The Ladybird

by D. H. Lawrence

  'So bad as that?'

  'Oh yes. They are afraid he will die.'

  'Poor Count Dionys. I liked him. He was a bit like a monkey, but

  he had his points. He gave me a thimble on my seventeenth

  birthday. Such an amusing thimble.'

  'I remember, dear.'

  'Unpleasant wife, though. Wonder if he minds dying far away from

  her. Wonder if she knows.'

  'I think not. They didn't even know his name properly. Only that

  he was a colonel of such and such a regiment.'

  'Fourth Cavalry,' said Daphne. 'Poor Count Dionys. Such a lovely

  name, I always thought: Count Johann Dionys Psanek. Extraordinary

  dandy he was. And an amazingly good dancer, small, yet electric.

  Wonder if he minds dying.'

  'He was so full of life, in his own little animal way. They say

  small people are always conceited. But he doesn't look conceited

  now, dear. Something ages old in his face--and, yes, a certain

  beauty, Daphne.'

  'You mean long lashes.'

  'No. So still, so solitary--and ages old, in his race. I suppose

  he must belong to one of those curious little aboriginal races of

  Central Europe. I felt quite new beside him.'

  'How nice of you,' said Daphne.

  Nevertheless, next day Daphne telephoned to Hurst Place to ask for

  news of him. He was about the same. She telephoned every day.

  Then she was told he was a little stronger. The day she received

  the message that her husband was wounded and a prisoner in Turkey,

  and that his wounds were healing, she forgot to telephone for news

  of the little enemy Count. And the following day she telephoned

  that she was coming to the hospital to see him.

  He was awake, more restless, more in physical excitement. They

  could see the nausea of pain round his nose. His face seemed to

  Daphne curiously hidden behind the black beard, which nevertheless

  was thin, each hair coming thin and fine, singly, from the sallow,

  slightly translucent skin. In the same way his moustache made a

  thin black line round his mouth. His eyes were wide open, very

  black, and of no legible expression. He watched the two women

  coming down the crowded, dreary room, as if he did not see them.

  His eyes seemed too wide.

  It was a cold day, and Daphne was huddled in a black sealskin coat

  with a skunk collar pulled up to her ears, and a dull gold cap with

  wings pulled down on her brow. Lady Beveridge wore her sable coat,

  and had that odd, untidy elegance which was natural to her, rather

  like a ruffled chicken.

  Daphne was upset by the hospital. She looked from right to left in

  spite of herself, and everything gave her a dull feeling of horror:

  the terror of these sick, wounded enemy men. She loomed tall and

  obtrusive in her furs by the bed, her little mother at her side.

  'I hope you don't mind my coming!' she said in German to the sick

  man. Her tongue felt rusty, speaking the language.

  'Who is it then?' he asked.

  'It is my daughter, Lady Daphne. You remembered ME, Lady

  Beveridge! This is my daughter, whom you knew in Saxony. She was

  so sorry to hear you were wounded.'

  The black eyes rested on the little lady. Then they returned to

  the looming figure of Daphne. And a certain fear grew on the low,

  sick brow. It was evident the presence loomed and frightened him.

  He turned his face aside. Daphne noticed how his fine black hair

  grew uncut over his small, animal ears.

  'You don't remember me, Count Dionys?' she said dully.

  'Yes,' he said. But he kept his face averted.

  She stood there feeling confused and miserable, as if she had made

  a faux pas in coming.

  'Would you rather be left alone?' she said. 'I'm sorry.'

  Her voice was monotonous. She felt suddenly stifled in her closed

  furs, and threw her coat open, showing her thin white throat and

  plain black slip dress on her flat breast. He turned again

  unwillingly to look at her. He looked at her as if she were some

  strange creature standing near him.

  'Good-bye,' she said. 'Do get better.'

  She was looking at him with a queer, slanting, downward look of her

  heavy eyes as she turned away. She was still a little red round

  the eyes, with nervous exhaustion.

  'You are so tall,' he said, still frightened.

