If he had kept true to that clasp, death would
not have mattered. Those who die, and dying still can love, still
believe, do not die. They live still in the beloved. Gerald might still
have been living in the spirit with Birkin, even after death. He might
have lived with his friend, a further life.
But now he was dead, like clay, like bluish, corruptible ice. Birkin
looked at the pale fingers, the inert mass. He remembered a dead
stallion he had seen: a dead mass of maleness, repugnant. He remembered
also the beautiful face of one whom he had loved, and who had died
still having the faith to yield to the mystery. That dead face was
beautiful, no one could call it cold, mute, material. No one could
remember it without gaining faith in the mystery, without the soul's
warming with new, deep life-trust.
And Gerald! The denier! He left the heart cold, frozen, hardly able to
beat. Gerald's father had looked wistful, to break the heart: but not
this last terrible look of cold, mute Matter.
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