恋爱中的女人

恋爱中的女人

《恋爱中的女人》是D．H .劳伦斯最伟大、最有代表性、最脸炙人口的两部长篇小说之一（另一部是《虹》），他本人也认为它是他的“最佳作品”；它以英国小说中没有先例的热情与深度探索了有关恋爱的心理问题，代表了劳伦斯作品的最高成就，因此它同《虹》成为了现代小说的先驱。

《恋爱中的女人》代表了劳伦斯小说创作的最高成就。它以非凡的热情与深度探索了有关恋爱的心理问题。

小说以两姐妹为主人公，描述了她们不同的情感经历和恋爱体会。姐姐欧秀拉是一个温柔美丽的中学教师；妹妹古迪兰则是一个小有名气、恃才傲物的艺术家。古迪兰遇上了矿主的独生子杰拉德，原始的欲望点燃了爱的激情，然而在狂暴的激情过后，失望而痛苦的她与另一位艺术家又陷入了爱的狂欢。欧秀拉与本区督学伯基相爱了，她一心要让对方成为爱情的囚鸟，而对方却希望在灵与肉的交融中保持彼此心灵上的距离。

劳伦斯毕生致力于男女性爱题材小说创作，他在揭示男女情爱的同时，将性爱描写上升到哲学和美学的高度，而那伴随着炽烈的性爱体验的，是对历史、政治、宗教、经济等社会问题的严肃思考。

劳伦斯

劳伦斯（1885-1930）是二十世纪英国最独特和最有争议的作家之一。他生于诺丁汉一个矿工家庭，二十一岁时入诺丁汉大学学习，一生中创作了四十余部小说、诗歌、游记等作品，《儿子与情人》被认为是其最好的小说。劳伦斯提倡人性自由发展，反对工业文明对自然的破坏。他的作品对家庭、婚姻和性进行了深入探索，对20世纪的小说写作产生了广泛影响。她是英国诗人、小说家、散文家，曾在国内外漂泊十多年。他写过诗，但主要写长篇小说，共有 10 部，最著名的为《虹》（ 1915 ）、《恋爱中的女人》（ 1921 ）和《查特莱夫人的情人》（ 1928 ）

。

She went out one evening, numbed by this constantessential suffering. Those who are timed for destruction must die now. The knowledge of this reached a finality, a finishing in her. And the finality released her. If fate would carry off in death or downfall all those who were timed to go, why need she trouble, why repudiate any further. She was free of it all, she could seek a new union elsewhere.

Ursula set off to Willey Green, towards the mill. She came to Willey Water. It was almost full again, after its period of emptiness. Then she turned off through the woods. The night had fallen, it was dark. But she forgot to be afraid, she who had such great sources of fear. Among the trees, far from any human beings, there was a sort of magic peace. The more one could find a pure loneliness, with no taint of people, the better one felt. She was in reality terrified, horrified in her apprehension of people.

She started, noticing something on her right hand, between the tree trunks. It was like a great presence, watching her, dodging her. She started violently. It was only the moon, risen through the thin trees. But it seemed so mysterious, with its white and deathly smile. And there was no avoiding it. Night or day, one could not escape the sinister face, triumphant and radiant like this moon, with a high smile. She hurried on, cowering from the white planet. She would just see the pond at the mill before she went home.

Not wanting to go through the yard, because of the dogs, she turned off along the hill-side to descend on the pond from above. The moon was transcendent over the bare, open space, she suffered from being exposed to it. There was a glimmer of nightly rabbits across the ground. The night was as clear as crystal, and very still. She could hear a distant coughing of a sheep.

 So she swerved down to the steep, tree-hidden bank above the pond, where the alders twisted their roots. She was glad to pass into the shade out of the moon. There she stood, at the top of the fallen-away bank, her hand on the rough trunk of a tree, looking at the water, that was perfect in its stillness, floating the moon upon it. But for some reason she disliked it. It did not give her anything. She listened for the hoarse rustle of the sluice. And she wished for something else out of the night, she wanted another night, not this moon-brilliant hardness. She could feel her soul crying out in her, lamenting desolately.