  'I was always tall,' she replied, turning half to him again.

  'And I, small,' he said.

  'I am so glad you are getting better,' she said.

  'I am not glad,' he said.

  'Why? I'm sure you are. Just as we are glad because we want you

  to get better.'

  'Thank you,' he said. 'I have wished to die.'

  'Don't do that, Count Dionys. Do get better,' she said, in the

  rather deep, laconic manner of her girlhood. He looked at her with

  a farther look of recognition. But his short, rather pointed nose

  was lifted with the disgust and weariness of pain, his brows were

  tense. He watched her with that curious flame of suffering which

  is forced to give a little outside attention, but which speaks only

  to itself.

  'Why did they not let me die?' he said. 'I wanted death now.'

  'No,' she said. 'You mustn't. You must live. If we CAN live we

  must.'

  'I wanted death,' he said.

  'Ah, well,' she said, 'even death we can't have when we want it, or

  when we think we want it.'

  'That is true,' he said, watching her with the same wide black

  eyes. 'Please to sit down. You are too tall as you stand.'

  It was evident he was a little frightened still by her looming,

  overhanging figure.

  'I am sorry I am too tall,' she said, taking a chair which a man-

  nurse had brought her. Lady Beveridge had gone away to speak with

  the men. Daphne sat down, not knowing what to say further. The

  pitch-black look in the Count's wide eyes puzzled her.

  'Why do you come here? Why does your lady mother come?' he said.

  'To see if we can do anything,' she answered.

  'When I am well, I will thank your ladyship.'

  'All right,' she replied. 'When you are well I will let my lord

  the Count thank me. Please do get well.'

  'We are enemies,' he said.

  'Who? You and I and my mother?'

  'Are we not? The most difficult thing is to be sure of anything.

  If they had let me die!'

  'That is at least ungrateful, Count Dionys.'

  'Lady Daphne! Yes. Lady Daphne! Beautiful, the name is. You are

  always called Lady Daphne? I remember you were so bright a

  maiden.'

  'More or less,' she said, answering his question.

  'Ach! We should all have new names now. I thought of a name for

  myself, but I have forgotten it. No longer Johann Dionys. That is

  shot away. I am Karl or Wilhelm or Ernst or Georg. Those are

  names I hate. Do you hate them?'

  'I don't like them--but I don't hate them. And you mustn't leave

  off being Count Johann Dionys. If you do I shall have to leave off

  being Daphne. I like your name so much.'

  'Lady Daphne! Lady Daphne!' he repeated. 'Yes, it rings well, it

 
sounds beautiful to me. I think I talk foolishly. I hear myself

  talking foolishly to you.' He looked at her anxiously.

  'Not at all,' she said.

  'Ach! I have a head on my shoulders that is like a child's

  windmill, and I can't prevent its making foolish words. Please to

  go away, not to hear me. I can hear myself.'

  'Can't I do anything for you?' she asked.

  'No, no! No, no! If I could be buried deep, very deep down, where

  everything is forgotten! But they draw me up, back to the surface.

  I would not mind if they buried me alive, if it were very deep, and

  dark, and the earth heavy above.'

  'Don't say that,' she replied, rising.

  'No, I am saying it when I don't wish to say it. Why am I here?

  Why am I here? Why have I survived into this? Why can I not stop

  talking?'

  He turned his face aside. The black, fine, elfish hair was so

  long, and pushed up in tufts from the smooth brown nape of his

  neck. Daphne looked at him in sorrow. He could not turn his body.

  He could only move his head. And he lay with his face hard

  averted, the fine hair of his beard coming up strange from under

  his chin and from his throat, up to the socket of his ear. He lay

  quite still in this position. And she turned away, looking for her

  mother. She had suddenly realized that the bonds, the connexions

  between him and his life in the world had broken, and he lay there,

  a bit of loose, palpitating humanity, shot away from the body of

  humanity.

  It was ten days before she went to the hospital again. She had

  wanted never to go again, to forget him, as one tries to forget

  incurable things. But she could not forget him. He came again and

  again into her mind. She had to go back. She had heard that he

  was recovering very slowly.

