The Ladybird

by D. H. Lawrence

becomes true.'

  'The secret knowledge?'

  'Yes.'

  'What, for instance?'

  'Take actual fire. It will bore you. Do you want to hear?'

  'Go on.'

  'This is what I was taught. The true fire is invisible. Flame,

  and the red fire we see burning, has its back to us. It is running

  away from us. Does that mean anything to you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well then, the yellowness of sunshine--light itself--that is only

  the glancing aside of the real original fire. You know that is

  true. There would be no light if there was no refraction, no bits

  of dust and stuff to turn the dark fire into visibility. You know

  that's a fact. And that being so, even the sun is dark. It is

  only his jacket of dust that makes him visible. You know that too.

  And the true sunbeams coming towards us flow darkly, a moving

  darkness of the genuine fire. The sun is dark, the sunshine

  flowing to us is dark. And light is only the inside-turning away

  of the sun's directness that was coming to us. Does that interest

  you at all?'

  'Yes,' she said dubiously.

  'Well, we've got the world inside out. The true living world of

  fire is dark, throbbing, darker than blood. Our luminous world

  that we go by is only the reverse of this.'

  'Yes, I like that,' she said.

  'Well! Now listen. The same with love. This white love that we

  have is the same. It is only the reverse, the whited sepulchre of

  the true love. True love is dark, a throbbing together in

  darkness, like the wild-cat in the night, when the green screen

  opens and her eyes are on the darkness.'

  'No, I don't see that,' she said in a slow, clanging voice.

  'You, and your beauty--that is only the inside-out of you. The

  real you is the wild-cat invisible in the night, with red fire

  perhaps coming out of its wide, dark eyes. Your beauty is your

  whited sepulchre.'

  'You mean cosmetics,' she said. 'I've got none on today--not even

  powder.'

  He laughed.

  'Very good,' he said. 'Consider me. I used to think myself small

  but handsome, and the ladies used to admire me moderately, never

  very much. A trim little fellow, you know. Well, that was just

  the inside-out of me. I am a black tom-cat howling in the night,

  and it is then that fire comes out of me. This me you look at is

  my whited sepulchre. What do you say?'

  She was looking into his eyes. She could see the darkness swaying

  in the depths. She perceived the invisible, cat-like fire stirring

  deep inside them, felt it coming towards her. She turned her face

  aside. Then he laughed, showing his strong white teeth, that

  seemed a little too large, rather dreadful.

  She rose to go.

  'Well,' she said. 'I shall have the summer in which to think about

  the world inside-out. Do write if there is anything to say. Write

  to Thoresway. Good-bye!'

  'Ah, your eyes!' he said. 'They are like jewels of stone.'

  Being away from the Count, she put him out of her mind. Only she

  was sorry for him a prisoner in that sickening Voynich Hall. But

  she did not write. Nor did he.

  As a matter of fact, her mind was now much more occupied with her

  husband. All arrangements were being made to effect his exchange.

  From month to month she looked for his return. And so she thought

  of him.

  Whatever happened to her, she thought about it, thought and thought

  a great deal. The consciousness of her mind was like tablets of

  stone weighing her down. And whoever would make a new entry into

  her must break these tablets of stone piece by piece. So it was

  that in her own way she thought often enough of the Count's world

  inside-out. A curious latency stirred in her consciousness that

  was not yet an idea.

  He said her eyes were like jewels of stone. What a horrid thing to

  say! What did he want her eyes to be like? He wanted them to

  dilate and become all black pupil, like a cat's at night. She

  shrank convulsively from the thought, and tightened her breast.

  He said her beauty was her whited sepulchre. Even that, she knew

  what he meant. The invisibility of her he wanted to love. But ah,

  her pearl-like beauty was so dear to her, and it was so famous in

  the world.

  He said her white love was like moonshine, harmful, the reverse of

  love. He meant Basil, of course. Basil always said she was the

  moon. But then Basil loved her for that. The ecstasy of it! She

  shivered, thinking of her husband. But it had also made her nerve-

  worn, her husband's love. Ah, nerve-worn.

