Women in Love

Ursula was prevailed upon to sing 'Annie Lowrie,' as the Professor

called it. There was a hush of EXTREME deference. She had never been so

flattered in her life. Gudrun accompanied her on the piano, playing

from memory.

Ursula had a beautiful ringing voice, but usually no confidence, she

spoiled everything. This evening she felt conceited and untrammelled.

Birkin was well in the background, she shone almost in reaction, the

Germans made her feel fine and infallible, she was liberated into

overweening self-confidence. She felt like a bird flying in the air, as

her voice soared out, enjoying herself extremely in the balance and

flight of the song, like the motion of a bird's wings that is up in the

wind, sliding and playing on the air, she played with sentimentality,

supported by rapturous attention. She was very happy, singing that song

by herself, full of a conceit of emotion and power, working upon all

those people, and upon herself, exerting herself with gratification,

giving immeasurable gratification to the Germans.

At the end, the Germans were all touched with admiring, delicious

melancholy, they praised her in soft, reverent voices, they could not

say too much.

'Wie schon, wie ruhrend! Ach, die Schottischen Lieder, sie haben so

viel Stimmung! Aber die gnadige Frau hat eine WUNDERBARE Stimme; die

gnadige Frau ist wirklich eine Kunstlerin, aber wirklich!' She was dilated and brilliant, like a flower in the morning sun. She

felt Birkin looking at her, as if he were jealous of her, and her

breasts thrilled, her veins were all golden. She was as happy as the

sun that has just opened above clouds. And everybody seemed so admiring

and radiant, it was perfect.

After dinner she wanted to go out for a minute, to look at the world.

The company tried to dissuade her--it was so terribly cold. But just to

look, she said.

They all four wrapped up warmly, and found themselves in a vague,

unsubstantial outdoors of dim snow and ghosts of an upper-world, that

made strange shadows before the stars. It was indeed cold, bruisingly,

frighteningly, unnaturally cold. Ursula could not believe the air in

her nostrils. It seemed conscious, malevolent, purposive in its intense

murderous coldness.

Yet it was wonderful, an intoxication, a silence of dim, unrealised

snow, of the invisible intervening between her and the visible, between

her and the flashing stars. She could see Orion sloping up. How

wonderful he was, wonderful enough to make one cry aloud.

And all around was this cradle of snow, and there was firm snow

underfoot, that struck with heavy cold through her boot-soles. It was

night, and silence. She imagined she could hear the stars. She imagined

distinctly she could hear the celestial, musical motion of the stars,

quite near at hand. She seemed like a bird flying amongst their

harmonious motion.