The Rainbow

Still she forgot and continued to love him, but ever more

coldly. He was at this time, when he was about twenty-eight

years old, strange and violent in his being, sensual. He

acquired some power over Anna, over everybody he came into

contact with.

After a long bout of hostility, Anna at last closed with him.

She had now four children, all girls. For seven years she had

been absorbed in wifehood and motherhood. For years he had gone

on beside her, never really encroaching upon her. Then gradually

another self seemed to assert its being within him. He was still

silent and separate. But she could feel him all the while coming

near upon her, as if his breast and his body were threatening

her, and he was always coming closer. Gradually he became

indifferent of responsibility. He would do what pleased him, and

no more.

He began to go away from home. He went to Nottingham on

Saturdays, always alone, to the football match and to the

music-hall, and all the time he was watching, in readiness. He

never cared to drink. But with his hard, golden-brown eyes, so

keen seeing with their tiny black pupils, he watched all the

people, everything that happened, and he waited.

In the Empire one evening he sat next to two girls. He was

aware of the one beside him. She was rather small, common, with

a fresh complexion and an upper lip that lifted from her teeth,

so that, when she was not conscious, her mouth was slightly open

and her lips pressed outwards in a kind of blind appeal. She was

strongly aware of the man next to her, so that all her body was

still, very still. Her face watched the stage. Her arms went

down into her lap, very self-conscious and still.

A gleam lit up in him: should he begin with her? Should he

begin with her to live the other, the unadmitted life of his

desire? Why not? He had always been so good. Save for his wife,

he was a virgin. And why, when all women were different? Why,

when he would only live once? He wanted the other life. His own

life was barren, not enough. He wanted the other.

Her open mouth, showing the small, irregular, white teeth,

appealed to him. It was open and ready. It was so vulnerable.

Why should he not go in and enjoy what was there? The slim arm

that went down so still and motionless to the lap, it was

pretty. She would be small, he would be able almost to hold her

in his two hands. She would be small, almost like a child, and

pretty. Her childishness whetted him keenly. She would he

helpless between his hands.

"That was the best turn we've had," he said to her, leaning

over as he clapped his hands. He felt strong and unshakeable in

himself, set over against all the world. His soul was keen and

watchful, glittering with a kind of amusement. He was perfectly

self-contained. He was himself, the absolute, the rest of the

world was the object that should contribute to his being.