dark； violent hatred of her husband swept up in her。 What was he
doing； sitting there gleaming； carried away； soulful？
She shifted sharply； she knocked him as she pretended to pick
up her glove； she groped among his feet。
He came to； rather bewildered； exposed。 Anybody but her would
have pitied him。 She wanted to rend him。 He did not know what
was amiss； what he had been doing。
As they sat at dinner； in their cottage； he was dazed by the
chill of antagonism from her。 She did not know why she was so
angry。 But she was incensed。
〃Why do you never listen to the sermon？〃 she asked； seething
with hostility and violation。
〃I do；〃 he said。
〃You don'tyou don't hear a single word。〃
He retired into himself； to enjoy his own sensation。 There
was something subterranean about him； as if he had an underworld
refuge。 The young girl hated to be in the house with him when he
was like this。
After dinner； he retired into the parlour； continuing in the
same state of abstraction； which was a burden intolerable to
her。 Then he went to the bookshelf and took down books to look
at； that she had scarcely glanced over。
He sat absorbed over a book on the illuminations in old
missals； and then over a book on paintings in churches： Italian；
English； French and German。 He had； when he was sixteen；
discovered a Roman Catholic bookshop where he could find such
things。
He turned the leaves in absorption； absorbed in looking； not
thinking。 He was like a man whose eyes were in his chest； she
said of him later。
She came to look at the things with him。 Half they fascinated
her。 She was puzzled； interested； and antagonistic。
It was when she came to pictures of the Pieta that she burst
out。
〃I do think they're loathsome；〃 she cried。
〃What？〃 he said； surprised； abstracted。
〃Those bodies with slits in them； posing to be
worshipped。〃
〃You see； it means the Sacraments； the Bread；〃 he said
slowly。
〃Does it；〃 she cried。 〃Then it's worse。 I don't want to see
your chest slit； nor to eat your dead body； even if you offer it
to me。 Can't you see it's horrible？〃
〃It isn't me； it's Christ。〃
〃What if it is； it's you！ And it's horrible； you wallowing in
your own dead body； and thinking of eating it in the
Sacrament。〃
〃You've to take it for what it means。〃
〃It means your human body put up to be slit and killed and
then worshippedwhat else？〃
They lapsed into silence。 His soul grew angry and aloof。
〃And I think that lamb in Church；〃 she said； 〃is the biggest
joke in the parish〃
She burst into a 〃Pouf〃 of ridiculing laughter。
〃It might be； to those that see nothing in it；〃 he said。 〃You
know it's the symbol of Christ； of His innocence and
sacrifice。〃
〃Whatever it means； it's a lamb；〃 she said。 〃And I
like lambs too much to treat them as if they had to mean
something。 As for the Christmastree
flagno〃
And again she poufed with mockery。
〃It's because you don't know anything；〃 he said violently；
harshly。 〃Laugh at what you know； not at what you don't
know。〃
〃What don't I know？〃
〃What things mean。〃
〃And what does it mean？〃
He was reluctant to answer her。 He found it difficult。
〃What does it mean？〃 she insisted。
〃It means the triumph of the Resurrection。〃
She hesitated； baffled； a fear came upon her。 What were these
things？ Something dark and powerful seemed to extend before her。
Was it wonderful after all？
But noshe refused it。
〃Whatever it may pretend to mean； what it is is a silly
absurd toylamb with a Christmastree flag ledged on its
pawand if it wants to mean anything else； it must look
different from that。〃
He was in a state of violent irritation against her。 Partly
he was ashamed of his love for these things； he hid his passion
for them。 He was ashamed of the ecstasy into which he could
throw himself with these symbols。 And for a few moments he hated
the lamb and the mystic pictures of the Eucharist； with a
violent； ashy hatred。 His fire was put out； she had thrown cold
water on it。 The whole thing was distasteful to him； his mouth
was full of ashes。 He went out cold with corpselike anger；
leaving her alone。 He hated her。 He walked through the white
snow； under a sky of lead。
And she wept again； in bitter recurrence of the previous
gloom。 But her heart was easyoh； much more easy。
She ake it up with him when he came
home again。 He was black and surly； but abated。 She had broken a
little of something in him。 And at length he was glad to forfeit
from his soul all his symbols； to have her making love to him。
He loved it when she put her head on his knee； and he had not
asked her to or wanted her to； he loved her when she put her
arms round him and made bold love to him； and he did not make
love to her。 He felt a strong blood in his limbs again。
And she loved the intent； far look of his eyes when they
rested on her： intent； yet far； not near； not with her。 And she
wanted to bring them near。 She wanted his eyes to e to hers；
to know her。 And they would not。 They remained intent； and far；
and proud； like a hawk's naive and inhuman as a hawk's。 So she
