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on, just as production does,’ he said. ‘It is a progressive
process—and it ends in universal nothing—the end of the
world, if you like. But why isn’t the end of the world as good
as the beginning?’
‘I suppose it isn’t,’ said Ursula, rather angry.
‘Oh yes, ultimately,’ he said. ‘It means a new cycle of cre-
ation after—but not for us. If it is the end, then we are of the
end—fleurs du mal if you like. If we are fleurs du mal, we are
not roses of happiness, and there you are.’
‘But I think I am,’ said Ursula. ‘I think I am a rose of hap-
piness.’
‘Ready-made?’ he asked ironically.
‘No—real,’ she said, hurt.
‘If we are the end, we are not the beginning,’ he said.
‘Yes we are,’ she said. ‘The beginning comes out of the
end.’
‘After it, not out of it. After us, not out of us.’
‘You are a devil, you know, really,’ she said. ‘You want to
destroy our hope. You WANT US to be deathly.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I only want us to KNOW what we are.’
‘Ha!’ she cried in anger. ‘You only want us to know
death.’
‘You’re quite right,’ said the soft voice of Gerald, out of
the dusk behind.
Birkin rose. Gerald and Gudrun came up. They all be-
gan to smoke, in the moments of silence. One after another,
Birkin lighted their cigarettes. The match flickered in the
twilight, and they were all smoking peacefully by the wa-
ter-side. The lake was dim, the light dying from off it, in

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