Women in Love. D. H. Lawrence

of hazel in his hand.

      “The red ones too!” he said, looking at the flickers of crimson that came from the female bud.

      Then he went in among the desks, to see the scholars’ books. Ursula watched his intent progress. There was a stillness in his motion that hushed the activities of her heart. She seemed to be standing aside in arrested silence, watching him move in another, concentrated world.

      His presence was so quiet, almost like a vacancy in the corporate air.

      Suddenly he lifted his face to her, and her heart quickened at the flicker of his voice.

      “Give them some crayons, won’t you?” he said, “so that they can make the gynaecious flowers red, and the androgynous yellow. I’d chalk them in plain, chalk in nothing else, merely the red and the yellow. Outline scarcely matters in this case. There is just the one fact to emphasise.”

      “I haven’t any crayons,” said Ursula.

      “There will be some somewhere—red and yellow, that’s all you want.”

      Ursula sent out a boy on a quest.

      “It will make the books untidy,” she said to Birkin, flushing deeply.

      “Not very,” he said. “You must mark in these things obviously. It’s the fact you want to emphasise, not the subjective impression to record. What’s the fact?—red little spiky stigmas of the female flower, dangling yellow male catkin, yellow pollen flying from one to the other. Make a pictorial record of the fact, as a child does when drawing a face—two eyes, one nose, mouth with teeth—so—” And he drew a figure on the blackboard.

      At that moment another vision was seen through the glass panels of the door. It was Hermione Roddice. Birkin went and opened to her.

      “I saw your car,” she said to him. “Do you mind my coming to find you? I wanted to see you when you were on duty.”

      She looked at him for a long time, intimate and playful, then she gave a short little laugh. And then only she turned to Ursula, who, with all the class, had been watching the little scene between the lovers.

      “How do you do, Miss Brangwen,” sang Hermione, in her low, odd, singing fashion, that sounded almost as if she were poking fun. “Do you mind my coming in?”

      Her grey, almost sardonic eyes rested all the while on Ursula, as if summing her up.

      “Oh no,” said Ursula.

      “Are you sure?” repeated Hermione, with complete sang-froid, and an odd, half-bullying effrontery.

      “Oh no, I like it awfully,” laughed Ursula, a little bit excited and bewildered, because Hermione seemed to be compelling her, coming very close to her, as if intimate with her; and yet, how could she be intimate?

      This was the answer Hermione wanted. She turned satisfied to Birkin.

      “What are you doing?” she sang, in her casual, inquisitive fashion.

      “Catkins,” he replied.

      “Really!” she said. “And what do you learn about them?” She spoke all the while in a mocking, half teasing fashion, as if making game of the whole business. She picked up a twig of the catkin, piqued by Birkin’s attention to it.

      She was a strange figure in the class-room, wearing a large, old cloak of greenish cloth, on which was a raised pattern of dull gold. The high collar, and the inside of the cloak, was lined with dark fur. Beneath she had a dress of fine lavender-coloured cloth, trimmed with fur, and her hat was close-fitting, made of fur and of the dull, green-and-gold figured stuff. She was tall and strange, she looked as if she had come out of some new, bizarre picture.

      “Do you know the little red ovary flowers, that produce the nuts? Have you ever noticed them?” he asked her. And he came close and pointed them out to her, on the sprig she held.

      “No,” she replied. “What are they?”

      “Those are the little seed-producing flowers, and the long catkins, they only produce pollen, to fertilise them.”

      “Do they, do they!” repeated Hermione, looking closely.

      “From those little red bits, the nuts come; if they receive pollen from the long danglers.”

      “Little red flames, little red flames,” murmured Hermione to herself.

      And she remained for some moments looking only at the small buds out of which the red flickers of the stigma issued.

      “Aren’t they beautiful? I think they’re so beautiful,” she said, moving close to Birkin, and pointing to the red filaments with her long, white finger.

      “Had you never noticed them before?” he asked.

      “No, never before,” she replied.

      “And now you will always see them,” he said.

      “Now I shall always see them,” she repeated. “Thank you so much for showing me. I think they’re so beautiful—little red flames—”

      Her absorption was strange, almost rhapsodic. Both Birkin and Ursula were suspended. The little red pistillate flowers had some strange, almost mystic-passionate attraction for her.

      The lesson was finished, the books were put away, at last the class was dismissed. And still Hermione sat at the table, with her chin in her hand, her elbow on the table, her long white face pushed up, not attending to anything. Birkin had gone to the window, and was looking from the brilliantly-lighted room on to the grey, colourless outside, where rain was noiselessly falling. Ursula put away her things in the cupboard.

      At length Hermione rose and came near to her.

      “Your sister has come home?” she said.

      “Yes,” said Ursula.

      “And does she like being back in Beldover?”

      “No,” said Ursula.

      “No, I wonder she can bear it. It takes all my strength, to bear the ugliness of this district, when I stay here. Won’t you come and see me? Won’t you come with your sister to stay at Breadalby for a few days?—do—”

      “Thank you very much,” said Ursula.

      “Then I will write to you,” said Hermione. “You think your sister will come? I should be so glad. I think she is wonderful. I think some of her work is really wonderful. I have two water-wagtails, carved in wood, and painted—perhaps you have seen it?”

      “No,” said Ursula.

      “I think it is perfectly wonderful—like a flash of instinct.”

      “Her little carvings are strange,” said Ursula.

      “Perfectly beautiful—full of primitive passion—”

      “Isn’t it queer that she always likes little things?—she must always work small things, that one can put between one’s hands, birds and tiny animals. She likes to look through the wrong end of the opera glasses, and see the world that way—why is it, do you think?”

      Hermione looked down at Ursula with that long, detached scrutinising gaze that excited the younger woman.

      “Yes,” said Hermione at length. “It is curious. The little things seem to be more subtle to her—”

      “But they aren’t, are they? A mouse isn’t any more subtle than a lion, is it?”

      Again Hermione looked down at Ursula with that long scrutiny, as if she were following some train of thought of her own, and barely attending to the other’s speech.

      “I don’t know,” she replied.

      “Rupert, Rupert,” she sang mildly, calling him to her. He approached in silence.

      “Are little things more subtle than big things?”