road between the hedges。 Step after step； step after step； the
monotony produced a deep； cold sense of nausea in her。 How
profound was her cold nausea； how profound！ That too plumbed the
bottom。 She seemed destined to find the bottom of all things
to…day： the bottom of all things。 Well； at any rate she was
walking along the bottom…most bed……she was quite safe：
quite safe； if she had to go on and on for ever； seeing this was
the very bottom； and there was nothing deeper。 There was nothing
deeper； you see； so one could not but feel certain； passive。
She arrived home at last。 The climb up the hill to Beldover
had been very trying。 Why must one climb the hill？ Why must one
climb？ Why not stay below？ Why force one's way up the slope？ Why
force one's way up and up； when one is at the bottom？ Oh； it was
very trying； very wearying； very burdensome。 Always burdens；
always； always burdens。 Still； she must get to the top and go
home to bed。 She must go to bed。
She got in and went upstairs in the dusk without its being
noticed she was in such a sodden condition。 She was too tired to
go downstairs again。 She got into bed and lay shuddering with
cold； yet too apathetic to get up or call for relief。 Then
gradually she became more ill。
She was very ill for a fortnight； delirious； shaken and
racked。 But always； amid the ache of delirium； she had a dull
firmness of being； a sense of permanency。 She was in some way
like the stone at the bottom of the river； inviolable and
unalterable； no matter what storm raged in her body。 Her soul
lay still and permanent； full of pain； but itself for ever。
Under all her illness； persisted a deep； inalterable
knowledge。
She knew； and she cared no more。 Throughout her illness；
distorted into vague forms； persisted the question of herself
and Skrebensky； like a gnawing ache that was still superficial；
and did not touch her isolated； impregnable core of reality。 But
the corrosion of him burned in her till it burned itself
out。
Must she belong to him； must she adhere to him？ Something
pelled her； and yet it was not real。 Always the ache； the
ache of unreality； of her belonging to Skrebensky。 What bound
her to him when she was not bound to him？ Why did the falsity
persist？ Why did the falsity gnaw； gnaw； gnaw at her； why could
she not wake up to clarity； to reality。 If she could but wake
up； if she could but wake up； the falsity of the dream； of her
connection with Skrebensky； would be gone。 But the sleep； the
delirium pinned her down。 Even when she was calm and sober she
was in its spell。
Yet she was never in its spell。 What extraneous thing bound
her to him？ There was some bond put upon her。 Why could she not
break it through？ What was it？ What was it？
In her delirium she beat and beat at the question。 And at
last her weariness gave her the answer……it was the child。
The child bound her to him。 The child was like a bond round her
brain； tightened on her brain。 It bound her to Skrebensky。
But why； why did it bind her to Skrebensky？ Could she not
have a child of herself？ Was not the child her own affair？ all
her own affair？ What had it to do with him？ Why must she be
bound； aching and cramped with the bondage； to Skrebensky and
Skrebensky's world？ Anton's world： it became in her feverish
brain a pression which enclosed her。 If she could not get out
of the pression she would go mad。 The pression was Anton
and Anton's world； not the Anton she possessed； but the Anton
she did not possess； that which was owned by some other
influence； by the world。
She fought and fought and fought all through her illness to
be free of him and his world； to put it aside； to put it aside；
into its place。 Yet ever anew it gained ascendency over her； it
laid new hold on her。 Oh； the unutterable weariness of her
flesh； which she could not cast off； nor yet extricate。 If she
could but extricate herself； if she could but disengage herself
from feeling； from her body； from all the vast encumbrances of
the world that was in contact with her； from her father； and her
mother； and her lover； and all her acquaintance。
Repeatedly； in an ache of utter weariness she repeated： 〃I
have no father nor mother nor lover； I have no allocated place
in the world of things； I do not belong to Beldover nor to
Nottingham nor to England nor to this world； they none of them
exist； I am trammelled and entangled in them； but they are all
unreal。 I must break out of it； like a nut from its shell which
is an unreality。〃
And again； to her feverish brain； came the vivid reality of
acorns in February lying on the floor of a wood with their
shells burst and discarded and the kernel issued naked to put
itself forth。 She was the naked； clear kernel thrusting forth
the clear； powerful shoot； and the world was a bygone winter；
discarded； her mother and father and Anton； and college and all
her friends； all cast off like a year that has gone by； whilst
the kernel was free and naked and striving to take new root； to
create a new knowledge of Eternity in the flux of Time。 And the
kernel was the only reality； the rest was cast off into
oblivion。
This grew and grew upon her。 When she opened her eyes in the
afternoon and saw the window of her room and the faint； smoky
landscape beyond； this was all husk and shell lying by； all husk
and shell； she could see nothing else； she was enclosed still；
but loosely enclosed。 There was a space between her and the
shell。 It was burst； there was a rift in it。 Soon she would have
her root fixed in a new Day； her nakedness would take itself the
bed of a new sky and a new air； this old； decaying； fibrous husk
would be gone。
Gradually she began really to sleep。 She slept in the
confidence of her new reality。 She slept breathing with her soul
the new air of a new world。 The peace was very deep and
enrichening。 She had her root in new ground； she was gradually
absorbed into growth。
When she woke at last it seemed as if a new day had e on
the earth。 How long； how long had she fought through the dust
and obscurity； for this new dawn？ How frail and fine and clear
she felt； like the most fragile flower that opens in the end of
winter。 But the pole of night was turned and the dawn was ing
in。
Very far off was her old experience……Skrebensky； her
parting with him……very far off。 Some things were real；
those first glamorous weeks。 Before； these had seemed like
hallucination。 Now they seemed like mon reality。 The rest was
unreal。 She knew that Skrebensky had never bee finally real。
In the weeks of passionate ecstasy he had been with her in her
desire； she had created him for the time being。 But in the end
he had failed and broken down。
Strange； what a void separated him and her。 She liked him
now； as she liked a memory； some bygone self。 He was something
of the past； finite。 He was that which is known。 She felt a
poignant affection for him； as for that which is past。 But； when
she looked with her face forward； he was not。 Nay； when she
looked ahead； into the undiscovered land before her； what was
there she could recognize but a fresh glow of light and
inscrutable trees going up from the earth like smoke。 It was th