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diff --git a/22475-h/22475-h.htm b/22475-h/22475-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb706df --- /dev/null +++ b/22475-h/22475-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1223 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Tortoises, by D. H. Lawrence + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tortoises, by D. H. Lawrence + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tortoises + +Author: D. H. Lawrence + +Release Date: August 31, 2007 [EBook #22475] +Last Updated: December 17, 2012 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TORTOISES *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + TORTOISES + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By D. H. Lawrence + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h4> + NEW YORK <br /> THOMAS SELTZER <br /> 1921 + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="cover (108K)" src="images/cover.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="titlepage (56K)" src="images/titlepage.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary=""> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> BABY TORTOISE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> TORTOISE-SHELL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> TORTOISE FAMILY CONNECTIONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> LUI ET ELLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> TORTOISE GALLANTRY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> TORTOISE SHOUT </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BABY TORTOISE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You know what it is to be born alone, + Baby tortoise! + The first day to heave your feet little by little + from the shell, + Not yet awake, + And remain lapsed on earth, + Not quite alive. + + A tiny, fragile, half-animate bean. + + To open your tiny beak-mouth, that looks as if + it would never open, + Like some iron door; + To lift the upper hawk-beak from the lower base + And reach your skinny little neck + And take your first bite at some dim bit of + herbage, + Alone, small insect, + Tiny bright-eye, + Slow one. + + To take your first solitary bite + And move on your slow, solitary hunt. + Your bright, dark little eye, + Your eye of a dark disturbed night, + Under its slow lid, tiny baby tortoise, + So indomitable. + + No one ever heard you complain. + + You draw your head forward, slowly, from your + little wimple + And set forward, slow-dragging, on your four- + pinned toes, + Rowing slowly forward. + Whither away, small bird? + + Rather like a baby working its limbs, + Except that you make slow, ageless progress + And a baby makes none. + + The touch of sun excites you, + And the long ages, and the lingering chill + Make you pause to yawn, + Opening your impervious mouth, + Suddenly beak-shaped, and very wide, like some + suddenly gaping pincers; + Soft red tongue, and hard thin gums, + Then close the wedge of your little mountain + front, + Your face, baby tortoise. + + Do you wonder at the world, as slowly you turn + your head in its wimple + And look with laconic, black eyes? + Or is sleep coming over you again, + The non-life? + + You are so hard to wake. + + Are you able to wonder? + + Or is it just your indomitable will and pride of + the first life + Looking round + And slowly pitching itself against the inertia + Which had seemed invincible? + + The vast inanimate, + And the fine brilliance of your so tiny eye. + + Challenger. + + Nay, tiny shell-bird, + What a huge vast inanimate it is, that you must + row against, + What an incalculable inertia. + + Challenger. + + Little Ulysses, fore-runner, + No bigger than my thumb-nail, + Buon viaggio. + + All animate creation on your shoulder, + Set forth, little Titan, under your battle-shield. + + The ponderous, preponderate, + Inanimate universe; + And you are slowly moving, pioneer, you alone. + + How vivid your travelling seems now, in the + troubled sunshine, + Stoic, Ulyssean atom; + Suddenly hasty, reckless, on high toes. + + Voiceless little bird, + Resting your head half out of your wimple + In the slow dignity of your eternal pause. + Alone, with no sense of being alone, + And hence six times more solitary; + Fulfilled of the slow passion of pitching through + immemorial ages + Your little round house in the midst of chaos. + + Over the garden earth, + Small bird, + Over the edge of all things. + + Traveller, + With your tail tucked a little on one side + Like a gentleman in a long-skirted coat. + + All life carried on your shoulder, + Invincible fore-runner. + + The Cross, the Cross + Goes deeper in than we know, + Deeper into life; + Right into the marrow + And through the bone. