Women in Love

'Please go on with the recitation,' said the Professor, suavely, with

his slight authority. Loerke, who was sitting hunched on the piano

stool, blinked and did not answer.

'It would be a great pleasure,' said Ursula, who had been getting the

sentence ready, in German, for some minutes.

Then, suddenly, the small, unresponding man swung aside, towards his

previous audience and broke forth, exactly as he had broken off; in a

controlled, mocking voice, giving an imitation of a quarrel between an

old Cologne woman and a railway guard.

His body was slight and unformed, like a boy's, but his voice was

mature, sardonic, its movement had the flexibility of essential energy,

and of a mocking penetrating understanding. Gudrun could not understand

a word of his monologue, but she was spell-bound, watching him. He must

be an artist, nobody else could have such fine adjustment and

singleness. The Germans were doubled up with laughter, hearing his

strange droll words, his droll phrases of dialect. And in the midst of

their paroxysms, they glanced with deference at the four English

strangers, the elect. Gudrun and Ursula were forced to laugh. The room

rang with shouts of laughter. The blue eyes of the Professor's

daughters were swimming over with laughter-tears, their clear cheeks

were flushed crimson with mirth, their father broke out in the most

astonishing peals of hilarity, the students bowed their heads on their

knees in excess of joy. Ursula looked round amazed, the laughter was

bubbling out of her involuntarily. She looked at Gudrun. Gudrun looked

at her, and the two sisters burst out laughing, carried away. Loerke

glanced at them swiftly, with his full eyes. Birkin was sniggering

involuntarily. Gerald Crich sat erect, with a glistening look of

amusement on his face. And the laughter crashed out again, in wild

paroxysms, the Professor's daughters were reduced to shaking

helplessness, the veins of the Professor's neck were swollen, his face

was purple, he was strangled in ultimate, silent spasms of laughter.

The students were shouting half-articulated words that tailed off in

helpless explosions. Then suddenly the rapid patter of the artist

ceased, there were little whoops of subsiding mirth, Ursula and Gudrun

were wiping their eyes, and the Professor was crying loudly.

'Das war ausgezeichnet, das war famos--' 'Wirklich famos,' echoed his exhausted daughters, faintly.

'And we couldn't understand it,' cried Ursula.

'Oh leider, leider!' cried the Professor.

'You couldn't understand it?' cried the Students, let loose at last in

speech with the newcomers. 'Ja, das ist wirklich schade, das ist

schade, gnadige Frau. Wissen Sie--' The mixture was made, the newcomers were stirred into the party, like

new ingredients, the whole room was alive. Gerald was in his element,

he talked freely and excitedly, his face glistened with a strange

amusement. Perhaps even Birkin, in the end, would break forth. He was

shy and withheld, though full of attention.