The Rainbow

But it had shocked him, and put a mistrust into his heart,

and emphasized his fear of what was within himself. He was,

however, in a few days going about again in his own careless,

happy-go-lucky fashion, his blue eyes just as clear and honest

as ever, his face just as fresh, his appetite just as keen.

Or apparently so. He had, in fact, lost some of his buoyant

confidence, and doubt hindered his outgoing.

For some time after this, he was quieter, more conscious when

he drank, more backward from companionship. The disillusion of

his first carnal contact with woman, strengthened by his innate

desire to find in a woman the embodiment of all his

inarticulate, powerful religious impulses, put a bit in his

mouth. He had something to lose which he was afraid of losing,

which he was not sure even of possessing. This first affair did

not matter much: but the business of love was, at the bottom of

his soul, the most serious and terrifying of all to him.

He was tormented now with sex desire, his imagination

reverted always to lustful scenes. But what really prevented his

returning to a loose woman, over and above the natural

squeamishness, was the recollection of the paucity of the last

experience. It had been so nothing, so dribbling and functional,

that he was ashamed to expose himself to the risk of a

repetition of it.

He made a strong, instinctive fight to retain his native

cheerfulness unimpaired. He had naturally a plentiful stream of

life and humour, a sense of sufficiency and exuberance, giving

ease. But now it tended to cause tension. A strained light came

into his eyes, he had a slight knitting of the brows. His

boisterous humour gave place to lowering silences, and days

passed by in a sort of suspense.

He did not know there was any difference in him, exactly; for

the most part he was filled with slow anger and resentment. But

he knew he was always thinking of women, or a woman, day in, day

out, and that infuriated him. He could not get free: and he was

ashamed. He had one or two sweethearts, starting with them in

the hope of speedy development. But when he had a nice girl, he

found that he was incapable of pushing the desired development.

The very presence of the girl beside him made it impossible. He

could not think of her like that, he could not think of her

actual nakedness. She was a girl and he liked her, and dreaded

violently even the thought of uncovering her. He knew that, in

these last issues of nakedness, he did not exist to her nor she

to him. Again, if he had a loose girl, and things began to

develop, she offended him so deeply all the time, that he never

knew whether he was going to get away from her as quickly as

possible, or whether he were going to take her out of inflamed

necessity. Again he learnt his lesson: if he took her it was a

paucity which he was forced to despise. He did not despise

himself nor the girl. But he despised the net result in him of

the experience--he despised it deeply and bitterly.