was ugly…beautiful； and he could not bear it。 He put his mouth
on hers； and slowly； slowly the response came； gathering force
and passion； till it seemed to him she was thundering at him
till he could bear no more。 He drew away； white； unbreathing。
Only； in his blue eyes； was something of himself concentrated。
And in her eyes was a little smile upon a black void。
She was drifting away from him again。 And he wanted to go
away。 It was intolerable。 He could bear no more。 He must go。 Yet
he was irresolute。 But she turned away from him。
With a little pang of anguish； of denial； it was decided。
〃I'll e an' speak to the vicar to…morrow；〃 he said； taking
his hat。
She looked at him； her eyes expressionless and full of
darkness。 He could see no answer。
〃That'll do； won't it？〃 he said。
〃Yes；〃 she answered； mere echo without body or meaning。
〃Good night；〃 he said。
〃Good night。〃
He left her standing there； expressionless and void as she
was。 Then she went on laying the tray for the vicar。 Needing the
table； she put the daffodils aside on the dresser without
noticing them。 Only their coolness； touching her hand； remained
echoing there a long while。
They were such strangers； they must for ever be such
strangers； that his passion was a clanging torment to him。 Such
intimacy of embrace； and such utter foreignness of contact！ It
was unbearable。 He could not bear to be near her； and know the
utter foreignness between them； know how entirely they were
strangers to each other。 He went out into the wind。 Big holes
were blown into the sky； the moonlight blew about。 Sometimes a
high moon； liquid…brilliant； scudded across a hollow space and
took cover under electric； brown…iridescent cloud…edges。 Then
there was a blot of cloud； and shadow。 Then somewhere in the
night a radiance again； like a vapour。 And all the sky was
teeming and tearing along； a vast disorder of flying shapes and
darkness and ragged fumes of light and a great brown circling
halo； then the terror of a moon running liquid…brilliant into
the open for a moment； hurting the eyes before she plunged under
cover of cloud again。
CHAPTER II
THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH
She was the daughter of a Polish landowner who； deeply in
debt to the Jews； had married a German wife with money； and who
had died just before the rebellion。 Quite young； she had married
Paul Lensky； an intellectual who had studied at Berlin； and had
returned to Warsaw a patriot。 Her mother had married a German
merchant and gone away。
Lydia Lensky； married to the young doctor； became with him a
patriot and an emancipee。 They were poor； but they
were very conceited。 She learned nursing as a mark of her
emancipation。 They represented in Poland the new movement just
begun in Russia。 But they were very patriotic： and； at the same
time； very 〃European〃。
They had two children。 Then came the great rebellion。 Lensky；
very ardent and full of words； went about inciting his
countrymen。 Little Poles flamed down the streets of Warsaw； on
the way to shoot every Muscovite。 So they crossed into the south
of Russia； and it was mon for six little insurgents to ride
into a Jewish village； brandishing swords and words； emphasizing
the fact that they were going to shoot every living
Muscovite。
Lensky was something of a fire…eater also。 Lydia； tempered by
her German blood； ing of a different family； was obliterated；
carried along in her husband's emphasis of declaration； and his
whirl of patriotism。 He was indeed a brave man； but no bravery
could quite have equalled the vividness of his talk。 He worked
very hard； till nothing lived in him but his eyes。 And Lydia； as
if drugged； followed him like a shadow； serving； echoing。
Sometimes she had her two children； sometimes they were left
behind。
She returned once to find them both dead of diphtheria。 Her
husband wept aloud； unaware of everybody。 But the war went on；
and soon he was back at his work。 A darkness had e over
Lydia's mind。 She walked always in a shadow； silenced； with a
strange； deep terror having hold of her； her desire was to seek
satisfaction in dread； to enter a nunnery； to satisfy the
instincts of dread in her； through service of a dark religion。
But she could not。
Then came the flight to London。 Lensky； the little； thin man；
had got all his life locked into a resistance and could not
relax again。 He lived in a sort of insane irritability； touchy；
haughty to the last degree； fractious； so that as assistant
doctor in one of the hospitals he soon became impossible。 They
were almost beggars。 But he kept still his great ideas of
