The Rainbow (100th Anniversary ed.)

by D. H. Lawrence

  “I like you best in that dress,” he said, standing with his head slightly on one side, and appreciating her in a perceiving, critical fashion.

  She was thrilled with a new life. For the first time she was in love with a vision of herself: she saw as it were a fine little reflection of herself in his eyes. And she must act up to this: she must be beautiful. Her thoughts turned swiftly to clothes, her passion was to make a beautiful appearance. Her family looked on in amazement at the sudden transformation of Ursula. She became elegant, really elegant, in figured cotton frocks she made for herself, and hats she bent to her fancy. An inspiration was upon her.

  He sat with a sort of languor in her grandmother’s rocking-chair, rocking slowly, languidly, backward and forward, as Ursula talked to him.

  “You are not poor, are you?” she said.

  “Poor in money? I have about a hundred and fifty a year of my own—so I am poor or rich, as you like. I am poor enough, in fact.”

  “But you will earn money?”

  “I shall have my pay—I have my pay now. I’ve got my commission. That is another hundred and fifty.”

  “You will have more, though?”

  “I shan’t have more than £200 a year for ten years to come. I shall always be poor, if I have to live on my pay.”

  “Do you mind it?”

  “Being poor? Not now—not very much. I may later. People—the officers—are good to me. Colonel Hepburn has a sort of fancy for me—he is a rich man, I suppose.”

  A chill went over Ursula. Was he going to sell himself in some way?

  “Is Colonel Hepburn married?”

  “Yes—with two daughters.”

  But she was too proud at once to care whether Colonel Hepburn’s daughter wanted to marry him or not.

  There came a silence. Gudrun entered, and Skrebensky still rocked languidly on the chair.

  “You look very lazy,” said Gudrun.

  “I am lazy,” he answered.

  “You look really floppy,” she said.

  “I am floppy,” he answered.

  “Can’t you stop?” asked Gudrun.

  “No—it’s the perpetuum mobile.”

  “You look as if you hadn’t a bone in your body.”

  “That’s how I like to feel.”

  “I don’t admire your taste.”

  “That’s my misfortune.”

  And he rocked on.

  Gudrun seated herself behind him, and as he rocked back, she caught his hair between her finger and thumb, so that it tugged him as he swung forward again. He took no notice. There was only the sound of the rockers on the floor. In silence, like a crab, Gudrun caught a strand of his hair each time he rocked back. Ursula flushed, and sat in some pain. She saw the irritation gathering on his brow.

  At last he leapt up, suddenly, like a steel spring going off, and stood on the hearthrug.

  “Damn it, why can’t I rock?” he asked petulantly, fiercely.

  Ursula loved him for his sudden, steel-like start out of the languor. He stood on the hearthrug fuming, his eyes gleaming with anger.

  Gudrun laughed in her deep, mellow fashion.

  “Men don’t rock themselves,” she said.

  “Girls don’t pull men’s hair,” he said.

  Gudrun laughed again.

  Ursula sat amused, but waiting. And he knew Ursula was waiting for him. It roused his blood. He had to go to her, to follow her call.

  Once he drove her to Derby in the dog-cart. He belonged to the horsey set of the sappers. They had lunch in an inn, and went through the market, pleased with everything. He bought her a copy of “Wuthering Heights” from a bookstall. Then they found a little fair in progress and she said:

  “My father used to take me in the swingboats.”

  “Did you like it?” he asked.

  “Oh, it was fine,” she said.

  “Would you like to go now?”

  “Love it,” she said, though she was afraid. But the prospect of doing an unusual, exciting thing was attractive to her.

