Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence

by D. H. Lawrence

  ‘And only the sleep that is dreamless breathes I Am!

  ‘In the dreamless Now, I Am.

  ‘Dreams arise as they must arise, and man is a dream arisen.

  ‘But the dreamless plasm of the Snake is the plasm of a man, of his body, his soul, and his spirit at one.

  ‘And the perfect sleep of the Snake I Am is the plasm of a man, who is whole.

  ‘When the plasm of the body, and the plasm of the soul, and the plasm of the spirit are at one, in the Snake I Am.

  ‘I am Now.

  ‘Was-not is a dream, and shall-be is a dream, like two separate, heavy feet.

  ‘But Now, I Am.

  ‘The trees put forth their leaves in their sleep, and flowering emerge out of dreams, into pure I Am.

  ‘The birds forget the stress of their dreams, and sing aloud in the Now, I Am! I Am!

  ‘For dreams have wings and feet, and journeys to take, and efforts to make.

  ‘But the glimmering Snake of the Now is wingless and footless, and undivided, and perfectly coiled.

  ‘It is thus the cat lies down, in the coil of Now, and the cow curves round her nose to her belly, lying down.

  ‘In the feet of a dream the hare runs uphill. But when he pauses, the dream has passed, he has entered the timeless Now, and his eyes are the wide I Am.

  ‘Only man dreams, dreams, and dreams, and changes from dream to dream, like a man who tosses on his bed.

  ‘With his eyes and his mouth he dreams, with his hands and his feet, with phallos and heart and belly, with body and spirit and soul, in a tempest of dreams.

  ‘And rushes from dream to dream, in the hope of the perfect dream.

  ‘But I, I say to you, there is no dream that is perfect, for every dream has an ache and an urge, an urge and an ache.

  ‘And nothing is perfect, save the dream pass out into the sleep, I Am.

  ‘When the dream of the eyes is darkened, and encompassed with Now.

  ‘And the dream of the mouth resounds in the last I Am.

  ‘And the dream of the hands is a sleep like a bird on the sea, that sleeps and is lifted and shifted, and knows not.

  ‘And the dreams of the feet and the toes touch the core of the world, where the Serpent sleeps.

  ‘And the dream of the phallos reaches the great I Know Not.

  ‘And the dream of the body is the stillness of a flower in the dark.

  ‘And the dream of the soul is gone in the perfume of Now.

  ‘And the dream of the spirit lapses, and lays down its head, and is still with the Morning Star.

  ‘For each dream starts out of Now, and is accomplished in Now.

  ‘In the core of the flower, the glimmering, wakeless Snake.

  ‘And what falls away is a dream, and what accrues is a dream. There is always and only Now, Now and I Am.’

  There was silence in the circle of men. Outside, the sound of the bullock-wagon could be heard, and from the lake, the faint knocking of oars. But the seven men sat with their heads bent, in the semi-trance, listening inwardly.

  Then the drum began softly to beat, as if of itself. And a man began to sing, in a small voice:

  The Lord of the Morning Star

  Stood between the day and the night:

  As a bird that lifts its wings, and stands

  With the bright wing on the right

  And the wing of the dark on the left,

  The Dawn Star stood into sight.

  Lo! I am always here!

  Far in the hollow of space

  I brush the wing of the day

  And put light on your face.

  The other wing brushes the dark.

  But I, I am always in place.

  Yea, I am always here. I am Lord

  In every way. And the lords among men

  See me through the flashing of wings.

  They see me and lose me again.

  But lo! I am always here

  Within ken.

  The multitudes see me not.

  They see only the waving of wings,

  The coming and going of things.

  The cold and the hot.

  But ye that perceive me between

  The tremors of night and the day,

  I make you the Lords of the

  Way Unseen.

  The path between gulfs of the dark and the steeps of the light;

  The path like a snake that is gone, like the length of a fuse to ignite

  The substance of shadow, that bursts and explodes into sight.

  I am here undeparting. I sit tight

  Between wings of the endless flight,

  At the depths of the peace and the fight.

  Deep in the moistures of peace,

  And far down the muzzle of the fight

  You shall find me, who am neither increase

  Nor destruction, different quite.

  I am far beyond

  The horizons of love and strife.