She saw a shadow moving by the water. It would be Birkin. He had come back then, unawares. She accepted it without remark, nothing mattered to her. She sat down among the roots of the alder tree, dim and veiled, hearing the sound of the sluice like dew distilling audibly into the night. The islands were dark and half revealed, the reeds were dark also, only some of them had a little frail fire of reflection. A fish leaped secretly, revealing the light in the pond. This fire of the chill night breaking constantly on to the pure darkness, repelled her. She wished it were perfectly dark, perfectly, and noiseless and without motion. Birkin, small and dark also, his hair tinged with moonlight, wandered nearer. He was quite near, and yet he did not exist in her. He did not know she was there. Supposing he did something he would not wish to be seen doing, thinking he was quite private? But there, what did it matter? What did the small priyacies matter? How could it matter, what he did? How can there be any secrets, we are all the same organisms? How can there be any secrecy, when everything is known to all of us?

He was touching unconsciously the dead husks of flowers as he passed by, and talking disconnectedly to himself.

’You can’t go away,’ he was saying. ‘There IS no away. You only withdraw upon yourself.’

He threw a dead flower-husk on to the water. ’

An antiphony—they lie, and you sing back to them. There wouldn’t have to be any truth, if there weren’t any lies. Then one needn’t assert anything—’

He stood still, looking at the water, and throwing upon it the husks of the flowers.

’Cybele—curse her! The accursed Syria Dea! Does one begrudge it her? What else is there—?’

Ursula wanted to laugh loudly and hysterically, hearing his isolated voice speaking out. It was so ridiculous.

He stood staring at the water. Then he stooped and picked up a stone, which he threw sharply at the pond. Ursula was aware of the bright moon leaping and swaying, all distorted, in her eyes. It seemed to shoot out arms of fire like a cuttle-fish, like a luminous polyp, palpitating strongly before her.

And his shadow on the border of the pond, was watching for a few moments, then he stooped and groped on the ground. Then again there was a burst of sound, and a burst of brilliant light, the moon had exploded on the water, and was flying asunder in flakes of white and dangerous fire. Rapidly, like white birds, the fires all broken rose across the pond, fleeing in clamorous confusion, battling with the flock of dark waves that were forcing their way in. The furthest waves of light, fleeing out, seemed to be clamouring against the shore for escape, the waves of darkness came in heavily, running under towards the centre. But at the centre, the heart of all, was still a vivid, incandescent quivering of a white moon not quite destroyed, a white body of fire writhing and striving and not even now broken open, not yet violated. It seemed to be drawing itself together with strange, violent pangs, in blind effort. It was getting stronger, it was reasserting itself, the inviolable moon. And the rays were hastening in in thin lines of light, to return to the strengthened moon, that shook upon the water in triumphant reassumption.

Birkin stood and watched, motionless, till the pond was almost calm, the moon was almost serene. Then, satisfied of so much, he looked for more stones. She felt his invisible tenacity. And in a moment again, the broken lights scattered in explosion over her face, dazzling her; and then, almost immediately, came the second shot. The moon leapt up white and burst through the air. Darts of bright light shot asunder, darkness swept over the centre. There was no moon, only a battlefield of broken lights and shadows, running close together. Shadows, dark and heavy, struck again and again across the place where the heart of the moon had been, obliterating it altogether. The white fragments pulsed up and down, and could not find where to go, apart and brilliant on the water like the petals of a rose that a wind has blown far and wide.

Yet again, they were flickering their way to the centre, finding the path blindly, enviously. And again, all was still,as Birkin and Ursula watched. The waters were loud on the shore. He saw the moon regathering itself insidiously, saw the heart of the rose intertwining vigorously and blindly, calling back the scattered fragments, winning home the fragments, in a pulse and in effort of return.

And he was not satisfied. Like a madness, he must go on. He got large stones, and threw them, one after the other, at the white-burning centre of the moon, till there was nothing but a rocking of hollow noise, and a pond surged up, no moon any more, only a few broken flakes tangled and glittering broadcast in the darkness, without aim or meaning, a darkened confusion, like a black and white kaleidoscope tossed at random. The hollow night was rocking and crashing with noise, and from the sluice came sharp, regular flashes of sound. Flakes of light appeared here and there, glittering tormented among theshadows, far off, in strange places; among the dripping shadow of the willow on the island. Birkin stood and listened and was satisfied.