  He looked really better. His eyes were not so wide open, they had

  lost that black, inky exposure which had given him such an

  unnatural look, unpleasant. He watched her guardedly. She had

  taken off her furs, and wore only her dress and a dark, soft

  feather toque.

  'How are you?' she said, keeping her face averted, unwilling to

  meet his eyes.

  'Thank you, I am better. The nights are not so long.'

  She shuddered, knowing what long nights meant. He saw the worn

  look in her face too, the reddened rims of her eyes.

  'Are you not well? Have you some trouble?' he asked her.

  'No, no,' she answered.

  She had brought a handful of pinky, daisy-shaped flowers.

  'Do you care for flowers?' she asked.

  He looked at them. Then he slowly shook his head.

  'No,' he said. 'If I am on horseback, riding through the marshes

  or through the hills, I like to see them below me. But not here.

  Not now. Please do not bring flowers into this grave. Even in

  gardens, I do not like them. When they are upholstery to human

  life.'

  'I will take them away again,' she said.

  'Please do. Please give them to the nurse.'

  Daphne paused.

  'Perhaps,' she said, 'you wish I would not come to disturb you.'

  He looked into her face.

  'No,' he said. 'You are like a flower behind a rock, near an icy

  water. No, you do not live too much. I am afraid I cannot talk

  sensibly. I wish to hold my mouth shut. If I open it, I talk this

  absurdity. It escapes from my mouth.'

  'It is not so very absurd,' she said.

  But he was silent--looking away from her.

  'I want you to tell me if there is really nothing I can do for

  you,' she said.

  'Nothing,' he answered.

  'If I can write any letter for you.'

  'None,' he answered.

  'But your wife and your two children. Do they know where you are?'

  'I should think not.'

  'And where are they?'

  'I do not know. Probably they are in Hungary.'

  'Not at your home?'

  'My castle was burnt down in a riot. My wife went to Hungary with

  the children. She has her relatives there. She went away from me.

  I wished it too. Alas for her, I wished to be dead. Pardon me the

  personal tone.'

  Daphne looked down at him--the queer, obstinate little fellow.

  'But you have somebody you wish to tell--somebody you want to hear

  from?'

  'Nobody. Nobody. I wish the bullet had gone through my heart. I

  wish to be dead. It is only I have a devil in my body that will

  not die.'

  She looked at him as he lay with closed, averted face.

  'Surely it is not a devil which keeps you alive,' she said. 'It is

  something good.'

  'No, a devil,' he said.

  She sat looking at him with a long, slow, wondering look.

  'Must one hate a devil that makes one live?' she asked.

  He turned his eyes to her with a touch of a satiric smile.

  'If one lives, no,' he said.

  She looked away from him the moment he looked at her. For her life

  she could not have met his dark eyes direct.

  She left him, and he lay still. He neither read nor talked

  throughout the long winter nights and the short winter days. He

  only lay for hours with black, open eyes, seeing everything around

  with a touch of disgust, and heeding nothing.

  Daphne went to see him now and then. She never forgot him for

  long. He seemed to come into her mind suddenly, as if by sorcery.

  One day he said to her:

  'I see you are married. May I ask you who is your husband?'

  She told him. She had had a letter also from Basil. The Count

  smiled slowly.

  'You can look forward,' he said, 'to a happy reunion and new,

  lovely children, Lady Daphne. Is it not so?'

  'Yes, of course,' she said.

  'But you are ill,' he said to her.

  'Yes--rather ill.'

  'Of what?'

  'Oh!' she answered fretfully, turning her face aside. 'They talk

  about lungs.' She hated speaking of it. 'Why, how do you know I

  am ill?' she added quickly.

  Again he smiled slowly.

  'I see it in your face, and hear it in your voice. One would say

  the Evil One had cast a spell on you.'

  'Oh no,' she said hastily. 'But do I look ill?'