  He went straight to the stand, paid the money, and helped her to mount. He seemed to ignore everything, but just what he was doing. Other people were mere objects of indifference to him. She would have liked to hang back, but she was more ashamed to retreat from him than to expose herself to the crowd or to dare the swingboat. His eyes laughed, and standing before her with his sharp, sudden figure, he set the boat swinging. She was not afraid, she was thrilled. His colour flushed, his eyes shone with a roused light, and she looked up at him, her face like a flower in the sun, so bright and attractive. So they rushed through the bright air, up at the sky as if flung from a catapult, then falling terribly back. She loved it. The motion seemed to fan their blood to fire, they laughed, feeling like flames.

  After the swingboats, they went on the roundabouts to calm down, he twisting astride on his jerky wooden steed towards her, and always seeming at his ease, enjoying himself. A zest of antagonism to the convention made him fully himself. As they sat on the whirling carousel, with the music grinding out, she was aware of the people on the earth outside, and it seemed that he and she were riding carelessly over the faces of the crowd, riding forever buoyantly, proudly, gallantly over the upturned faces of the crowd, moving on a high level, spurning the common mass.

  When they must descend and walk away, she was unhappy, feeling like a giant suddenly cut down to ordinary level, at the mercy of the mob.

  They left the fair, to return for the dog-cart. Passing the large church, Ursula must look in. But the whole interior was filled with scaffolding, fallen stone and rubbish were heaped on the floor, bits of plaster crunched underfoot, and the place re-echoed to the calling of secular voices and to blows of the hammer.

  She had come to plunge in the utter gloom and peace for a moment, bringing all her yearning, that had returned on her uncontrolled after the reckless riding over the face of the crowd, in the fair. After pride, she wanted comfort, solace, for pride and scorn seemed to hurt her most of all.

  And she found the immemorial gloom full of bits of falling plaster, and dust of floating plaster, smelling of old lime, having scaffolding and rubbish heaped about, dust cloths over the altar.

  “Let us sit down a minute,” she said.

  They sat unnoticed in the back pew, in the gloom, and she watched the dirty, disorderly work of bricklayers and plasterers. Workmen in heavy boots walked grinding down the aisles, calling out in a vulgar accent:

  “Hi, mate, has them corner mouldin’s come?”

  There were shouts of coarse answer from the roof of the church. The place echoed desolate.

  Skrebensky sat close to her. Everything seemed wonderful, if dreadful, to her, the world tumbling into ruins, and she and he clambering unhurt, lawless over the face of it all. He sat close to her, touching her, and she was aware of his influence upon her. But she was glad. It excited her to feel the press of him upon her, as if his being were urging her to something.

  As they drove home, he sat near to her. And when he swayed to the cart, he swayed in a voluptuous, lingering way, against her, lingering as he swung away to recover balance. Without speaking, he took her hand across, under the wrap, and with his unseeing face lifted to the road, his soul intent, he began with his one hand to unfasten the buttons of her glove, to push back her glove from her hand, carefully laying bare her hand. And the close-working, instinctive subtlety of his fingers upon her hand sent the young girl mad with voluptuous delight. His hand was so wonderful, intent as a living creature skilfully pushing and manipulating in the dark underworld, removing her glove and laying bare her palm, her fingers. Then his hand closed over hers, so firm, so close, as if the flesh knitted to one thing his hand and hers. Meanwhile his face watched the road and the ears of the horse, he drove with steady attention through the villages, and she sat beside him, rapt, gl
owing, blinded with a new light. Neither of them spoke. In outward attention they were entirely separate. But between them was the compact of his flesh with hers, in the hand-clasp.

  Then, in a strange voice, affecting nonchalance and superficiality he said to her:

  “Sitting in the church there reminded me of Ingram.”

  “Who is Ingram?” she asked.

  She also affected calm superficiality. But she knew that something forbidden was coming.

  “He is one of the other men with me down at Chatham—a subaltern—but a year older than I am.”

  “And why did the church remind you of him?”

  “Well, he had a girl in Rochester, and they always sat in a particular corner in the cathedral for their love-making.”

  “How nice!” she cried, impulsively.

  They misunderstood each other.

