I like it though--'
'Ah yes,' said Ursula, 'so do I.'
'How much is it?' Birkin asked the man.
'Ten shillings.'
'And you will send it--?'
It was bought.
'So beautiful, so pure!' Birkin said. 'It almost breaks my heart.' They
walked along between the heaps of rubbish. 'My beloved country--it had
something to express even when it made that chair.'
'And hasn't it now?' asked Ursula. She was always angry when he took
this tone.
'No, it hasn't. When I see that clear, beautiful chair, and I think of
England, even Jane Austen's England--it had living thoughts to unfold
even then, and pure happiness in unfolding them. And now, we can only
fish among the rubbish heaps for the remnants of their old expression.
There is no production in us now, only sordid and foul mechanicalness.'
'It isn't true,' cried Ursula. 'Why must you always praise the past, at
the expense of the present? REALLY, I don't think so much of Jane
Austen's England. It was materialistic enough, if you like--'
'It could afford to be materialistic,' said Birkin, 'because it had the
power to be something other--which we haven't.
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