She looked at him with black fury.
‘I don’t choose to be discussed by you,’ she said.
‘It doesn’t matter whether you choose or not,’ he replied, ‘that doesn’t alter the fact that you are ready to fall down and kiss the feet of that little insect. And I don’t want to prevent you—do it, fall down and kiss his feet. But I want to know, what it is that fascinates you—what is it?’
She was silent, suffused with black rage.
‘How DARE you come brow-beating me,’ she cried, ‘how dare you, you little squire, you bully. What right have you over me, do you think?’
His face was white and gleaming, she knew by the light in his eyes that she was in his power—the wolf. And because she was in his power, she hated him with a power that she wondered did not kill him. In her will she killed him as he stood, effaced him.
‘It is not a question of right,’ said Gerald, sitting down on a chair. She watched the change in his body. She saw his clenched, mechanical body moving there like an obsession. Her hatred of him was tinged with fatal contempt.
‘It’s not a question of my right over you—though I HAVE some right, remember. I want to know, I only want to know what it is that subjugates you to that little scum of a sculptor downstairs, what it is that brings you down like a humble maggot, in worship of him. I want to know what you creep after.’
She stood over against the window, listening. Then she turned round.
‘Do you?’ she said, in her most easy, most cutting voice. ‘Do you want to know what it is in him? It’s because he has some understanding of a woman, because he is not stupid. That’s why it is.’
A queer, sinister, animal-like smile came over Gerald’s face.
‘But what understanding is it?’ he said. ‘The understanding of a flea, a hopping flea with a proboscis. Why should you crawl abject before the understanding of a flea?’
There passed through Gudrun’s mind Blake’s representation of the soul of a flea. She wanted to fit it to Loerke. Blake was a clown too. But it was necessary to answer Gerald.
‘Don’t you think the understanding of a flea is more interesting than the understanding of a fool?’ she asked.
‘A fool!’ he repeated.
‘A fool, a conceited fool—a Dummkopf,’ she replied, adding the German word.
‘Do you call me a fool?’ he replied. ‘Well, wouldn’t I rather be the fool I am, than that flea downstairs?’
She looked at him. A certain blunt, blind stupidity in him palled on her soul, limiting her.
‘You give yourself away by that last,’ she said.
He sat and wondered.
‘I shall go away soon,’ he said.
She turned on him.
‘Remember,’ she said, ‘I am completely independent of you—completely. You make your arrangements, I make mine.’
He pondered this.
‘You mean we are strangers from this minute?’ he asked.
She halted and flushed. He was putting her in a trap, forcing her hand. She turned round on him.
‘Strangers,’ she said, ‘we can never be. But if you WANT to make any movement apart from me, then I wish you to know you are perfectly free to do so. Do not consider me in the slightest.’
Even so slight an implication that she needed him and was depending on him still was sufficient to rouse his passion. As he sat a change came over his body, the hot, molten stream mounted involuntarily through his veins. He groaned inwardly, under its bondage, but he loved it. He looked at her with clear eyes, waiting for her.
She knew at once, and was shaken with cold revulsion. HOW could he look at her with those clear, warm, waiting eyes, waiting for her, even now? What had been said between them, was it not enough to put them worlds asunder, to freeze them forever apart! And yet he was all transfused and roused, waiting for her.
It confused her. Turning her head aside, she said:
‘I shall always TELL you, whenever I am going to make any change—’
And with this she moved out of the room.
He sat suspended in a fine recoil of disappointment, that seemed gradually to be destroying his understanding. But the unconscious state of patience persisted in him. He remained motionless, without thought or knowledge, for a long time. Then he rose, and went downstairs, to play at chess with one of the students. His face was open and clear, with a certain innocent LAISSER-ALLER that troubled Gudrun most, made her almost afraid of him, whilst she disliked him deeply for it.
It was after this that Loerke, who had never yet spoken to her personally, began to ask her of her state.
‘You are not married at all, are you?’ he asked.
She looked full at him.
‘Not in the least,’ she replied, in her measured way. Loerke laughed, wrinkling up his face oddly. There was a thin wisp of his hair straying on his forehead, she noticed that his skin was of a clear brown colour, his hands, his wrists. And his hands seemed closely prehensile. He seemed like topaz, so strangely brownish and pellucid.