  “It had its disadvantages though. The verger made a row about it.”

  “What a shame! Why shouldn’t they sit in a cathedral?”

  “I suppose they all think it a profanity—except you and Ingram and the girl.”

  “I don’t think it a profanity—I think it’s right, to make love in a cathedral.”

  She said this almost defiantly, in despite of her own soul.

  He was silent.

  “And was she nice?”

  “Who? Emily? Yes, she was rather nice. She was a milliner, and she wouldn’t be seen in the streets with Ingram. It was rather sad, really, because the verger spied on them, and got to know their names and then made a regular row. It was a common tale afterwards.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She went to London, into a big shop. Ingram still goes up to see her.”

  “Does he love her?”

  “It’s a year and a half he’s been with her now.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Emily? Little, shy-violet sort of girl with nice eyebrows.”

  Ursula meditated this. It seemed like real romance of the outer world.

  “Do all the men have lovers?” she asked, amazed at her own temerity. But her hand was still fastened with his, and his face still had the same unchanging fixity of outward calm.

  “They’re always mentioning some amazing fine woman or other, and getting drunk to talk about her. Most of them dash up to London the moment they are free.”

  “What for?”

  “To some amazing fine woman or other.”

  “What sort of woman?”

  “Various. Her name changes pretty frequently, as a rule. One of the fellows is a perfect maniac. He keeps a suit-case always ready, and the instant he is at liberty, he bolts with it to the station, and changes in the train. No matter who is in the carriage, off he whips his tunic, and performs at least the top half of his toilet.”

  Ursula quivered and wondered.

  “Why is he in such a hurry?” she asked.

  Her throat was becoming hard and difficult.

  “He’s got a woman in his mind, I suppose.”

  She was chilled, hardened. And yet this world of passions and lawlessness was fascinating to her. It seemed to her a splendid recklessness. Her adventure in life was beginning. It seemed very splendid.

  That evening she stayed at the Marsh till after dark, and Skrebensky escorted her home. For she could not go away from him. And she was waiting, waiting for something more.

  In the warm of the early night, with the shadows new about them, she felt in another, harder, more beautiful, less personal world. Now a new state should come to pass.

  He walked near to her, and with the same silent, intent approach put his arm around her waist, and softly, very softly, drew her to him, till his arm was hard and pressed in upon her; she seemed to be carried along, floating, her feet scarce touching the ground, borne upon the firm, moving surface of his body, upon whose side she seemed to lie, in a delicious swoon of motion. And whilst she swooned, his face bent nearer to her, her head was leaned on his shoulder, she felt his warm breath on her face. Then softly, oh softly, so softly that she seemed to faint away, his lips touched her cheek, and she drifted through strands of heat and darkness.

  Still she waited, in her swoon and her drifting, waited, like the Sleeping Beauty in the story. She waited, and again his face was bent to hers, his lips came warm to her face, their footsteps lingered and ceased, they stood still under the trees, whilst his lips waited on her face, waited like a butterfly that does not move on a flower. She pressed her breast a little nearer to him, he moved, put both his arms round her, and drew her close.

  And then, in the darkness, he bent to her mouth, softly, and touched her mouth with his mouth. She was afraid, she lay still on his arm, feeling his lips on her lips. She kept still, helpless. Then his mouth drew near, pressing open her mouth, a hot, drenching surge rose within her, she opened her lips to him, in pained, poignant eddies she drew him nearer, she let him come further, his lips came and surging, surging, soft, oh soft, yet oh, like the powerful surge of water, irresistible, till with a little blind cry, she broke away.

  She heard him breathing heavily, strangely, beside her. A terrible and magnificent sense of his strangeness possessed her. But she shrank a little now, within herself. Hesitating, they continued to walk on, quivering like shadows under the ash-trees of the hill, where her grandfather had walked with his daffodils to make his proposal, and where her mother had gone with her young husband, walking close upon him as Ursula was now walking upon Skrebensky.