  What then would the Count's love be like? Something so secret and

  different. She would not be lovely and a queen to him. He hated

  her loveliness. The wild-cat has its mate. The little wild-cat

  that he was. Ah!

  She caught her breath, determined not to think. When she thought

  of Count Dionys she felt the world slipping away from her. She

  would sit in front of a mirror, looking at her wonderful cared-for

  face that had appeared in so many society magazines. She loved it

  so, it made her feel so vain. And she looked at her blue-green

  eyes--the eyes of the wild-cat on a bough. Yes, the lovely blue-

  green iris drawn tight like a screen. Supposing it should relax.

  Supposing it should unfold, and open out the dark depths, the dark,

  dilated pupil! Supposing it should?

  Never! She always caught herself back. She felt she might be

  killed before she could give way to that relaxation that the Count

  wanted of her. She could not. She just could not. At the very

  thought of it some hypersensitive nerve started with a great twinge

  in her breast; she drew back, forced to keep her guard. Ah no,

  Monsieur le Comte, you shall never take her ladyship off her guard.

  She disliked the thought of the Count. An impudent little fellow.

  An impertinent little fellow! A little madman, really. A little

  outsider. No, no. She would think of her husband: an adorable,

  tall, well-bred Englishman, so easy and simple, and with the amused

  look in his blue eyes. She thought of the cultured, casual trail

  of his voice. It set her nerves on fire. She thought of his

  strong, easy body--beautiful, white-fleshed, with the fine

  springing of warm-brown hair like tiny flames. He was the

  Dionysos, full of sap, milk and honey, and northern golden wine:

  he, her husband. Not that little unreal Count. Ah, she dreamed of

  her husband, of the love-days, and the honeymoon, the lovely,

  simple intimacy. Ah, the marvellous revelation of that intimacy,

  when he left himself to her so generously. Ah, she was his wife

  for this reason, that he had given himself to her so greatly, so

  generously. Like an ear of corn he was there for her gathering--

  her husband, her own, lovely, English husband. Ah, when would he

  come again, when would he come again!

  She had letters from him--and how he loved her. Far away, his life

  was all hers. All hers, flowing to her as the beam flows from
a

  white star right down to us, to our heart. Her lover, her husband.

  He was now expecting to come home soon. It had all been arranged.

  'I hope you won't be disappointed in me when I do get back,' he

  wrote. 'I am afraid I am no longer the plump and well-looking

  young man I was. I've got a big scar at the side of my mouth, and

  I'm as thin as a starved rabbit, and my hair's going grey. Doesn't

  sound attractive, does it? And it isn't attractive. But once I

  can get out of this infernal place, and once I can be with you

  again, I shall come in for my second blooming. The very thought of

  being quietly in the same house with you, quiet and in peace, makes

  me realize that if I've been through hell, I have known heaven on

  earth and can hope to know it again. I am a miserable brute to

  look at now. But I have faith in you. You will forgive my

  appearance, and that alone will make me feel handsome.'

  She read this letter many times. She was not afraid of his scar or

  his looks. She would love him all the more.

  Since she had started making shirts--those two for the Count had

  been an enormous labour, even though her maid had come to her

  assistance forty times: but since she had started making shirts,

  she thought she might continue. She had some good suitable silk:

  her husband liked silk underwear.

  But she still used the Count's thimble. It was gold outside and

  silver inside, and was too heavy. A snake was coiled round the

  base, and at the top, for pressing the needle, was inlet a semi-

  translucent apple-green stone, perhaps jade, carved like a scarab,

  with little dots. It was too heavy. But then she sewed so slowly.

  And she liked to feel her hand heavy, weighted. And as she sewed

  she thought about her husband, and she felt herself in love with

  him. She thought of him, how beautiful he was, and how she would

  love him now he was thin: she would love him all the more. She

  would love to trace his bones, as if to trace his living skeleton.

  The thought made her rest her hands in her lap and drift into a

  muse. Then she felt the weight of the thimble on her finger, and

  took it off, and sat looking at the green stone. The ladybird.

