 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?
    Birkin was frightened. He was tired too, when he had reached this length of
speculation. Suddenly his strange, strained attention gave way, he could not
attend to these mysteries any more. There was another way, the way of freedom.
There was the paradisal entry into pure, single being, the individual soul
taking precedence over love and desire for union, stronger than any pangs of
emotion, a lovely state of free proud singleness, which accepted the obligation
of the permanent connection with others, and with the other, submits to the yoke
and leash of love, but never forfeits its own proud individual singleness, even
while it loves and yields.
    There was the other way, the remaining way. And he must run to follow it. He
thought of Ursula, how sensitive and delicate she really was, her skin so
over-fine, as if one skin were wanting. She was really so marvellously gentle
and sensitive. Why did he ever forget it? He must go to her at once. He must ask
her to marry him. They must marry at once, and so make a definite pledge, enter
into a definite communion. He must set out at once and ask her, this moment.
There was no moment to spare.
    He drifted on swiftly to Beldover, half unconscious of his own movement. He
saw the town on the slope of the hill, not straggling, but as if walled-in with
the straight, final streets of miners' dwellings, making a great square, and it
looked like Jerusalem to his fancy. The world was all strange and transcendent.
    Rosalind opened the door to him. She started slightly, as a young girl will,
and said:
    »Oh, I'll tell father.«
    With which she disappeared, leaving Birkin in the hall, looking at some
reproductions from Picasso, lately introduced by Gudrun. He was admiring the
almost wizard, sensuous apprehension of the earth, when Will Brangwen appeared,
rolling down his shirt-sleeves.
    »Well,«