  Ursula was aware of the dark limbs of the trees stretching overhead, clothed with leaves, and of fine ash-leaves tressing the summer night.

  They walked with their bodies moving in complex unity, close together. He held her hand, and they went the long way round by the road, to be further. Always she felt as if she were supported off her feet, as if her feet were light as little breezes in motion.

  He would kiss her again—but not again that night with the same deep-reaching kiss. She was aware now, aware of what a kiss might be. And so, it was more difficult to come to him.

  She went to bed feeling all warm with electric warmth, as if the gush of dawn were within her, upholding her. And she slept deeply, sweetly, oh, so sweetly. In the morning she felt sound as an ear of wheat, fragrant and firm and full.

  They continued to be lovers, in the first wondering state of unrealisation. Ursula told nobody; she was entirely lost in her own world.

  Yet some strange affectation made her seek for a spurious confidence. She had at school a quiet, meditative, serious-souled friend called Ethel, and to Ethel must Ursula confide the story. Ethel listened absorbedly, with bowed, unbetraying head, whilst Ursula told her secret. Oh, it was so lovely, his gentle, delicate way of making love! Ursula talked like a practised lover.

  “Do you think,” asked Ursula, “it is wicked to let a man kiss you—real kisses, not flirting?”

  “I should think,” said Ethel, “it depends.”

  “He kissed me under the ash-trees on Cossethay hill—do you think it was wrong?”

  “When?”

  “On Thursday night when he was seeing me home—but real kisses—real—. He is an officer in the army.”

  “What time was it?” asked the deliberate Ethel.

  “I don’t know—about half-past nine.”

  There was a pause.

  “I think it’s wrong,” said Ethel, lifting her head with impatience. “You don’t know him.”

  She spoke with some contempt.

  “Yes, I do. He is half a Pole, and a Baron too. In England he is equivalent to a Lord. My grandmother was his father’s friend.”

  But the two friends were hostile. It was as if Ursula wanted to divide herself from her acquaintances, in asserting her connection with Anton, as she now called him.

  He came a good deal to Cossethay, because her mother was fond o
f him. Anna Brangwen became something of a grande dame with Skrebensky, very calm, taking things for granted.

  “Aren’t the children in bed?” cried Ursula petulantly, as she came in with the young man.

  “They will be in bed in half an hour,” said the mother.

  “There is no peace,” cried Ursula.

  “The children must live, Ursula,” said her mother.

  And Skrebensky was against Ursula in this. Why should she be so insistent?

  But then, as Ursula knew, he did not have the perpetual tyranny of young children about him. He treated her mother with great courtliness, to which Mrs Brangwen returned an easy, friendly hospitality. Something pleased the girl in her mother’s calm assumption of state. It seemed impossible to abate Mrs Brangwen’s position. She could never be beneath anyone in public relation. Between Brangwen and Skrebensky there was an unbridgeable silence. Sometimes the two men made a slight conversation, but there was no interchange. Ursula rejoiced to see her father retreating into himself against the young man.

  She was proud of Skrebensky in the house. His lounging, languorous indifference irritated her and yet cast a spell over her. She knew it was the outcome of a spirit of laisser-aller combined with profound young vitality. Yet it irritated her deeply.

  Notwithstanding, she was proud of him as he lounged in his lambent fashion in her home, he was so attentive and courteous to her mother and to herself all the time. It was wonderful to have his awareness in the room. She felt rich and augmented by it, as if she were the positive attraction and he the flow towards her. And his courtesy and his agreement might be all her mother’s, but the lambent flicker of his body was for herself. She held it.

  She must ever prove her power.

  “I meant to show you my little wood-carving,” she said.

  “I’m sure it’s not worth showing, that,” said her father.

  “Would you like to see it?” she asked, leaning towards the door.

  And his body had risen from the chair, though his face seemed to want to agree with her parents.

  “It is in the shed,” she said.