Women in Love

And yet her soul was tortured, exposed. Even walking up the path to the

church, confident as she was that in every respect she stood beyond all

vulgar judgment, knowing perfectly that her appearance was complete and

perfect, according to the first standards, yet she suffered a torture,

under her confidence and her pride, feeling herself exposed to wounds

and to mockery and to despite. She always felt vulnerable, vulnerable,

there was always a secret chink in her armour. She did not know herself

what it was. It was a lack of robust self, she had no natural

sufficiency, there was a terrible void, a lack, a deficiency of being

within her.

And she wanted someone to close up this deficiency, to close it up for

ever. She craved for Rupert Birkin. When he was there, she felt

complete, she was sufficient, whole. For the rest of time she was

established on the sand, built over a chasm, and, in spite of all her

vanity and securities, any common maid-servant of positive, robust

temper could fling her down this bottomless pit of insufficiency, by

the slightest movement of jeering or contempt. And all the while the

pensive, tortured woman piled up her own defences of aesthetic

knowledge, and culture, and world-visions, and disinterestedness. Yet

she could never stop up the terrible gap of insufficiency.

If only Birkin would form a close and abiding connection with her, she

would be safe during this fretful voyage of life. He could make her

sound and triumphant, triumphant over the very angels of heaven. If

only he would do it! But she was tortured with fear, with misgiving.

She made herself beautiful, she strove so hard to come to that degree

of beauty and advantage, when he should be convinced. But always there

was a deficiency.

He was perverse too. He fought her off, he always fought her off. The

more she strove to bring him to her, the more he battled her back. And

they had been lovers now, for years. Oh, it was so wearying, so aching;

she was so tired. But still she believed in herself. She knew he was

trying to leave her. She knew he was trying to break away from her

finally, to be free. But still she believed in her strength to keep

him, she believed in her own higher knowledge. His own knowledge was

high, she was the central touchstone of truth. She only needed his

conjunction with her.

And this, this conjunction with her, which was his highest fulfilment

also, with the perverseness of a wilful child he wanted to deny. With

the wilfulness of an obstinate child, he wanted to break the holy

connection that was between them.

He would be at this wedding; he was to be groom's man. He would be in

the church, waiting. He would know when she came. She shuddered with

nervous apprehension and desire as she went through the church-door. He

would be there, surely he would see how beautiful her dress was, surely

he would see how she had made herself beautiful for him. He would

understand, he would be able to see how she was made for him, the

first, how she was, for him, the highest. Surely at last he would be

able to accept his highest fate, he would not deny her.