Ursula was dazed, her mind was all gone. She felt she had fallen to the ground and was spilled out, like water on the earth. Motionless and spent she remained in the gloom. Though even now she was aware, unseeing, that in the darkness was a little tumult of ebbing flakes of light, a cluster dancing secretly in a round, twining and coming steadily together. They were gathering a heart again, they were coming once more into being. Gradually the fragments caught together re-united, heaving, rocking, dancing, falling back as in panic, but working their way home again persistently, making semblance of fleeing awaywhen they had advanced, but always flickering nearer, a little closer to the mark, the cluster growing mysteriously larger and brighter, as gleam after gleam fell in with the whole, until a ragged rose, a distorted, frayed moon was shaking upon the waters again, re-asserted, renewed, trying to recover from its convulsion, to get over the disfigurement and the agitation, to be whole and composed, at peace.

Birkin lingered vaguely by the water. Ursula was afraid that he would stone the moon again. She slipped from her seat and went down to him, saying:

’You won’t throw stones at it any more, will you?’

’How long have you been there?’

’All the time. You won’t throw any more stones, will you?’

’I wanted to see if I could make it be quite gone off the pond,’ he said.

’Yes, it was horrible, really. Why should you hate the moon? It hasn’t done you any harm, has it?’

’Was it hate?’ he said.

And they were silent for a few minutes.

’When did you come back?’ she said.

’Today.’

’Why did you never write?’

’I could find nothing to say.’

’Why was there nothing to say?’

’I don’t know. Why are there no daffodils now?’

’No.’

Again there was a space of silence. Ursula looked at the moon. It had gathered itself together, and was quivering slightly.

’Was it good for you, to be alone?’ she asked.

’Perhaps. Not that I know much. But I got over a good deal. Did you do anything important?’

’No. I looked at England, and thought I’d done with it.’

’Why England?’ he asked in surprise.

’I don’t know, it came like that.’

’It isn’t a question of nations,’ he said. ‘France is far worse.’

’Yes, I know. I felt I’d done with it all.’

They went and sat down on the roots of the trees, in the shadow. And being silent, he remembered the beauty of her eyes, which were sometimes filled with light, like spring, suffused with wonderful promise. So he said to her, slowly, with difficulty:

’There is a golden light in you, which I wish you would give me.’ It was as if he had been thinking of this for some time.

She was startled, she seemed to leap clear of him. Yet also she was pleased.

’What kind of a light,’ she asked.

But he was shy, and did not say any more. So the moment passed for this time. And gradually a feeling of sorrow came over her.

’My life is unfulfilled,’ she said.

’Yes,’ he answered briefly, not wanting to hear this.

’And I feel as if nobody could ever really love me,’ she said.

But he did not answer.

’You think, don’t you,’ she said slowly, ‘that I only want physical things? It isn’t true. I want you to serve my spirit.’

’I know you do. I know you don’t want physical things by themselves. But, I want you to give me—to give your spirit to me —that golden light which is you—which you don’t know—give it me—’

After a moment’s silence she replied:

’But how can I, you don’t love me! You only want your own ends. You don’t want to serve ME, and yet you want me to serve you. It is so one-sided!’

It was a great effort to him to maintain this conversation, and to press for the thing he wanted from her, the surrender of her spirit.

’It is different,’ he said. ‘The two kinds of service are so different. I serve you in another way—not through YOURSELF—somewhere else. But I want us to be together without bothering about ourselves—to be really together because we ARE together, as if it were a phenomenon, not a not a thing we have to maintain by our own effort.’

’No,’ she said, pondering. ‘You are just egocentric. You never have any enthusiasm, you never come out with any spark towards me. You want yourself, really, and your own affairs. And you want me just to be there, to serve you.’

But this only made him shut off from her.

’Ah well,’ he said, ‘words make no matter, any way. The thing IS between us, or it isn’t.’

