Chapter 4 to italy

5 o'clock in the morning.It rained heavily last night and the air was fresh.It was slightly misty, and the sun rose over the desert to dispel it. Suddenly, I felt deeply that Lawrence was dead, that he was really dead.The grief of losing him became a loyal friend for the rest of my life.It comforts me sometimes, and it is my friend who keeps everything in check.Sometimes this sorrow follows me like a jackal to bite me to death.Nothing can control me like it does. I remembered what Lawrence said to me, "You always equate yourself with life, why?" I replied, "I think so."

Now I understand how he, who was often so close to death, gave his life to me completely. I avoid death.I have fought it desperately without realizing it.It was much later that I heard from doctors in New Mexico that he had lung disease.It was a secret that he and I could not share the entire time I lived with him.I had to suffer alone.Later, I finally found out, it was terrible information, and there was nothing I could do about it.Death is stronger than me.His life was bound by a thin thread, which at some point was about to be broken.He will end his life prematurely. This morning in the mountains reminded me of our travels across the Alps.

In mid-August, we set out in good spirits.Neither of us was familiar with Italy at the time.It was a big adventure for both of us.We divided our few items into three bags and sent them to Lake Garda first.We set off on foot with a waterproof cloth and each carried a hiking bag.There is a small alcohol lamp in the hiking bag, so that it is convenient to cook on the roadside. On a foggy morning, we both set off on the road shivering.The trees along the way are dripping with water.We were both happy to be free to venture into the unknown.We walked in the greenery of the Isar Valley.Up the hill and down the hill.We slept in the hay hut.This is one of our wishes.But sleeping in a hay hut is not a pleasant thing.It was raining heavily and we both got wet.The wind blows through the hut, and even a ton of hay won't keep you warm.Lawrence wrote about the crucifix we both brought and the lovely church he found high up on the hill.It was getting late, he lit the candles on the altar, looked at the offerings carefully, and forgot about his extreme fatigue and hunger.

Below is the poem he wrote at that time. all roses one Evening on the banks of the Isar, We both wander and sing. Evening on the banks of the Isar, We both climbed on the hunter's ladder, And sat on the rickety fir tree and looked at the river. The river flows on and on, pale green and cold, Fill the evening with song. Evening on the banks of the Isar, The warm wild rose we found, Red to the river. The sullen frog sang, The scent of roses hazes the bank's side in the twilight, Our kiss met in the rose, Our faces are roses. two In the morning she woke up, I waver, thinking about her.

She stood up to block the light from the window, Shining on the white shoulders, At that time her body, Blurred in strong golden light. her tits wobbled, Like a rose in full bloom. She poured water on herself, her shoulders, shining silver, shaking wetly, Wrinkled like a rose, And hear the rustling of pure petals. Sunny by the window, She shakes her golden shadow, Her whole body shines like the sun, Like roses and roses comparing each other. three A little rose just plucked from the Isar, withered.Red and purple petals, on the tablecloth like boats floating on the river, She smiled at me from across the table,

She said she loves me, I blow the boat through the shallows among the tea things, However, it can't float when it's full of kisses. Four The rose spreads its buds, I see a woman's soul in her pupils. Trembling with excitement, I sat watching, A mysterious flower conjured by magic. Day after day, from the bud of envy, My baby came out quietly, Every day, around the world, My happiness expanded gradually, greatly. We celebrated Lawrence's birthday while crossing the Alps.I have nothing to give him as presents except Ful'ea.That night, the two of us drank beer and danced with farmers in the village of Gastaus on the way.This is our first birthday together.Everything is so beautiful.There is always something new to start.

Below is Lawrence's poem. Unexpected encounter in the mountains Tiny pansies by the roadside, With their backs against the comfrey, and their money, In the evening the bees leave the wild thyme, All floral notes are removed by the cold. Sunset on the pale sky, The new summer snow on the mountains, Glittering clearly in silence, Refreshingly cools us down. Christ on the cross, his young and beautiful body, Get nailed. His drooping white lips hid pain, Rusheng's eyes watched the final suffering. The bull pulled the cart down the mountain without a sound. Ah, I am so ashamed that I can no longer look at Christ.