  The ladybird. And if only her husband would come soon, soon. It

  was wanting him that made her so ill. Nothing but that. She had

  wanted him so badly. She wanted now. Ah, if she could go to him

  now, and find him, wherever he was, and see him and touch him and

  take all his love.

  As she mused, she put the thimble down in front of her, took up a

  little silver pencil from her work-basket, and on a bit of blue

  paper that had been the band of a small skein of silk she wrote the

  lines of the silly little song

  'Wenn ich ein Voglein war'

  Und auch zwei Fluglein hatt'

  Flag' ich zu dir--'

  That was all she could get on her bit of pale-blue paper.

  'If I were a little bird

  And had two little wings

  I'd fly to thee--

  Silly enough, in all conscience. But she did not translate it, so

  it did not seem quite so silly.

  At that moment her maid announced Lady Bingham--her husband's

  sister. Daphne crumpled up the bit of paper in a flurry, and in

  another minute Primrose, his sister, came in. The newcomer was not

  a bit like a primrose, being long-faced and clever, smart, but not

  a bit elegant, in her new clothes.

  'Daphne dear, what a domestic scene! I suppose it's rehearsal.

  Well, you may as well rehearse, he's with Admiral Burns on the

  Ariadne. Father just heard from the Admiralty: quite fit. He'll

  be here in a day or two. Splendid, isn't it? And the war is going

  to end. At least it seems like it. You'll be safe of your man

  now, dear. Thank heaven when it's all over. What are you sewing?'

  'A shirt,' said Daphne.

  'A shirt! Why, how clever of you. I should never know which end

  to begin. Who showed you?'

  'Millicent.'

  'And how did SHE know? She's no business to know how to sew

  shirts: nor cushions nor sheets either. Do let me look. Why, how

  perfectly marvellous you are!--every bit by hand too. Basil isn't

  worth it, dear, really he isn't. Let him order his shirts in

  Oxford Street. Your business is to be beautiful, not to sew

  shirts. What a dear little pin-poppet, or rather needle-woman! I

  say, a satire on us, that is. But what a darling, with mother-of-

  pearl wings to her skirts! And darling little gold-eyed needles

  inside her. You screw her head off, and you find she's full of

  pins and needles. Woman for you! Mother says won't you come to

  lunch tomorrow. And won't you come to Brassey's to tea with me at

  this minute. Do, there's a dear. I've got a taxi.'

  Daphne bundled her sewing loosely together.

  When she tried to do a bit more, two days later, she could not find

  her thimble. She asked her maid, whom she could absolutely trust.

  The girl had not seen it. She searched everywhere. She asked her

  nurse--who was now her housekeeper--and footman. No, nobody had

  seen it. Daphne even asked her sister-in-law.

  'Thimble, darling? No, I don't remember a thimble. I remember a

  dear little needle-lady, whom I thought such a precious satire on

  us women. I didn't notice a thimble.'

  Poor Daphne wandered about in a muse. She did not want to believe

  it lost. It had been like a talisman to her. She tried to forget

  it. Her husband was coming, quite soon, quite soon. But she could

  not raise herself to joy. She had lost her thimble. It was as if

  Count Dionys accused her in her sleep of something, she did not

  quite know what.

  And though she did not really want to go to Voynich Hall, yet like

  a fatality she went, like one doomed. It was already late autumn,

  and some lovely days. This was the last of the lovely days. She

  was told that Count Dionys was in the small park, finding

  chestnuts. She went to look for him. Yes, there he was in his

  blue uniform stooping over the brilliant yellow leaves of the sweet

  chestnut tree, that lay around him like a fallen nimbus of glowing

  yellow, under his feet, as he kicked and rustled, looking for the

  chestnut burrs. And with his short, brown hands he was pulling out

  the small chestnuts and putting them in his pockets. But as she

  approached he peeled a nut to eat it. His teeth were white and

  powerful.

  'You remind me of a squirrel laying in a winter store,' said she.

  'Ah, Lady Daphne--I was thinking and did not hear you.'