’You don’t even love me,’ she cried.

’I do,’ he said angrily. ‘But I want—’ His mind saw again the lovely golden light of spring transfused through her eyes, as through some wonderful window. And he wanted her to be with him there, in this world of proud indifference. But what was the good of telling her he wanted this company in proud indifference. What was the good of talking, any way? It must happen beyond the sound of words. It was merely ruinous to try to work her by conviction. This was a paradisal bird that could never
be netted, it must fly by itself to the heart.

’I always think I am going to be loved—and then I am let down. You DON’T love me, you know. You don’t want to serve me.

You only want yourself.’

那天晚上，她感到痛苦到了极点，人都木然了，于是走出家门。注定要被毁灭的人此时是必死无疑了。这种感受已达到了极限，感受到这一点她也就释然了。如果命运要把那些注定要离开这个世界的人卷入死亡与陷落，她为什么还要烦恼、为什么还要进一步否定自己呢？她感到释然，她可以到别处去寻觅一个新的同盟。

她信步向威利·格林的磨房走去。她来到了威利湖畔，湖里又注满了水，不再象前一阵放水后那么干枯。然后她转身向林子中走去。夜幕早已降临，一片漆黑。可是她忘了什么叫害怕，尽管她是个极胆小的人。这里的丛林远离人间，这里似乎有一种宁静的魔力。一个人愈是能够寻找到不为人迹腐蚀的纯粹孤独，她的感受就愈佳。在现实中她害怕人，怕得要死。

她发现她右边的树枝中有什么东西象巨大的幽灵在盯着她，躲躲闪闪的。她浑身一惊。其实那不过是丛林中升起的明月。可这月亮似乎很神秘，露着苍白、死一样的笑脸。对此她无法躲避。无论白天还是黑夜，你无法躲避象这轮月亮一样凶恶的脸，它得意洋洋地闪着光，趾高气扬地笑着。她对这张惨白的脸怕极了，急忙朝前走。她要看一眼磨房边的水池再回家。

她怕院子里的狗，因此不想从院子中穿过，转身走上山坡从高处下来。空旷的天际悬着一轮月亮，她就暴露在月光下，心里很难受。这里有兔子出没，在月光下一闪一晃。夜，水晶般清纯，异常宁静。她可以听到远处一只羊儿的叹息。

她转身来到林木掩映着的岸上，这里桤木树盘根错节连成一片。她很高兴能够躲开月亮，进入阴影中。她站在倾斜的岸上，一只手扶着粗糙的树干俯视着脚下的湖水，一轮月亮就在水中浮动。可不知为什么，她不喜欢这幅景色。它没有给予她什么。她在倾听水闸里咆哮的水声。她希望这夜晚还能提供给她别的什么，她需要另一种夜，不要现在这冷清的月夜。她可以感到她的心在呼叫，悲哀地呼叫。

她看到水边有个人影在动，那肯定是伯金。他已经回来了。她一言不发，若无其事地坐在桤木树根上，笼罩在阴影中，倾听着水闸放水的声音在夜空中回响。水中小鸟在黑暗中若稳若现，芦苇荡也一片漆黑，只有少许苇子在月光下闪着微光。一条鱼偷偷跃出水面，拖出一道光线。寒夜中湖水的闪光刺破了黑暗，令她反感。她企望这夜空漆黑一片，没有声音，也没有动静。伯金在月光下的身影又小又黑，他头发上沾着一星儿月光，慢慢向她走近。他已经走得很近了，但她仍旧不在乎。他不知道她在这儿。如果他要做什么事，他并不希望别人看到他做，他觉得自己做得很保密。可这又有什么关系？他这点小小的隐私又有什么重要的？他的所做所为怎么会重要呢？我们都是人，怎么会有什么秘密呢？当一切都明明白白、人人都知道时，何处会有秘密？

他边走边漫不经心地抚摸着花朵，语无伦次地喃喃自语着。

“你不能走，”他说，“没有出路。你只能依靠自己。”

