So, under the bridge, they came to a standstill, and he lifted her upon
his breast. His body vibrated taut and powerful as he closed upon her
and crushed her, breathless and dazed and destroyed, crushed her upon
his breast. Ah, it was terrible, and perfect. Under this bridge, the
colliers pressed their lovers to their breast. And now, under the
bridge, the master of them all pressed her to himself? And how much
more powerful and terrible was his embrace than theirs, how much more
concentrated and supreme his love was, than theirs in the same sort!
She felt she would swoon, die, under the vibrating, inhuman tension of
his arms and his body--she would pass away. Then the unthinkable high
vibration slackened and became more undulating. He slackened and drew
her with him to stand with his back to the wall.
She was almost unconscious. So the colliers' lovers would stand with
their backs to the walls, holding their sweethearts and kissing them as
she was being kissed. Ah, but would their kisses be fine and powerful
as the kisses of the firm-mouthed master? Even the keen, short-cut
moustache--the colliers would not have that.
And the colliers' sweethearts would, like herself, hang their heads
back limp over their shoulder, and look out from the dark archway, at
the close patch of yellow lights on the unseen hill in the distance, or
at the vague form of trees, and at the buildings of the colliery
wood-yard, in the other direction.
His arms were fast around her, he seemed to be gathering her into
himself, her warmth, her softness, her adorable weight, drinking in the
suffusion of her physical being, avidly. He lifted her, and seemed to
pour her into himself, like wine into a cup.
'This is worth everything,' he said, in a strange, penetrating voice.
So she relaxed, and seemed to melt, to flow into him, as if she were
some infinitely warm and precious suffusion filling into his veins,
like an intoxicant. Her arms were round his neck, he kissed her and
held her perfectly suspended, she was all slack and flowing into him,
and he was the firm, strong cup that receives the wine of her life. So
she lay cast upon him, stranded, lifted up against him, melting and
melting under his kisses, melting into his limbs and bones, as if he
were soft iron becoming surcharged with her electric life.
Till she seemed to swoon, gradually her mind went, and she passed away,
everything in her was melted down and fluid, and she lay still, become
contained by him, sleeping in him as lightning sleeps in a pure, soft
stone. So she was passed away and gone in him, and he was perfected.