  'I thought you were gathering chestnuts--even eating them.'

  'Also!' he laughed. He had a dark, sudden charm when he laughed,

  showing his rather large white teeth. She was not quite sure

  whether she found him a little repulsive.

  'Were you REALLY thinking?' she said, in her slow, resonant way.

  'Very truly.'

  'And weren't you enjoying the chestnut a bit?'

  'Very much. Like sweet milk. Excellent, excellent.' He had the

  fragments of the nut betw
een his teeth, and bit them finely. 'Will

  you take one too.' He held out the little, pointed brown nuts on

  the palm of his hand.

  She looked at them doubtfully.

  'Are they as tough as they always were?' she said.

  'No, they are fresh and good. Wait, I will peel one for you.'

  They strayed about through the thin clump of trees.

  'You have had a pleasant summer; you are strong?'

  'Almost QUITE strong,' said she. 'Lovely summer, thanks. I

  suppose it's no good asking you if you have been happy?'

  'Happy?' He looked at her direct. His eyes were black, and seemed

  to examine her. She always felt he had a little contempt of her.

  'Oh yes,' he said, smiling. 'I have been very happy.'

  'So glad.'

  They drifted a little farther, and he picked up an apple-green

  chestnut burr out of the yellow-brown leaves, handling it with

  sensitive fingers that still suggested paws to her.

  'How did you succeed in being happy?' she said.

  'How shall I tell you? I felt that the same power which put up the

  mountains could pull them down again--no matter how long it took.'

  'And was that all?'

  'Was it not enough?'

  'I should say decidedly too little.'

  He laughed broadly, showing the strong, negroid teeth.

  'You do not know all it means,' he said.

  'The thought that the mountains were going to be pulled down?' she

  said. 'It will be so long after my day.'

  'Ah, you are bored,' he said. 'But I--I found the God who pulls

  things down: especially the things that men have put up. Do they

  not say that life is a search after God, Lady Daphne? I have found

  my God.'

  'The god of destruction,' she said, blanching.

  'Yes--not the devil of destruction, but the god of destruction.

  The blessed god of destruction. It is strange'--he stood before

  her, looking up at her--'but I have found my God. The god of

  anger, who throws down the steeples and the factory chimneys. Ah,

  Lady Daphne, he is a man's God, he is a man's God. I have found my

  God, Lady Daphne.'

  'Apparently. And how are you going to serve him?'

  A naive glow transfigured his face.

  'Oh, I will help. With my heart I will help while I can do nothing

  with my hands. I say to my heart: Beat, hammer, beat with little

  strokes. Beat, hammer of God, beat them down. Beat it all down.'

  Her brows knitted, her face took on a look of discontent.

  'Beat what down?' she asked harshly.

  'The world, the world of man. Not the trees--these chestnuts, for

  example'--he looked up at them, at the tufts and loose pinions of

  yellow--'not these--nor the chattering sorcerers, the squirrels--

  nor the hawk that comes. Not those.'

  'You mean beat England?' she said.

  'Ah, no. Ah, no. Not England any more than Germany--perhaps not

  as much. Not Europe any more than Asia.'

  'Just the end of the world?'

  'No, no. No, no. What grudge have I against a world where little

  chestnuts are so sweet as these! Do you like yours? Will you take

  another?'

  'No, thanks.'

  'What grudge have I against a world where even the hedges are full

  of berries, bunches of black berries that hang down, and red

  berries that thrust up. Never would I hate the world. But the

  world of man. Lady Daphne'--his voice sank to a whisper--'I HATE

  IT. Zzz!' he hissed. 'Strike, little heart! Strike, strike, hit,

  smite! Oh, Lady Daphne!'--his eyes dilated with a ring of fire.

  'What?' she said, scared.

  'I believe in the power of my red, dark heart. God has put the

  hammer in my breast--the little eternal hammer. Hit--hit--hit! It

  hits on the world of man. It hits, it hits! And it hears the thin

  sound of cracking. The thin sound of cracking. Hark!'