, gathered lips of the man gently touch those of the boy, so gently.Then Birkin lifted his fingers and touched the boy's round, confiding cheek, with a faint touch of love.Neither spoke.Billy seemed angelic like a cherub boy, or like an acolyte, Birkin was a tall, grave angel looking down to him.
`Are you going to be kissed?' Ursula broke in, speaking to the little girl.But Dora edged away like a tiny Dryad that will not be touched.
`Won't you say good-night to Mr Birkin? Go, he's waiting for you,' said Ursula.But the girl-child only made a little motion away from him.
`Silly Dora, silly Dora!' said Ursula.
Birkin felt some mistrust and antagonism in the small child.He could not understand it.