The Trespasser

The Trespasser

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Title: The Trespasser
Author: D.H. Lawrence
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THE TRESPASSER
By D. H. Lawrence

1912

_

Chapter 1_
'Take off that mute, do!' cried Louisa, snatching her fingers from the
piano keys, and turning abruptly to the violinist.
Helena looked slowly from her music.
'My dear Louisa,' she replied, 'it would be simply unendurable.' She
stood tapping her white skirt with her bow in a kind of a pathetic
forbearance.
'But I can't understand it,' cried Louisa, bouncing on her chair with the
exaggeration of one who is indignant with a beloved. 'It is only lately
you would even submit to muting your violin. At one time you would
have refused flatly, and no doubt about it.'
'I have only lately submitted to many things,' replied Helena, who

seemed weary and stupefied, but still sententious. Louisa drooped from
her bristling defiance.
'At any rate,' she said, scolding in tones too naked with love, I don't like
it.'
'Go on from Allegro,' said Helena, pointing with her bow to the place
on Louisa's score of the Mozart sonata. Louisa obediently took the
chords, and the music continued.
A young man, reclining in one of the wicker arm-chairs by the fire,
turned luxuriously from the girls to watch the flames poise and dance
with the music. He was evidently at his ease, yet he seemed a stranger
in the room.
It was the sitting-room of a mean house standing in line with hundreds
of others of the same kind, along a wide road in South London. Now
and again the trams hummed by, but the room was foreign to the trams
and to the sound of the London traffic. It was Helena's room, for which
she was responsible. The walls were of the dead-green colour of
August foliage; the green carpet, with its border of polished floor, lay
like a square of grass in a setting of black loam. Ceiling and frieze and
fireplace were smooth white. There was no other colouring.
The furniture, excepting the piano, had a transitory look; two light
wicker arm-chairs by the fire, the two frail stands of dark, polished
wood, the couple of flimsy chairs, and the case of books in the
recess--all seemed uneasy, as if they might be tossed out to leave the
room clear, with its green floor and walls, and its white rim of
skirting-board, serene.
On the mantlepiece were white lustres, and a small soapstone Buddha
from China, grey, impassive, locked in his renunciation. Besides these,
two tablets of translucent stone beautifully clouded with rose and blood,
and carved with Chinese symbols; then a litter of mementoes,
rock-crystals, and shells and scraps of seaweed.
A stranger, entering, felt at a loss. He looked at the bare wall-spaces of

dark green, at the scanty furniture, and was assured of his unwelcome.
The only objects of sympathy in the room were the white lamp that
glowed on a stand near the wall, and the large, beautiful fern, with
narrow fronds, which ruffled its cloud of green within the gloom of the
window-bay. These only, with the fire, seemed friendly.
The three candles on the dark piano burned softly, the music fluttered
on, but, like numbed butterflies, stupidly. Helena played mechanically.
She broke the music beneath her bow, so that it came lifeless, very
hurting to hear. The young man frowned, and pondered. Uneasily, he
turned again to the players.
The violinist was a girl of twenty-eight. Her white dress, high-waisted,
swung as she forced the rhythm, determinedly