She clung nearer to him.He held her close, and kissed her softly, gently.
It was such peace and heavenly freedom, just to fold her and kiss her gently, and not to have any thoughts or any desires or any will, just to be still with her, to be perfectly still and together, in a peace that was not sleep, but content in bliss.To be content in bliss, without desire or insistence anywhere, this was heaven: to be together in happy stillness.
For a long time she nestled to him, and he kissed her softly, her hair, her face, her ears, gently, softly, like dew falling.But this warm breath on her ears disturbed her again, kindled the old destructive fires.She cleaved to him, and he could feel his blood changing like quicksilver.
`But we'll be still, shall we?' he said.
`Yes,' she said, as if submissively.
And she continued to nestle against him.
But in a little while she drew away and looked at him.
`I must be going home,' she said.
`Must you -- how sad,' he replied.
She leaned forward and put up her mouth to be kissed.
`Are you really sad?' she murmured, smiling.
`Yes,' he said, `I wish we could stay as we were, always.'
`Always! Do you?' she murmured, as he kissed her.And then, out of a full throat, she crooned `Kiss me! Kiss me!' And she cleaved close to him.
He kissed her many times.But he too had his idea and his will.He wanted only gentle communion, no other, no passion now.So that soon she drew away, put on her hat and went home.
The next day however, he felt wistful and yearning.He thought he had been wrong, perhaps.Perhaps he had been wrong to go to her with an idea of what he wanted.Was it really only an idea, or was it the interpretation of a profound yearning? If the latter, how was it he was always talking about sensual fulfilment? The two did not agree very well.
Suddenly he found himself face to face with a situation.It was as simple as this: fatally simple.On the one hand, he knew he did not want a further sensual experience -- something deeper, darker, than ordinary life could give.He remembered the African fetishes he had seen at Halliday's so often.
There came back to him one, a statuette about two feet high, a tall, slim, elegant figure from West Africa, in dark wood, glossy and suave.It was a woman, with hair dressed high, like a melon-shaped dome.He remembered her vividly: she was one of his soul's intimates.Her body was long and elegant, her face was crushed tiny like a beetle's, she had rows of round heavy collars, like a column of quoits, on her neck.He remembered her:
her astonishing cultured elegance, her diminished, beetle face, the astounding long elegant body, on short, ugly legs, with such protuberant buttocks, so weighty and unexpected below her slim long loins.She knew what he himself did not know.She had thousands of years of purely sensual, purely unspiritual knowledge behind her.It must have been thousands of years since her race had died, mystically: that is, since the relation between the senses and the outspoken mind had broken, leaving the experience all in one sort, mystically sensual.Thousands of years ago, that which was imminent in himself must have taken place in these Africans: the goodness, the holiness, the desire for creation and productive happiness must have lapsed, leaving the single impulse for knowledge in one sort, mindless progressive knowledge through the senses, knowledge arrested and ending in the senses, mystic knowledge in disintegration and dissolution, knowledge such as the beetles have, which live purely within the world of corruption and cold dissolution.
This was why her face looked like a beetle's: this was why the Egyptians worshipped the ball-rolling scarab: because of the principle of knowledge in dissolution and corruption.
There is a long way we can travel, after the death-break: after that point when the soul in intense suffering breaks, breaks away from its organic hold like a leaf that falls.We fall from the connection with life and hope, we lapse from pure integral being, from creation and liberty, and we fall into the long, long African process of purely sensual understanding, knowledge in the mystery of dissolution.
He realised now that this is a long process -- thousands of years it takes, after the death of the creative spirit.He realised that there were great mysteries to be unsealed, sensual, mindless, dreadful mysteries, far beyond the phallic cult.How far, in their inverted culture, had these West Africans gone beyond phallic knowledge? Very, very far.Birkin recalled again the female figure: the elongated, long, long body, the curious unexpected heavy buttocks, he long, imprisoned neck, the face with tiny features like a beetle's.This was far beyond any phallic knowledge, sensual subtle realities far beyond the scope of phallic investigation.
There remained this way, this awful African process, to be fulfilled.
It would be done differently by the white races.The white races, having the arctic north behind them, the vast abstraction of ice and snow, would fulfil a mystery of ice-destructive knowledge, snow-abstract annihilation.
Whereas the West Africans, controlled by the burning death-abstraction of the Sahara, had been fulfilled in sun-destruction, the putrescent mystery of sun-rays.
Was this then all that remained? Was there left now nothing but to break off from the happy creative being, was the time up? Is our day of creative life finished? Does there remain to us only the strange, awful afterwards of the knowledge in dissolution, the African knowledge, but different in us, who are blond and blue-eyed from the north?
Birkin thought of Gerald.He was one of these strange white wonderful demons from the north, fulfilled in the destructive frost mystery.And was he fated to pass away in this knowledge, this one process of frost-knowledge, death by perfect cold? Was he a messenger, an omen of the universal dissolution into whiteness and snow?