  Like a star, like a pond

  That washes the lords of life.

  ‘Listen!’ said Ramón, in the stillness. ‘We will be masters among men, and lords among men. But lords of men and masters of men we will not be. Listen! We are lords of the night. Lords of the day and night. Sons of the Morning Star, sons of the Evening Star. Men of the Morning and the Evening Star.

  ‘We are not lords of men: how can men make us lords? Nor are we masters of men, for men are not worth it.

  ‘But I am the Morning and the Evening Star, and lord of the day and the night. By the power that is put in my left hand, and the power that I grasp in my right, I am lord of the two ways.

  ‘And my flower on earth is the jasmine flower, and in heaven the flower Hesperus.

  ‘I will not command you, nor serve you, for the snake goes crooked to his own house.

  ‘Yet I will be with you, so you depart not from yourselves.

  ‘There is no giving, and no taking. When the fingers that give touch the fingers that receive, the Morning Star shines at once, from the contact, and the jasmine gleams between the hands. And thus there is neither giving nor taking, nor hand that proffers nor hand that receives, but the star between them is all, and the dark hand and the light hand are invisible on each side. The jasmine takes the giving and the receiving in her cup, and the scent of the oneness is fragrant on the air.

  ‘Think neither to give nor to receive, only let the jasmine flower.

  ‘Let nothing spill from you in excess, let nothing be reived from you.

  ‘And reive nothing away. Not even the scent from the rose, nor the juice from the pomegranate, nor the warmth from the fire.

  ‘But say to the rose: Lo! I take you away from your tree, and your breath is in my nostrils, and my breath is warm in your depths. Let it be a sacrament between us.

  ‘And beware when you break the pomegranate; it is sunset you take in your hands. Say: I am coming, come thou. Let the Evening Star stand between us.

  ‘And when the fire burns up and the wind is cold and you spread your hands to the blaze, listen to the flame saying: Ah! Is it thou? Comest thou to me? Lo, I was going the longest journey, down the path of the greatest snake. But since thou comest to me, I come to thee. And where thou fallest into my hands, fall I into thine, and jasmine flowers on the burning bush between us. Our meeting is the burning bush, whence the jasmine flowers.

  ‘Reive nothing away, and let nothing be reived from you. For reiver and bereaved alike break the root of the jasmine flower, and spit upon the Evening Star.

  ‘Take nothing, to say: I have it! For you can possess nothing, not even peace.

  ‘Nought is possessible, neither gold, nor land, nor love, nor life, nor peace, nor even sorrow nor death, nor yet salvation.

  ‘Say of nothing: It is mine.

  ‘Say only: It is with me.

  ‘For the gold that is with thee lingers as a departing moon, looking across space thy way, saying: Lo! We are beholden of each other. Lo! for this little while, to each other thou and I ar
e beholden.

  ‘And thy land says to thee: Ah, my child of a far-off father! Come, lift me, lift me a little while, that poppies and wheat may blow on the level wind that moves between my breast and thine! Then sink with me, and we will make one mound.

  ‘And listen to thy love saying: Beloved! I am mown by thy sword like mown grass, and darkness is upon me, and the tremble of the Evening Star. And to me thou art darkness and nowhere. Oh thou, when thou risest up and goest thy way, speak to me, only say: The star rose between us.

  ‘And say to thy life: Am I thine? Art thou mine? Am I the blue curve of day around thine uncurved night? Are my eyes twilight of neither of us, where the star hangs? Is my upper lip the sunset and my lower lip the dawn, does the star tremble inside my mouth?

  ‘And say to thy peace: Ah! risen, deathless star! Already the waters of dawn sweep over thee, and wash me away on the flood!

  ‘And say to thy sorrow: Axe, thou art cutting me down!

  ‘Yet did a spark fly from out of thy edge and my wound!

  ‘Cut then, while I cover my face, father of the Star.

  ‘And say to thy strength: Lo, the night is foaming up my feet and my loins, day is foaming down from my eyes and my mouth to the sea of my breast. Lo, they meet! My belly is a flood of power, that races in down the sluice of bone at my back, and a star hangs low on the flood, over a troubled dawn.