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TORTOISE-SHELL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Along the back of the baby tortoise + The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge, + Scale-lapping, like a lobster's sections + Or a bee's. + + Then crossways down his sides + Tiger-stripes and wasp-bands. + Five, and five again, and five again, + And round the edges twenty-five little ones, + The sections of the baby tortoise shell. + + Four, and a keystone; + Four, and a keystone; + Four, and a keystone; + Then twenty-four, and a tiny little keystone. + + It needed Pythagoras to see life placing her + counters on the living back + Of the baby tortoise; + Life establishing the first eternal mathematical + tablet, + Not in stone, like the Judean Lord, or bronze, but + in life-clouded, life-rosy tortoise-shell. + + The first little mathematical gentleman + Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers + Under all the eternal dome of mathematical law. + + Fives, and tens, + Threes and fours and twelves, + All the volte face of decimals, + The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven, + Turn him on his back, + The kicking little beetle, + And there again, on his shell-tender, earth-touching + belly, + The long cleavage of division, upright of the + eternal cross. + + And on either side count five, + On each side, two above, on each side, two below + The dark bar horizontal. + + It goes right through him, the sprottling insect, + Through his cross-wise cloven psyche, + Through his five-fold complex-nature. + + So turn him over on his toes again; + Four pin-point toes, and a problematical thumb- + piece, + + Four rowing limbs, and one wedge-balancing- + head, + + Four and one makes five, which is the clue to all + mathematics. + + The Lord wrote it all down on the little slate + Of the baby tortoise. + + Outward and visible indication of the plan within, + The complex, manifold involvedness of an + individual creature + Blotted out + On this small bird, this rudiment, + This little dome, this pediment + Of all creation, + This slow one. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TORTOISE FAMILY CONNECTIONS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On he goes, the little one, + Bud of the universe, + Pediment of life. + + Setting off somewhere, apparently. + Whither away, brisk egg? + + His mother deposited him on the soil as if he were + no more than droppings, + And now he scuffles tinily past her as if she were + an old rusty tin. + + A mere obstacle, + He veers round the slow great mound of her. + + Tortoises always foresee obstacles. + + It is no use my saying to him in an emotional + voice: + "This is your Mother, she laid you when you were + an egg." + + He does not even trouble to answer: "Woman, + what have I to do with thee?" + He wearily looks the other way, + And she even more wearily looks another way + still, + Each with the utmost apathy, + Incognizant, + Unaware, + Nothing. + + As for papa, + He snaps when I offer him his offspring, + Just as he snaps when I poke a bit of stick at him, + Because he is irascible this morning, an irascible + tortoise + Being touched with love, and devoid of + fatherliness. + + Father and mother, + And three little brothers, + And all rambling aimless, like little perambulating + pebbles scattered in the garden, + Not knowing each other from bits of earth or old + tins. + + Except that papa and mama are old acquaintances, + of course, + But family feeling there is none, not even the + beginnings. + + Fatherless, motherless, brotherless, sisterless + Little tortoise. + + Row on then, small pebble, + Over the clods of the autumn, wind-chilled + sunshine, + Young gayety. + + Does he look for a companion? + No, no, don't think it. + He doesn't know he is alone; + Isolation is his birthright, + This atom. + + To row forward, and reach himself tall on spiny + toes, + To travel, to burrow into a little loose earth, + afraid of the night, + To crop a little substance, + To move, and to be quite sure that he is moving: + Basta! + + To be a tortoise! + Think of it, in a garden of inert clods + A brisk, brindled little tortoise, all to himself— + Croesus! + + In a garden of pebbles and insects + To roam, and feel the slow heart beat + Tortoise-wise, the first bell sounding + From the warm blood, in the dark-creation + morning. + + Moving, and being himself, + Slow, and unquestioned, + And inordinately there, O stoic! + Wandering in the slow triumph of his own + existence, + Ringing the soundless bell of his presence in + chaos, + And biting the frail grass arrogantly, + Decidedly arrogantly. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LUI ET ELLE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + She is large and matronly + And rather dirty, + A little sardonic-looking, as if domesticity had + driven her to it. + + Though what she does, except lay four eggs at + random in the garden once a year + And put up with her husband, + I don't know. + + She likes to eat. + + She hurries up, striding reared on long uncanny + legs, + When food is going. + Oh yes, she can make haste when she likes. + + She snaps the soft bread from my hand in great + mouthfuls, + Opening her rather pretty wedge of an iron, + pristine face + Into an enormously wide-beaked mouth + Like sudden curved scissors, + And gulping at more than she can swallow, and + working her thick, soft tongue, + And having the bread hanging over her chin. + + O Mistress, Mistress, + Reptile