loved him and caressed him and roused him like a hawk； till he
was keen and instant； but without tenderness。 He came to her
fierce and hard； like a hawk striking and taking her。 He was no
mystic any more； she was his aim and object； his prey。 And she
was carried off； and he was satisfied； or satiated at last。
Then immediately she began to retaliate on him。 She too was a
hawk。 If she imitated the pathetic plover running plaintive to
him； that was part of the game。 When he； satisfied； moved with a
proud； insolent slouch of the body and a halfcontemptuous drop
of the head； unaware of her； ignoring her very existence； after
taking his fill of her and getting his satisfaction of her； her
soul roused； its pinions became like steel； and she struck at
him。 When he sat on his perch glancing sharply round with
solitary pride； pride eminent and fierce； she dashed at him and
threw him from his station savagely； she goaded him from his
keen dignity of a male； she harassed him from his unperturbed
pride； till he was mad with rage； his light brown eyes burned
with fury； they saw her now； like flames of anger they flared at
her and recognized her as the enemy。
Very good； she was the enemy； very good。 As he prowled round
her； she watched him。 As he struck at her； she struck back。
He was angry because she had carelessly pushed away his tools
so that they got rusty。
〃Don't leave them littering in my way； then；〃 she said。
〃I shall leave them where I like；〃 he cried。
〃Then I shall throw them where I like。〃
They glowered at each other； he with rage in his hands； she
with her soul fierce with victory。 They were very well matched。
They would fight it out。
She turned to her sewing。 Immediately the teathings were
cleared away； she fetched out the stuff； and his soul rose in
rage。 He hated beyond measure to hear the shriek of calico as
she tore the web sharply； as if with pleasure。 And the run of
the sewingmachine gathered a frenzy in him at last。
〃Aren't you going to stop that row？〃 he shouted。 〃Can't you
do it in the daytime？〃
She looked up sharply； hostile from her work。
〃No； I can't do it in the daytime。 I have other things to do。
Besides； I like sewing； and you're not going to stop me doing
it。〃
Whereupon she turned back to her arranging； fixing；
stitching； his nerves jumped with anger as the sewingmachine
started and stuttered and buzzed。
But she was enjoying herself； she was triumphant and happy as
the darting needle danced ecstatically down a hem； drawing the
stuff along under its vivid stabbing； irresistibly。 She made the
machine hum。 She stopped it imperiously； her fingers were deft
and swift and mistress。
If he sat behind her stiff with impotent rage it only made a
trembling vividness e into her energy。 On she worked。 At last
he went to bed in a rage； and lay stiff； away from her。 And she
turned her back on him。 And in the morning they did not speak；
except in mere cold civilities。
And when he came home at night； his heart relenting and
growing hot for love of her； when he was just ready to feel he
had been wrong； and when he was expecting her to feel the same；
there she sat at the sewingmachine； the whole house was covered
with clipped calico； the kettle was not even on the fire。
She started up； affecting concern。
〃Is it so late？〃 she cried。
But his face had gone stiff with rage。 He walked through to
the parlour； then he walked back and out of the house again。 Her
heart sank。 Very swiftly she began to make his tea。
He went blackhearted down the road to Ilkeston。 When he was
in this state he never thought。 A bolt shot across the doors of
his mind and shut him in； a prisoner。 He went back to Ilkeston；
and drank a glass of beer。 What was he going to do？ He did not
want to see anybody。
He would go to Nottingham； to his own town。 He went to the
station and took a train。 When he got to Nottingham； still he
had nowhere to go。 However； it was more agreeable to walk
familiar streets。 He paced them with a mad restlessness； as if
he were running amok。 Then he turned to a bookshop and found a
book on Bamberg Cathedral。 Here was a discovery！ here was
something for him！ He went into a quiet restaurant to look at
his treasure。 He lit up with thrills of bliss as he turned from
picture to picture。 He had found something at last； in these
carvings。 His soul had great satisfaction。 Had he not e out
to seek； and had he not found！ He was in a passion of
fulfilment。 These were the finest carvings； statues； he had ever
seen。 The book lay in his hands like a doorway。 The world around
was only an enclosure； a room。 But he was going away。 He
lingered over the lovely statues of women。 A marvellous；
finelywrought universe crystallized out around him as he looked
again； at the crowns； the twining hair； the womanfaces。 He
liked all the better the unintelligible text of the German。 He
preferred things he could not understand with the mind。 He loved
the undiscovered and the undiscoverable。 He pored over the
pictures intensely。 And these were wooden statues；
〃Holz〃he believed that meant wood。 Woo