Women in Love

Gudrun paddled almost imperceptibly. Gerald could see, not far ahead,

the rich blue and the rose globes of Ursula's lanterns swaying softly

cheek to cheek as Birkin rowed, and iridescent, evanescent gleams

chasing in the wake. He was aware, too, of his own delicately coloured

lights casting their softness behind him.

Gudrun rested her paddle and looked round. The canoe lifted with the

lightest ebbing of the water. Gerald's white knees were very near to

her.

'Isn't it beautiful!' she said softly, as if reverently.

She looked at him, as he leaned back against the faint crystal of the

lantern-light. She could see his face, although it was a pure shadow.

But it was a piece of twilight. And her breast was keen with passion

for him, he was so beautiful in his male stillness and mystery. It was

a certain pure effluence of maleness, like an aroma from his softly,

firmly moulded contours, a certain rich perfection of his presence,

that touched her with an ecstasy, a thrill of pure intoxication. She

loved to look at him. For the present she did not want to touch him, to

know the further, satisfying substance of his living body. He was

purely intangible, yet so near. Her hands lay on the paddle like

slumber, she only wanted to see him, like a crystal shadow, to feel his

essential presence.

'Yes,' he said vaguely. 'It is very beautiful.' He was listening to the faint near sounds, the dropping of water-drops

from the oar-blades, the slight drumming of the lanterns behind him, as

they rubbed against one another, the occasional rustling of Gudrun's

full skirt, an alien land noise. His mind was almost submerged, he was

almost transfused, lapsed out for the first time in his life, into the

things about him. For he always kept such a keen attentiveness,

concentrated and unyielding in himself. Now he had let go,

imperceptibly he was melting into oneness with the whole. It was like

pure, perfect sleep, his first great sleep of life. He had been so

insistent, so guarded, all his life. But here was sleep, and peace, and

perfect lapsing out.

'Shall I row to the landing-stage?' asked Gudrun wistfully.

'Anywhere,' he answered. 'Let it drift.' 'Tell me then, if we are running into anything,' she replied, in that

very quiet, toneless voice of sheer intimacy.

'The lights will show,' he said.

So they drifted almost motionless, in silence. He wanted silence, pure

and whole. But she was uneasy yet for some word, for some assurance.

'Nobody will miss you?' she asked, anxious for some communication.