说着他把一朵枯干了的花朵扔进水中。

“这是一部应答对唱——他们对你说谎，你歌唱回答他们。不需要有什么真理，只要没有谎言，就不需有什么真理。

这样的话，一个人就不用维护什么了。”

他伫立着，看看水面，又往水面上扔下几朵花儿。

“自然女神，去她的吧！这可咒的女神！难道有人妒忌她吗？还有别的什么——？”

厄秀拉真想高声、歇斯底里地大笑，她觉得他那凄凉的口吻实在可笑。

他站在那儿凝视着水面。然后他弯下腰去拾起一块石头，用力把石头扔向水池中。厄秀拉看到明亮的月亮跳动着、荡漾着，月亮在眼中变形了，它就象乌贼鱼一样似乎伸出手臂来要放火，象珊瑚虫一样在她眼前颤动。

他站在水塘边凝视着水面，又弯下身去在地上摸索着。一阵响声过后，水面上亮起一道水光，月亮在水面上炸散开去，飞溅起雪白、可怕的火一样的光芒。这火一样的光芒象白色的鸟儿迅速飞掠过水面，喧嚣着，与黑色的浪头撞击着。远处浪顶的光芒飞逝了，似乎喧闹着冲击堤岸寻找出路，然后压过来沉重的黑浪，直冲水面的中心涌来。就在这中心，那生动、白亮白亮的月亮在震颤，但没有被毁灭。这闪着白光的躯体在蠕动、在挣扎，但没有破碎。它似乎盲目地极力缩紧全身。它的光芒愈来愈强烈，再一次显示出自己的力量，表明它是不可侵犯的。月亮再一次聚起强烈的光线，凯旋般地在水面上飘荡着。

伯金伫立着凝视水面，直到水面平静下来，月亮也安宁下来。他满足了，又开始寻找石块。厄秀拉可以感到他那股看不见的固执劲。不一会儿，水面上又炸开了一片光线，令她目眩。然后他又投去另一块石头。月亮拖着白光跳到半空中。光芒四射，水面中心变得一片黑暗。不再有月亮，水面上成了光线与阴影的战场，短兵相接。黑暗而沉重的阴影一次又一次地袭击着月亮的所在地，淹没了月亮。断断续续的破碎月光上上下下弹跳着，找不到出路，散落在水面上，就象一阵风吹散了的玫瑰花瓣。

可这些光线仍然闪烁着聚回到中间去，盲目地寻找着路。一切重又平静下来，伯金和厄秀拉仍凝视着水面。浪头拍击着岸边，发出“哗哗”的声响。他看着月光暗暗地聚了起来，看到那玫瑰花的中心强有力、盲目地交织着，召回那细碎的光点，令它们跳动着聚合起来。

可他不满足，发疯似地抓起石块，一块又一块地把石头向水中找去，直投向那一轮闪着白光的月亮，直到月影消失，只听得空荡荡的响声，只见水浪涌起，没了月亮，黑暗中只有几片破裂的光在闪烁，毫无目的，毫无意义，一片混乱，就象一幅黑白万花筒景色被任意震颤。空旷的夜晚在晃荡，在撞击，发出声响，夹杂着水闸那边有节奏的刺耳水声。远处的什么地方，散乱的光芒与阴影交错，小岛的垂柳阴影中也掩映着星星点点的光。伯金倾听着这一片水声，满足了。

厄秀拉感到极为惊诧，一时间茫然了。她感到自己倒在地上，象泼出去的一盆水一样。她精疲力竭，阴郁地呆坐着。即便在这种情况下，她仍然感觉得出黑暗中光影在零乱骚动着，舞动着渐渐聚在一起。它们重新聚成一个中心，再一次获得生命。渐渐地，零乱的光影又聚合在一起，喘息着，跳动者，似乎惊慌地向后退了几步，然后又顽强地向着目标前行，每前进之前先装作后退。它们闪烁着渐渐聚了起来，光束神秘地扩大了，更明亮了，一道又一道聚起来，直到聚成一朵变形的玫瑰花。形状不整齐的月亮又在水面上颤抖起来，它试图停止震颤，战胜自身的畸形与骚动，获得自身的完整，获得宁馨。