  ‘And say to thy death: Be it so! I, and my soul, we come to thee, Evening Star. Flesh, go thou into the night. Spirit, farewell, ‘tis thy day. Leave me now. I go in last nakedness now to the nakedest Star.’

  CHAPTER XII

  The First Waters

  The men had risen and covered themselves, and put on their hats, and covered their eyes for a second, in salute before Ramón, as they departed down the stone stair. And the iron door at the bottom had clanged, the doorkeeper had returned with the key, laid it on the drum, and softly, delicately departed.

  Still Ramón sat on his serape, leaning his naked shoulders on the wall, and closing his eyes. He was tired, and in that state of extreme separateness which makes it very hard to come back to the world. On the outside of his ears he could hear the noises of the hacienda, even the tinkle of tea-spoons, and the low voice of women, and later, the low, labouring sound of a motor-car struggling over the uneven road, then swirling triumphantly into the courtyard.

  It was hard to come back to these things. The noise of them sounded on the outside of his ears, but inside them was the slow, vast, inaudible roar of the cosmos, like in a sea-shell. It was hard to have to bear the contact of commonplace daily things, when his soul and body were naked to the cosmos.

  He wished they would leave him the veils of his isolation awhile. But they would not: especially Carlota. She wanted him to be present to her: in familiar contact.

  She was calling: ‘Ramón! Ramón! Have you finished? Cipriano is here.’ And even so, in her voice was fear, and an overriding temerity.

  He pushed back his hair and rose, and very quickly went out, as he was, with naked torso. He didn’t want to dress himself into everyday familiarity, since his soul was unfamiliar.

  They had a tea-table out on the terrace, and Cipriano, in uniform, was there. He got up quickly, and came down the terrace with outstretched arms, his black eyes gleaming with an intensity almost like pain, upon the face of the other man. And Ramón looked back at him with wide, seeing, yet unchanging eyes.

  The two men embraced, breast to breast, and for a moment Cipriano laid his little blackish hands on the naked shoulders of the bigger man, and for a moment was perfectly still on his breast. Then very softly, he stood back and looked at him, saying not a word.

  Ramón abstractedly laid his hand on Cipriano’s shoulder, looking down at him with a little smile.

  ‘Qué tal?’’ he said, from the edge of his lips. ‘How goes it?’

  ‘‘Bien! Muy bien!’ said Cipriano, still gazing into the other man’s face with black, wondering, childlike, searching eyes, as if he, Cipriano, were searching for himself, in Ramón’s face. Ramón looked back into Cipriano’s black, Indian eyes with a faint, kind smile of recognition, and Cipriano hung his head as if to hide his face, the black hair, which he wore rather long and brushed sideways, dropping over his forehead.

  The women watched in absolute silence. Then, as the two men began slowly to come along the terrace to the tea-table, Carlota began to pour tea. But her hand trembled so much, the teapot wobbled as she held it, and she had to put it down and clasp her hands in the lap of her white muslin dress.

  ‘You rowed on the lake?’ said Ramón abstractedly, coming up.

  ‘It was lovely!’ said Kate. ‘But hot when the sun came.’

  Ramón smiled a little, then pushed his hand through his hair. Then, leaning one hand on the parapet of the terrace wall, he turned to look at the lake, and a sigh lifted his shoulders unconsciously.

  He stood thus, naked to the waist, his black hair ruffled and splendid, his back to the women, looking out at the lake. Cipriano stood lingering beside him.

  Kate saw the sigh lift the soft, quiescent, cream-brown shoulders. The soft, cream-brown skin of his back, of a smooth pure sensuality, made her shudder. The broad, square, rather high shoulders, with neck and head rising steep, proudly. The full-fleshed, deep-chested, rich body of the man made her feel dizzy. In spite of herself, she could not help imagining a knife stuck between those pure, male shoulders. If only to break the arrogance of their remoteness.

  That was it. His nakedness was so aloof, far-off and intangible, in another day. So that to think of it was almost a violation, even to look at it with prying eyes. Kate’s heart suddenly shrank in her breast. This was how Salome had looked at John. And this was the beauty of John, that he had had; like a pomegranate on a dark tree in the distance, naked, but not undressed! Forever still and clothe-less, and with another light about it, of a richer day than our paltry, prying, sneak-thieving day.