mistress, + Your eye is very dark, very bright, + And it never softens + Although you watch. + + She knows, + She knows well enough to come for food, + Yet she sees me not; + Her bright eye sees, but not me, not anything, + Sightful, sightless, seeing and visionless, + Reptile mistress. + + Taking bread in her curved, gaping, toothless + mouth, + She has no qualm when she catches my finger in + her steel overlapping gums, + But she hangs on, and my shout and my shrinking + are nothing to her, + She does not even know she is nipping me with + her curved beak. + Snake-like she draws at my finger, while I drag + it in horror away. + + Mistress, reptile mistress, + You are almost too large, I am almost frightened. + He is much smaller, + Dapper beside her, + And ridiculously small. + + Her laconic eye has an earthy, materialistic look, + His, poor darling, is almost fiery. + + His wimple, his blunt-prowed face, + His low forehead, his skinny neck, his long, + scaled, striving legs, + So striving, striving, + Are all more delicate than she, + And he has a cruel scar on his shell. + + Poor darling, biting at her feet, + Running beside her like a dog, biting her earthy, + splay feet, + Nipping her ankles, + Which she drags apathetic away, though without + retreating into her shell. + + Agelessly silent, + And with a grim, reptile determination, + Cold, voiceless age-after-age behind him, + serpents' long obstinacy + Of horizontal persistence. + + Little old man + Scuffling beside her, bending down, catching his + opportunity, + Parting his steel-trap face, so suddenly, and + seizing her scaly ankle, + And hanging grimly on, + Letting go at last as she drags away, + And closing his steel-trap face. + + His steel-trap, stoic, ageless, handsome face. + Alas, what a fool he looks in this scuffle. + + And how he feels it! + + The lonely rambler, the stoic, dignified stalker + through chaos, + The immune, the animate, + Enveloped in isolation, + Forerunner. + Now look at him! + + Alas, the spear is through the side of his isolation. + His adolescence saw him crucified into sex, + Doomed, in the long crucifixion of desire, to seek + his consummation beyond himself. + Divided into passionate duality, + He, so finished and immune, now broken into + desirous fragmentariness, + Doomed to make an intolerable fool of himself + In his effort toward completion again. + + Poor little earthy house-inhabiting Osiris, + The mysterious bull tore him at adolescence into + pieces, + And he must struggle after reconstruction, + ignominiously. + + And so behold him following the tail + Of that mud-hovel of his slowly-rambling spouse, + Like some unhappy bull at the tail of a cow, + But with more than bovine, grim, earth-dank + persistence, + Suddenly seizing the ugly ankle as she stretches + out to walk, + Roaming over the sods, + Or, if it happen to show, at her pointed, heavy tail + Beneath the low-dropping back-board of her shell. + + Their two shells like doomed boats bumping, + Hers huge, his small; + Their splay feet rambling and rowing like + paddles, + And stumbling mixed up in one another, + In the race of love— + Two tortoises, + She huge, he small. + + She seems earthily apathetic, + And he has a reptile's awful persistence. + + I heard a woman pitying her, pitying the Mère + Tortue. + While I, I pity Monsieur. + "He pesters her and torments her," said the + woman. + How much more is <i>he</i> pestered and tormented, + say I. + + What can he do? + He is dumb, he is visionless, + Conceptionless. + + His black, sad-lidded eye sees but beholds not + As her earthen mound moves on, + But he catches the folds of vulnerable, leathery + skin, + Nail-studded, that shake beneath her shell, + And drags at these with his beak, + Drags and drags and bites, + While she pulls herself free, and rows her dull + mound along. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TORTOISE GALLANTRY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Making his advances + He does not look at her, nor sniff at her, + No, not even sniff at her, his nose is blank. + + Only he senses the vulnerable folds of skin + That work beneath her while she sprawls along + In her ungainly pace, + Her folds of skin that work and row + Beneath the earth-soiled hovel in which she + moves. + + And so he strains beneath her housey walls + And catches her trouser-legs in his beak + Suddenly, or her skinny limb, + And strange and grimly drags at her + Like a dog, + Only agelessly silent, with a reptile's awful + persistency. + + Grim, gruesome gallantry, to which he is doomed. + Dragged out of an eternity of silent isolation + And doomed to partiality, partial being, + Ache, and want of being, + Want, + Self-exposure, hard humiliation, need to add + himself on to her. + + Born to walk alone, + Forerunner, + Now suddenly distracted into this mazy + sidetrack, + This awkward, harrowing pursuit, + This grim necessity from within. + + Does she know + As she moves eternally slowly away? + Or is he driven against her with a bang, like a bird + flying in the dark against a window, + All knowledgeless? + + The awful concussion, + And the