Page 152 - women-in-love

birch-trunk against one’s breast, its smoothness, its hard-
ness, its vital knots and ridges—this was good, this was all
very good, very satisfying. Nothing else would do, nothing
else would satisfy, except this coolness and subtlety of veg-
etation travelling into one’s blood. How fortunate he was,
that there was this lovely, subtle, responsive vegetation,
waiting for him, as he waited for it; how fulfilled he was,
how happy!
As he dried himself a little with his handkerchief, he
thought about Hermione and the blow. He could feel a pain
on the side of his head. But after all, what did it matter?
What did Hermione matter, what did people matter alto-
gether? There was this perfect cool loneliness, so lovely and
fresh and unexplored. Really, what a mistake he had made,
thinking he wanted people, thinking he wanted a woman.
He did not want a woman—not in the least. The leaves and
the primroses and the trees, they were really lovely and cool
and desirable, they really came into the blood and were add-
ed on to him. He was enrichened now immeasurably, and
so glad.
It was quite right of Hermione to want to kill him. What
had he to do with her? Why should he pretend to have any-
thing to do with human beings at all? Here was his world, he
wanted nobody and nothing but the lovely, subtle, respon-
sive vegetation, and himself, his own living self.
It was necessary to go back into the world. That was true.
But that did not matter, so one knew where one belonged.
He knew now where he belonged. This was his place, his
marriage place. The world was extraneous.

152 Women in Love