There is snow on the mountains ahead, My heart burned and curled up. The bull's panting quickened in the cold air. It has a rope tied to its forehead, and it can barely lift the load on the cart. The cow is walking slowly and lazily, The coachman fell asleep on the left side of the car. Indeed, there is something in your tanned palm, Can remind me of some people's faces and others. He sits securely and lets the bull go where he pleases, Bending the body into dreamland. I stood in the grass next to me, hiding, My eyes met Christ's again. His sullen brown eyes of sorrow and hatred,

Staring at me closely, distress reappeared. Sometimes, hatred throws me aside, Sometimes I see the silence of torment, Frozen in unrelenting silence. Sometimes, I'm afraid of the dark. I stand among the dazzling pansies, Under the towering white snow peak where Christ is buried, In deserted distress, I don't think highly of the joy I get. However, he was gone and hated me unceasingly. He endured like a mountain because he was strong. But the pale Christ who died on the cross in his heart, Feeling the frozen memory of his mistakes. Still the frozen breath of despair in his nostrils,

He still has some distress of loss in his heart, Shame in his clenched fist, There is my hatred that is oppressed in his breast. When I stand among the indifferent flowers that turn away shameful eyes, I feel the shame that clenches his fist, Feeling despair on his brow, His frozen misery rocks my heart. How I wish I could once again enjoy the exuberant beauty and sunshine of an adventurous hiking tour on a romantic trip to Italy. We are in Trento.However, it confuses us.All we got was a rough hotel with graffiti on the walls, dirty sheets and toilets that couldn't have been worse.It was simply unbearable.