still more awful need to persist, to follow, + follow, continue, + Driven, after aeons of pristine, fore-god-like + singleness and oneness, + At the end of some mysterious, red-hot iron, + Driven away from himself into her tracks, + Forced to crash against her. + + Stiff, gallant, irascible, crook-legged reptile, + Little gentleman, + Sorry plight, + We ought to look the other way. + + Save that, having come with you so far, + We will go on to the end. J +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TORTOISE SHOUT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I thought he was dumb, + I said he was dumb, + Yet I've heard him cry. + + First faint scream, + Out of life's unfathomable dawn, + Far off, so far, like a madness, under the horizon's + dawning rim, + Far, far off, far scream. + + Tortoise <i>in extremis</i>. + + Why were we crucified into sex? + + Why were we not left rounded off, and finished + in ourselves, + As we began, + As he certainly began, so perfectly alone? + + A far, was-it-audible scream, + Or did it sound on the plasm direct? + + Worse than the cry of the new-born, + A scream, + A yell, + A shout, + A pæan, + A death-agony, + A birth-cry, + A submission, + All tiny, tiny, far away, reptile under the first + dawn. + + War-cry, triumph, acute-delight, death-scream + reptilian, + Why was the veil torn? + + The silken shriek of the soul's torn membrane? + The male soul's membrane + Torn with a shriek half music, half horror. + + Crucifixion. + + Male tortoise, cleaving behind the hovel-wall of + that dense female, + Mounted and tense, spread-eagle, out-reaching + out of the shell + In tortoise-nakedness, + Long neck, and long vulnerable limbs extruded, + spread-eagle over her house-roof, + And the deep, secret, all-penetrating tail curved + beneath her walls, + Reaching and gripping tense, more reaching + anguish in uttermost tension + Till suddenly, in the spasm of coition, tupping + like a jerking leap, and oh! + Opening its clenched face from his outstretched + neck + And giving that fragile yell, that scream, + Super-audible, + From his pink, cleft, old-man's mouth, + Giving up the ghost, + Or screaming in Pentecost, receiving the ghost. + + His scream, and his moment's subsidence, + The moment of eternal silence, + Yet unreleased, and after the moment, the + sudden, startling jerk of coition, and at once + The inexpressible faint yell— + And so on, till the last plasm of my body was + melted back + To the primeval rudiments of life, and the secret. + + So he tups, and screams + Time after time that frail, torn scream + After each jerk, the longish interval, + The tortoise eternity, + Agelong, reptilian persistence, + Heart-throb, slow heart-throb, persistent for the + next spasm. + + I remember, when I was a boy, + I heard the scream of a frog, which was caught + with his foot in the mouth of an up-starting + snake; + I remember when I first heard bull-frogs break + into sound in the spring; + I remember hearing a wild goose out of the throat + of night + Cry loudly, beyond the lake of waters; + I remember the first time, out of a bush in the + darkness, a nightingale's piercing cries and + gurgles startled the depths of my soul; + I remember the scream of a rabbit as I went + through a wood at midnight; + I remember the heifer in her heat, blorting and + blorting through the hours, persistent and + irrepressible; + I remember my first terror hearing the howl of + weird, amorous cats; + I remember the scream of a terrified, injured + horse, the sheet-lightning + And running away from the sound of a woman in + labor, something like an owl whooing, + And listening inwardly to the first bleat of a + lamb, + The first wail of an infant, + And my mother singing to herself, + And the first tenor singing of the passionate + throat of a young collier, who has long since + drunk himself to death, + The first elements of foreign speech + On wild dark lips. + + And more than all these, + And less than all these, + This last, + Strange, faint coition yell + Of the male tortoise at extremity, + Tiny from under the very edge of the farthest + far-off horizon of life. + + The cross, + The wheel on which our silence first is broken, + Sex, which breaks up our integrity, our single + inviolability, our deep silence + Tearing a cry from us. + + Sex, which breaks us into voice, sets us calling + across the deeps, calling, calling for the + complement, + Singing, and calling, and singing again, being + answered, having found. + + Torn, to become whole again, after long seeking + for what is lost, + The same cry from the tortoise as from Christ, + the Osiris-cry of abandonment, + That which is whole, torn asunder, + That which is in part, finding its whole again + throughout the universe. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tortoises, by D. H. Lawrence + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TORTOISES *** + +***** This file should be named 22475-h.htm or 22475-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/4/7/22475/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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