伯金呆滞地徘徊在水边。厄秀拉真怕他再次往水中扔石块。她从自己坐的地方滑下去，对他说：

“别往水中扔石头了，好吗？”

“你来多久了？”

“一直在这儿。不要再扔石头了，好吗？”

“我想看看我是否可以把月亮赶出水面。”

“这太可怕了，真的。你为什么憎恨月亮？它没有伤害你呀，对吗？”

“是憎恨吗？”

他们沉默了好一会儿。

“你什么时候回来的？”

“今天。”

“为什么连封信都没有？”

“没什么可说的。”

“为什么没什么可说的？”

“我不知道。怎么现在没有雏菊了？”

“是没有。”

又是一阵沉默。厄秀拉看看水中的月亮，它又聚合起来，微微颤抖着。

“独处一隅对你有好处吗？”她问。

“或许是吧。当然我懂得并不多。不过我好多了。你最近有什么作为？”

“没有。看着英格兰，我就知道我跟它没关系了。”

“为什么是英格兰呢？”他惊诧地问。

“我不知道，反正有这种感觉。”

“这是民族的问题。法兰西更糟。”

“是啊，我知道。我觉得我跟这一切都没关系了。”

说着他们走下坡坐在阴影中的树根上。沉寂中，他又想起她那双美丽的眼睛，有时那双眼象泉水一样明亮，充满了希望。于是他缓缓地、不无吃力地对她说：

“你身上闪烁着金子样的光，我希望你能把它给予我。”听他的话，他似乎对这个问题想了好久了。

她一惊，似乎要跳开去。但她仍然感到愉快。

“什么光？”她问。

他很腼腆，没再说什么，就这样沉默着。渐渐地，她开始感到不安。

“我的生活并不美满。”她说。

“嗯，”他应付着，他并不想听这种话。

“我觉得不会有人真正爱我的。”她说。

他并不回答。

“你是否也这样想，”她缓缓地说，“你是否以为我只需要肉体的爱？不，不是，我需要你精神上陪伴我。”

“我知道你这样，我知道你并不只要求肉体上的东西。可我要你把你的精神——那金色的光芒给予我，那就是你，你并不懂，把它给我吧。”

沉默了一会她回答道：

“我怎么能这样呢？你并不爱我呀！你只要达到你的目的。你并不想为我做什么，却只要我为你做。这太不公平了！”

他尽了最大的努力来维持这种对话并强迫她在精神上投降。

“两回事，”他说，“这是两回事。我会以另一种方式为你尽义务，不是通过你，而是通过另一种方式。不过，我想我们可以不通过我们自身而结合在一起——因为我们在一起所以我们才在一起，如同这就是一种现象，并不是我们要通过自己的努力才能维持的东西。”

“不，”她思忖着说，“你是个自我中心者。你从来就没什么热情，你从来没有对我释放出火花来。你只需要你自己，真的，只想你自己的事。你需要我，仅仅在这个意义上，要我为你服务。”

可她这番话只能让他关上自己的心扉。

“怎么个说法并没关系。我们之间存在还是不存在那种东西呢？”

“你根本就不爱我。”她叫道。

“我爱，”他气愤地说，“可我要——”他的心又一次看到了她眼中溢满的泉水一样的金光，那光芒就象从什么窗口射出来的一样。在这个人情淡漠的世界上，他要她跟他在一起。可是，告诉她这些干什么呢？跟她交谈干什么？这想法是难以言表的。让她起什么誓只能毁了她。这想法是一只天堂之鸟，永远也不会进窝，它一定要自己飞向爱情不可。

“我一直觉得我会得到爱情，可你却让我失望了。你不爱我，这你知道的。你不想对我尽义务。你只需要你自己。

恋爱中女人英文电子书下载链接

1，天涯书库 在线阅读 http://www.tianyabook.com/waiguo2005/l/laolunsi/lazd/

2，百度百科  http://baike.baidu.com/view/548235.htm

3，同名电影介绍 http://www.mtime.com/movie/17319/

   在线观看   http://www.tudou.com/programs/view/hdi3zHfpQ3k/