The people around are all foreigners.I didn't speak Italian at the time. One morning, sitting under the statue of Dante, I burst into tears, much to Laurence's bewilderment.I'd walked barefoot over icy cobblestones in Lawrence's presence before, smiling at the cold, the hunger, the damp.Things like that are nothing but consolation to me.And now I cry because the place is unclean and the toilets are filthy.It took us 6 weeks before we got there.We took the train to Riva on Lake Garda.At that time the city was stationed by the Austrian army.Elegant officers in biscuit-colored trousers and light blue blouses walked with equally elegant ladies.At first, they stared at Lawrence and me.Because we pack our bags and look like bums, especially me.Lawrence's trousers were frayed.Lawrence and Miriam bought these trousers together, so we call them Miriam trousers.I was wearing a crepe skirt full of ruffles.The red on my velvet trousers is from my Barnaba hat.Fortunately, three women took us to their place.We had no money, and they didn't care. They brought yellow and blue figs and grapes to our room.In order to save money, we ignored the maid's worries and cooked with alcohol stoves.Later, we received our suitcases. My sister Joanna sent me lovely dresses, hats, and "Paguins" that were perfect for our environment.We wear them with pride and walk out with pride. In Gargnano we spent the winter at Villa Igaia. Lawrence had his own place for the first time.This is the first floor of a large villa with large windows facing the lake and the road below.Ahead rose Montevarchi, bathed in a rosy sunset.Lawrence wrote in one of his poems: "Green Sirius drops on the lake..." Here's where I started my first attempt at hosting a family.It's hard work, with big copper pots for company in a big empty kitchen.Often when I can't stew or fry and ask: "Lawrence, what do you do if the pigeon meat is burnt?" At this time he will bravely stop work and come to me without complaint. At first, I was apprehensive about washing the sheets.The sheets were too big and got soaked and flooded the kitchen, the table was wet and I was wet from head to toe. When Lawrence saw that I was dying, he exclaimed: "Oh, the only one is drowning." (The only is the name that is equivalent to the only phoenix when I am proud) He came to help me, changed my clothes, wiped the kitchen, and dried the sheets to the yard.One morning, he delivered breakfast to my bedroom.Italian beds, however, have spit pots.There is a terrible scorpion on the spout.After Lawrence killed it, I said, "Similar beckons friends." Startled him. "Why are you a woman, I am a faithful knight, defeated a dragon, is this all I get?" One of the places we used to go for walks was the village of Boliaco on Lake Garda.We were there drinking and eating walnuts with the quiet, sentimental, quiet Bersagrières.For me, my home's windows soaring over the road are a joy.Belsagriel and others often jogged to my house and sang Italian songs with great interest.People also quietly date under my window, and at night, young people play guitar here.I peeked at Lawrence, who often seemed unhappy. At the time, he was revising Sons and Lovers.This is the first book Lawrence and I have written together.I live and trouble about this book.I also wrote a small part of the book when Lawrence said "what did mom think then".I had to dig into the characters of Miriam and the others.He was ill while writing about his mother's death.His sorrow also made me sick.He said, "If my mother lived, I would never love you. Because my mother would never avoid me no matter what she did." But I think he got over that.It's just that this kind of strong and absolute love killed the teenager who wasn't strong enough to endure it.Years later, he said, "I would be writing about sons and lovers differently now. The mother was wrong, and I used to think it was absolutely right." In my opinion, man is born twice.First the mother begets him, then he has to be reborn from the woman he loves.Once, by a little stream by the lake, Lawrence said, "Look, that little girl looks just like my mother." His mother was dead, but he thought she was still alive, as if right in front of his eyes. By the end of "Sons and Lovers" I was getting bored.I'm starting to object to this "House of Atreus" sentiment.I wrote a satirical article entitled "Paul Morel and His Mother's Sweet Son."After reading it, he said nonchalantly, "Such articles are not satirical." He also wrote the poems "Twilight in Italy" and "Look, here we come" during our stay at Villa Igaia. His courage to look into the dark recesses of his own soul has often moved me and sometimes terrified me. I thought to myself, he is often afraid of women.I think he feels that women are ultimately more powerful than men.In any case, a woman is an absolute, undeniable presence.Men labor, and their spirit spreads everywhere, but a man cannot be above a woman.A man is born of a woman.For the ultimate needs of the body and soul, men have to return to the body of women.Woman is like the earth that revives all things, like death. Here is a poem. mother of sons It's all over, over. I folded my arms and faced the fireplace resignedly. Can only watch the old days turn to dust. The memory of all that was past is the ashes of a lost life, On the dead coals the dust piles up, Like thick moss. I waited for my son like a lover, strange son. My son is like a foreign captive, Wandering in prison, gazing at the land where the wind blows at will, His skin was fair and his cheeks thin, Always hesitated for a long time, revealing sad eyes. He seemed to foresee the monotonous parting of the soul and me, He is like a strange white bird that flies from the cold sea, Flew into this courtyard polluted with coal dust, with broken wings, He is like a bird that flies from a faraway country, Avoid me permanently, migrating here and there. I extended my loving hand while praying for him, and my son ran away unhappily. I had to part with my son, My old eyes take my son's rage like a crouching dog. My heart follows my son like a crippled dog. He finally pissed me off, I made a noise, My son frowned suddenly, and a spark flew in my heart. My son turned his face out and my heart stopped. This is the last time, just this time, All my life I sat in my husband's house with a heavy burden, I didn't say a word when my husband closed the door. "Quick, grab