  'Yes. You look as if something had struck you across the face, and

  you could not forget it.'

  'Nothing has,' she said. 'Unless it's the war.'

  'The war!' he repeated.

  'Oh, well, don't let us talk of it,' she said.

  Another time he said to her:

  'The year has turned--the sun must shine at last, even in England.

  I am afraid of getting well too soon. I am a prisoner, am I not?

  But I wish the sun would shine. I wish the sun would shine on my

  face.'

  'You won't always be a prisoner. The war will end. And the sun

  DOES shine even in the winter in England,' she said.

  'I wish it would shine on my face,' he said.

  So that when in February there came a blue, bright morning, the

  morning that suggests yellow crocuses and the smell of a mezereon

  tree and the smell of damp, warm earth, Daphne hastily got a taxi

  and drove out to the hospital.

  'You have
come to put me in the sun,' he said the moment he saw

  her.

  'Yes, that's what I came for,' she said.

  She spoke to the matron, and had his bed carried out where there

  was a big window that came low. There he was put full in the sun.

  Turning, he could see the blue sky and the twinkling tops of

  purplish, bare trees.

  'The world! The world!' he murmured.

  He lay with his eyes shut, and the sun on his swarthy, transparent,

  immobile face. The breath came and went through his nostrils

  invisibly. Daphne wondered how he could lie so still, how he could

  look so immobile. It was true as her mother had said: he looked as

  if he had been cast in the mould when the metal was white hot, all

  his lines were so clean. So small, he was, and in his way perfect.

  Suddenly his dark eyes opened and caught her looking.

  'The sun makes even anger open like a flower,' he said.

  'Whose anger?' she said.

  'I don't know. But I can make flowers, looking through my

  eyelashes. Do you know how?'

  'You mean rainbows?'

  'Yes, flowers.'

  And she saw him, with a curious smile on his lips, looking through

  his almost closed eyelids at the sun.

  'The sun is neither English nor German nor Bohemian,' he said. 'I

  am a subject of the sun. I belong to the fire-worshippers.'

  'Do you?' she replied.

  'Yes, truly, by tradition.' He looked at her smiling. 'You stand

  there like a flower that will melt,' he added.

  She smiled slowly at him with a slow, cautious look of her eyes, as

  if she feared something.

  'I am much more solid than you imagine,' she said.

  Still he watched her.

  'One day,' he said, 'before I go, let me wrap your hair round my

  hands, will you?' He lifted his thin, short, dark hands. 'Let me

  wrap your hair round my hands, like a bandage. They hurt me. I

  don't know what it is. I think it is all the gun explosions. But

  if you let me wrap your hair round my hands. You know, it is the

  hermetic gold--but so much of water in it, of the moon. That will

  soothe my hands. One day, will you?'

  'Let us wait till the day comes,' she said.

  'Yes,' he answered, and was still again.

  'It troubles me,' he said after a while, 'that I complain like a

  child, and ask for things. I feel I have lost my manhood for the

  time being. The continual explosions of guns and shells! It seems

  to have driven my soul out of me like a bird frightened away at

  last. But it will come back, you know. And I am so grateful to

  you; you are good to me when I am soulless, and you don't take

  advantage of me. Your soul is quiet and heroic.'

  'Don't,' she said. 'Don't talk!'

  The expression of shame and anguish and disgust crossed his face.

  'It is because I can't help it,' he said. 'I have lost my soul,

  and I can't stop talking to you. I can't stop. But I don't talk

  to anyone else. I try not to talk, but I can't prevent it. Do you

  draw the words out of me?'

  Her wide, green-blue eyes seemed like the heart of some curious,

  full-open flower, some Christmas rose with its petals of snow and

  flush. Her hair glinted heavy, like water-gold. She stood there

  passive and indomitable with the wide-eyed persistence of her

  wintry, blond nature.

  Another day when she came to see him, he watched her for a time,

  then he said:

  'Do they all tell you you are lovely, you are beautiful?'

  'Not quite all,' she replied.

  'But your husband?'

  'He has said so.'