  The moment Kate had imagined a knife between his shoulders her heart shrank with grief and shame, and a great stillness came over her. Better to take the hush into one’s heart, and the sharp, prying beams out of one’s eyes. Better to lapse away from one’s own prying, assertive self, into the soft, untrespassing self, to whom nakedness is neither shame nor excitement, but clothed like a flower in its own deep, soft consciousness, beyond cheap awareness.

  The evening breeze was blowing very faintly. Sailing-boats were advancing through the pearly atmosphere, far off, the sun above had a golden quality. The opposite shore, twenty miles away, was distinct, and yet there seemed an opalescent, spume-like haze in the air, the same quality as in the filmy water. Kate could see the white specks of the far-off church towers of Tuliapan.

  Below, in the garden below the house, was a thick grove of mango-trees. Among the dark and reddish leaves of the mangos, scarlet little birds were bustling, like suddenly-opening poppy-buds, and pairs of yellow birds, yellow underneath as yellow butterflies, so perfectly clear, went skimming past. When they settled for a moment and closed their wings, they disappeared, for they were grey on top. And when the cardinal birds settled, they too disappeared, for the outside of their wings was brown, like a sheath.

  ‘Birds in this country have all their colour below,’ said Kate.

  Ramón turned to her suddenly.

  ‘They say the word Mexico means below this!’ he said, smiling, and sinking into a rocking-chair.

  Doña Carlota had made a great effort over herself, and with eyes fixed on the tea-cups, she poured out the tea. She handed him his cup without looking at him. She did not trust herself to look at him. It made her tremble with a strange, hysterical anger: she, who had been married to him for years, and knew him, ah, knew him: and yet, and yet, had not got him at all. None of him.

  ‘Give me a piece of sugar, Carlota,’ he said, in his quiet voice.

  But at the sound of it, his wife stopped as if some hand had suddenly grasped her.

  ‘Sugar! Sugar!’ she repeated abst
ractedly to herself.

  Ramón sat forward in his rocking-chair, holding his cup in his hand, his breasts rising in relief. And on his thighs the thin linen seemed to reveal him almost more than his own dark nakedness revealed him. She understood why the cotton pantaloons were forbidden on the plaza. The living flesh seemed to emanate through them.

  He was handsome, almost horribly handsome, with his black head poised as it were without weight, above his darkened, smooth neck. A pure sensuality, with a powerful purity of its own, hostile to her sort of purity. With the blue sash round his waist, pressing a fold in the flesh, and the thin linen seeming to gleam with the life of his hips and his thighs, he emanated a fascination almost like a narcotic, asserting his pure, fine sensuality against her. The strange, soft, still sureness of him, as if he sat secure within his own dark aura. And as if this dark aura of his militated against her presence, and against the presence of his wife. He emitted an effluence so powerful, that it seemed to hamper her consciousness, to bind down her limbs.

  And he was utterly still and quiescent, without desire, soft and unroused, within his own ambiente. Cipriano going the same, the pair of them so quiet and dark and heavy, like a great weight bearing the women down.

  Kate knew now how Salome felt. She knew now how John the Baptist had been, with his terrible, aloof beauty, inaccessible, yet so potent.

  ‘Ah!’ she said to herself. ‘Let me close my eyes to him, and open only my soul. Let me close my prying, seeing eyes, and sit in dark stillness along with these two men. They have got more than I, they have a richness that I haven’t got. They have got rid of that itching of the eye, and the desire that works through the eye. The itching, prurient, knowing, imagining eye, I am cursed with it, I am hampered up in it. It is my curse of curses, the curse of Eve. The curse of Eve is upon me, my eyes are like hooks, my knowledge is like a fish-hook through my gills, pulling me in spasmodic desire. Oh, who will free me from the grappling of my eyes, from the impurity of sharp sight! Daughter of Eve, of greedy vision, why don’t these men save me from the sharpness of my own eyes!’

  She rose and went to the edge of the terrace. Yellow as daffodils underneath, two birds emerged out of their own invisibility. In the little shingle bay, with a small breakwater, where the boat was pulled up and chained, two men were standing in the water, throwing out a big, fine round net, catching the little silvery fish called charales, which flicked out of the brownish water sometimes like splinters of glass.