it!" I couldn't do it myself, Ah, my heart.You are as surprised and delighted as a frightened mouse ... He wrote often and brought tragedy.When I was sure I could be with the kids, the husband wrote.He said, "If you don't come home, the children will become motherless children, and you will never see the children again." I was so distressed that I was going crazy.However, Lawrence dissuaded me.I can no longer separate from him.Lawrence needs me more than the children. However, I am like a mother cat who has been deprived of a kitten.I will remember it all the time.For the first time in my life, I felt this separation physically: "As long as the children are here, I can put them to sleep." Lawrence couldn't stand it.His burden is too heavy.Later, Lawrence cured me again, and I gradually forgot about those things. All accuse us, against us.I wonder why everything in the world doesn't understand that our life is also correct and beautiful.Actually I don't understand.I said, "Lawrence, why can't people get as much out of life as we do to make life happier? Anyone can be happy with the little money we have." He answered half earnestly, half jokingly. , "Have you forgotten that I'm a genius?" At the time, I didn't feel he was a genius.So laugh at him.It is only now that I understand that all his charm was born of his genius. He has absolute self-confidence, he is sure that God is with him.We had a storm on our way to Australia and I got scared and said, "If the ship sinks..." He said, "I'm in a boat that won't sink." Below is a letter he wrote to my sister Ayrs. Villa Igaia village of gargnano lake garda December 14, 1912 Dear Els: I am not angry with your letter.You did your best for Frieda.Me too.However, what you expect from us is like throwing away the real apples and picking up gilded apples.Now, it takes more courage for those who assert human desires and needs than those who reject them.If Frieda could live happily with the children, I would say, "Go ahead." Because two out of three would be enough to be happy.However, as long as she decides to sacrifice that life, I cannot leave her.If you decide to sacrifice the children, it is not that it is not good for the children.If I'm asked to pray, I say, "God, I carry a very heavy burden, please don't make me sacrifice anything." Even though children worry now, they retain their inner freedom, and as they grow into adults, their pride in independence will grow.However, if Frieda dropped everything to live with them, it would break their power since they would have to support Frieda when they grew up.They will lose their freedom of life.First of all, they must live for her and must repay the kindness of nurturing.It's like a person giving a gift that someone doesn't need and wanting to return it.Much more than what he gave in return. Therefore, we have to continue and cannot push it to the children.We must firmly believe that this is a good thing, and there is no other way. with all due respect yours sincerely D. H. Lawrence Villa Igaia village of gargnano lake garda February 10, 1913 Dear Els: Can you imagine me panting here like a fish out of water when Frieda was rushing happily to Menchin? About that review--Frieda doesn't speak well of it--The British Review--a monthly periodical which is judged progressive and wise--asked me to write a review of modern German poetry , within 3,000 words.They want modern new content, that is, the works published in the past ten years-Daimer, Lilienkron, Stefan Georg, Ricarda Hooch, Els Lasker-Schüller and others s work.Don't you have a weighty opinion on modern German poetry?Your dad called it "pottery."Please put your thoughts in writing - eg Demer is bluffing, too flamboyant, but I hope you don't make it too stuffy.Once you have done it, the British Review will be eulogized with great respect for its fine print and elegance. That's going to praise tendencies and influences.However, since I am a junior, I need to add some short poems as usual.Maybe it would be better if I could write about "Modern German Poets". This will fascinate the readers of the British Review.You are a good fit for this job.Had I known those circumstances in detail, I would have gladly written them myself. (Nichtwahr, I don't know - I reviewed two anthologies of modern German poetry in England). Please write about women poets—about their goals or ideals—and write a little about themselves—about what makes them different from other mothers: they think it’s better to paint than to take care of their children or to make themselves talkers Well-informed women on the Internet, etc. Besides, you can write about anything you know. Haven't you told anyone about this?Are there any redheads?Please write it all down. Isn't "Modern German Poets" quite famous?Please be sure to write in German.Your letter is easy for me to read because you have not written it in an illegible Gothic script. The weather here is very good.We look for the first violets.Primroses are everywhere.There are also green, young and lovely Brenman, and lavender saffron.You must come and see, sure you will be satisfied.It would be great if you came as a guest. Mrs. K. has written to me.There is also a letter from the lawyer to XX in the letter.It read, "We recommend that you file a complaint with the court before proceeding with the divorce. Her claims concerning the children must be submitted to the court." Of course, it was necessary for us to hire a lawyer. Frieda said it was too long for her to wait six months without seeing her baby.Their relationship should be alienated.This is probably true.Only God knows how I can untangle this knot.In short, the divorce is established.The UK has its first divorce proceedings and a judge has handed down a divorce judgment with a 6-month right of appeal.That is, as long as there is nothing special, the divorce is recognized.After another 6 months, if nothing happens, the divorce will take effect.In the future, Frieda will be free again.E and Frieda had no contact until the divorce became a fact.In this way, the formalities must be handled by legal affairs experts.However, the children's leave is only at Easter, and can it be resolved before then?We will wait and see.This is what I want to inform you.Please send that beautiful book. In Ekin, Frieda sent Professor Weber a painting I wanted to frame.And this was meant for you.Thanks a lot for your help. D. H. Lawrence