Sunday Evening A S THE DAY wore on, the life-blood seemed to ebb away from Ursula, and within the emptiness a heavy despair gathered.Her passion seemed to bleed to death, and there was nothing.She sat suspended in a state of complete nullity, harder to bear than death.
`Unless something happens,' she said to herself, in the perfect lucidity of final suffering, `I shall die.I am at the end of my line of life.'
She sat crushed and obliterated in a darkness that was the border of death.She realised how all her life she had been drawing nearer and nearer to this brink, where there was no beyond, from which one had to leap like Sappho into the unknown.The knowledge of the imminence of death was like a drug.Darkly, without thinking at all, she knew that she was near to death.She had travelled all her life along the line of fulfilment, and it was nearly concluded.She knew all she had to know, she had experienced all she had to experience, she was fulfilled in a kind of bitter ripeness, there remained only to fall from the tree into death.And one must fulfil one's development to the end, must carry the adventure to its conclusion.
And the next step was over the border into death.So it was then! There was a certain peace in the knowledge.
After all, when one was fulfilled, one was happiest in falling into death, as a bitter fruit plunges in its ripeness downwards.Death is a great consummation, a consummating experience.It is a development from life.That we know, while we are yet living.What then need we think for further? One can never see beyond the consummation.It is enough that death is a great and conclusive experience.Why should we ask what comes after the experience, when the experience is still unknown to us? Let us die, since the great experience is the one that follows now upon all the rest, death, which is the next great crisis in front of which we have arrived.
If we wait, if we baulk the issue, we do but hang about the gates in undignified uneasiness.There it is, in front of us, as in front of Sappho, the illimitable space.Thereinto goes the journey.Have we not the courage to go on with our journey, must we cry `I daren't'? On ahead we will go, into death, and whatever death may mean.If a man can see the next step to be taken, why should he fear the next but one? Why ask about the next but one? Of the next step we are certain.It is the step into death.
`I shall die -- I shall quickly die,' said Ursula to herself, clear as if in a trance, clear, calm, and certain beyond human certainty.But somewhere behind, in the twilight, there was a bitter weeping and a hopelessness.
That must not be attended to.One must go where the unfaltering spirit goes, there must be no baulking the issue, because of fear.No baulking the issue, no listening to the lesser voices.If the deepest desire be now, to go on into the unknown of death, shall one forfeit the deepest truth for one more shallow?
`Then let it end,' she said to herself.It was a decision.It was not a question of taking one's life -- she would never kill herself, that was repulsive and violent.It was a question of knowing the next step.And the next step led into the space of death.Did it? -- or was there --?
Her thoughts drifted into unconsciousness, she sat as if asleep beside the fire.And then the thought came back.The space o' death! Could she give herself to it? Ah yes -- it was a sleep.She had had enough So long she had held out; and resisted.Now was the time to relinquish, not to resist any more.
In a kind of spiritual trance, she yielded, she gave way, and all was dark.She could feel, within the darkness, the terrible assertion of her body, the unutterable anguish of dissolution, the only anguish that is too much, the far-off, awful nausea of dissolution set in within the body.
`Does the body correspond so immediately with the spirit?' she asked herself.And she knew, with the clarity of ultimate knowledge, that the body is only one of the manifestations of the spirit, the transmutation of the integral spirit is the transmutation of the physical body as well.
Unless I set my will, unless I absolve myself from the rhythm of life, fix myself and remain static, cut off from living, absolved within my own will.But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions.To die is to move on with the invisible.To die is also a joy, a joy of submitting to that which is greater than the known, namely, the pure unknown.That is a joy.But to live mechanised and cut off within the motion of the will, to live as an entity absolved from the unknown, that is shameful and ignominious.There is no ignominy in death.There is complete ignominy in an unreplenished, mechanised life.Life indeed may be ignominious, shameful to the soul.But death is never a shame.Death itself, like the illimitable space, is beyond our sullying.
Tomorrow was Monday.Monday, the beginning of another school-week! Another shameful, barren school-week, mere routine and mechanical activity.Was not the adventure of death infinitely preferable? Was not death infinitely more lovely and noble than such a life? A life of barren routine, without inner meaning, without any real significance.How sordid life was, how it was a terrible shame to the soul, to live now! How much cleaner and more dignified to be dead! One could not bear any more of this shame of sordid routine and mechanical nullity.One might come to fruit in death.
She had had enough.For where was life to be found? No flowers grow upon busy machinery, there is no sky to a routine, there is no space to a rotary motion.And all life was a rotary motion, mechanised, cut off from reality.
