They climbed together, at evening, up the high slope, to see the sunset.
In the finely breathing, keen wind they stood and watched the yellow sun sink in crimson and disappear.Then in the east the peaks and ridges glowed with living rose, incandescent like immortal flowers against a brown-purple sky, a miracle, whilst down below the world was a bluish shadow, and above, like an annunciation, hovered a rosy transport in mid-air.
To her it was so beautiful, it was a delirium, she wanted to gather the glowing, eternal peaks to her breast, and die.He saw them, saw they were beautiful.But there arose no clamour in his breast, only a bitterness that was visionary in itself.He wished the peaks were grey and unbeautiful, so that she should not get her support from them.Why did she betray the two of them so terribly, in embracing the glow of the evening? Why did she leave him standing there, with the ice-wind blowing through his heart, like death, to gratify herself among the rosy snow-tips?
`What does the twilight matter?' he said.`Why do you grovel before it? Is it so important to you?'
She winced in violation and in fury.
`Go away,' she cried, `and leave me to it.It is beautiful, beautiful,'
she sang in strange, rhapsodic tones.`It is the most beautiful thing Ihave ever seen in my life.Don't try to come between it and me.Take yourself away, you are out of place --'
He stood back a little, and left her standing there, statue-like, transported into the mystic glowing east.Already the rose was fading, large white stars were flashing out.He waited.He would forego everything but the yearning.
`That was the most perfect thing I have ever seen,' she said in cold, brutal tones, when at last she turned round to him.`It amazes me that you should want to destroy it.If you can't see it yourself, why try to debar me?' But in reality, he had destroyed it for her, she was straining after a dead effect.
`One day,' he said, softly, looking up at her, `I shall destroy you, as you stand looking at the sunset; because you are such a liar.'
There was a soft, voluptuous promise to himself in the words.She was chilled but arrogant.
`Ha!' she said.`I am not afraid of your threats!' She denied herself to him, she kept her room rigidly private to herself.But he waited on, in a curious patience, belonging to his yearning for her.
`In the end,' he said to himself with real voluptuous promise, `when it reaches that point, I shall do away with her.' And he trembled delicately in every limb, in anticipation, as he trembled in his most violent accesses of passionate approach to her, trembling with too much desire.
She had a curious sort of allegiance with Loerke, all the while, now, something insidious and traitorous.Gerald knew of it.But in the unnatural state of patience, and the unwillingness to harden himself against her, in which he found himself, he took no notice, although her soft kindliness to the other man, whom he hated as a noxious insect, made him shiver again with an access of the strange shuddering that came over him repeatedly.
He left her alone only when he went skiing, a sport he loved, and which she did not practise.The he seemed to sweep out of life, to be a projectile into the beyond.And often, when he went away, she talked to the little German sculptor.They had an invariable topic, in their art.
They were almost of the same ideas.He hated Mestrovic, was not satisfied with the Futurists, he liked the West African wooden figures, the Aztec art, Mexican and Central American.He saw the grotesque, and a curious sort of mechanical motion intoxicated him, a confusion in nature.They had a curious game with each other, Gudrun and Loerke, of infinite suggestivity, strange and leering, as if they had some esoteric understanding of life, that they alone were initiated into the fearful central secrets, that the world dared not know.Their whole correspondence was in a strange, barely comprehensible suggestivity, they kindled themselves at the subtle lust of the Egyptians or the Mexicans.The whole game was one of subtle inter-suggestivity, and they wanted to keep it on the plane of suggestion.From their verbal and physical nuances they got the highest satisfaction in the nerves, from a queer interchange of half-suggested ideas, looks, expressions and gestures, which were quite intolerable, though incomprehensible, to Gerald.He had no terms in which to think of their commerce, his terms were much too gross.
The suggestion of primitive art was their refuge, and the inner mysteries of sensation their object of worship.Art and Life were to them the Reality and the Unreality.
`Of course,' said Gudrun, `life doesn't really matter -- it is one's art which is central.What one does in one's life has peu de rapport, it doesn't signify much.'
`Yes, that is so, exactly,' replied the sculptor.`What one does in one's art, that is the breath of one's being.What one does in one's life, that is a bagatelle for the outsiders to fuss about.'
It was curious what a sense of elation and freedom Gudrun found in this communication.She felt established for ever.Of course Gerald was bagatelle.
Love was one of the temporal things in her life, except in so far as she was an artist.She thought of Cleopatra -- Cleopatra must have been an artist; she reaped the essential from a man, she harvested the ultimate sensation, and threw away the husk; and Mary Stuart, and the great Rachel, panting with her lovers after the theatre, these were the exoteric exponents of love.After all, what was the lover but fuel for the transport of this subtle knowledge, for a female art, the art of pure, perfect knowledge in sensuous understanding.
One evening Gerald was arguing with Loerke about Italy and Tripoli.
The Englishman was in a strange, inflammable state, the German was excited.