himself； he seemed to live in a plete hallucination； where he
himself figured vivid and lordly。 He guarded his wife jealously
against the ignominy of her position； rushed round her like a
brandished weapon； an amazing sight to the English eye； had her
in his power； as if he hypnotized her。 She was passive； dark；
always in shadow。
He was wasting away。 Already when the child was born he
seemed nothing but skin and bone and fixed idea。 She watched him
dying； nursed him； nursed the baby； but really took no notice of
anything。 A darkness was on her； like remorse； or like a
remembering of the dark； savage； mystic ride of dread； of death；
of the shadow of revenge。 When her husband died； she was
relieved。 He would no longer dart about her。
England fitted her mood； its aloofness and foreignness。 She
had known a little of the language before ing； and a sort of
parrot…mind made her pick it up fairly easily。 But she knew
nothing of the English； nor of English life。 Indeed； these did
not exist for her。 She was like one walking in the Underworld；
where the shades throng intelligibly but have no connection with
one。 She felt the English people as a potent； cold； slightly
hostile host amongst whom she walked isolated。
The English people themselves were almost deferential to her；
the Church saw that she did not want。 She walked without
passion； like a shade； tormented into moments of love by the
child。 Her dying husband with his tortured eyes and the skin
drawn tight over his face； he was as a vision to her； not a
reality。 In a vision he was buried and put away。 Then the vision
ceased； she was untroubled； time went on grey； uncoloured； like
a long journey where she sat unconscious as the landscape
unrolled beside her。 When she rocked her baby at evening； maybe
she fell into a Polish slumber song； or she talked sometimes to
herself in Polish。 Otherwise she did not think of Poland； nor of
that life to which she had belonged。 It was a great blot looming
blank in its darkness。 In the superficial activity of her life；
she was all English。 She even thought in English。 But her long
blanks and darknesses of abstraction were Polish。
So she lived for some time。 Then； with slight uneasiness； she
used half to awake to the streets of London。 She realized that
there was something around her； very foreign； she realized she
was in a strange place。 And then； she was sent away into the
country。 There came into her mind now the memory of her home
where she had been a child； the big house among the land； the
peasants of the village。
She was sent to Yorkshire； to nurse an old rector in his
rectory by the sea。 This was the first shake of the kaleidoscope
that brought in front of her eyes something she must see。 It
hurt her brain； the open country and the moors。 It hurt her and
hurt her。 Yet it forced itself upon her as something living； it
roused some potency of her childhood in her； it had some
relation to her。
There was green and silver and blue in the air about her now。
And there was a strange insistence of light from the sea； to
which she must attend。 Primroses glimmered around； many of them；
and she stooped to the disturbing influence near her feet； she
even picked one or two flowers； faintly remembering in the new
colour of life； what had been。 All the day long； as she sat at
the upper window； the light came off the sea； constantly；
constantly； without refusal； till it seemed to bear her away；
and the noise of the sea created a drowsiness in her； a
relaxation like sleep。 Her automatic consciousness gave way a
little； she stumbled sometimes； she had a poignant； momentary
vision of her living child； that hurt her unspeakably。 Her soul
roused to attention。
Very strange was the constant glitter of the sea unsheathed
in heaven； very warm and sweet the graveyard； in a nook of the
hill catching the sunshine and holding it as one holds a bee
between the palms of the hands； when it is benumbed。 Grey grass
and lichens and a little church； and snowdrops among coarse
grass； and a cupful of incredibly warm sunshine。
She was troubled in spirit。 Hearing the rushing of the beck
away down under the trees； she was startled； and wondered what
it was。 Walking down； she found the bluebells around her glowing
like a presence； among the trees。
Summer came； the moors were tangled with harebells like water
in the ruts of the roads； the heather came rosy under the skies；
setting the whole world awake。 And she was uneasy。 She went past
the gorse bushes shrinking from their presence； she stepped into
the heather as into a quicken