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.
`Good,' he said.
Still it needed some courage for him to go on.
`Was Mrs Birkin your sister?' he asked.
`Yes.'
`And was she married?'
`She was married.'
`Have you parents, then?'
`Yes,' said Gudrun, `we have parents.'
And she told him, briefly, laconically, her position.He watched her closely, curiously all the while.
`So!' he exclaimed, with some surprise.`And the Herr Crich, is he rich?'
`Yes, he is rich, a coal owner.'
`How long has your friendship with him lasted?'
`Some months.'
There was a pause.
`Yes, I am surprised,' he said at length.`The English, I thought they were so -- cold.And what do you think to do when you leave here?'
`What do I think to do?' she repeated.
`Yes.You cannot go back to the teaching.No --' he shrugged his shoulders -- `that is impossible.Leave that to the canaille who can do nothing else.You, for your part -- you know, you are a remarkable woman, eine seltsame Frau.Why deny it -- why make any question of it? You are an extraordinary woman, why should you follow the ordinary course, the ordinary life?'
Gudrun sat looking at her hands, flushed.She was pleased that he said, so simply, that she was a remarkable woman.He would not say that to flatter her -- he was far too self-opinionated and objective by nature.He said it as he would say a piece of sculpture was remarkable, because he knew it was so.
And it gratified her to hear it from him.Other people had such a passion to make everything of one degree, of one pattern.In England it was chic to be perfectly ordinary.And it was a relief to her to be acknowledged extraordinary.Then she need not fret about the common standards.
`You see,' she said, `I have no money whatsoever.'
`Ach, money!' he cried, lifting his shoulders.`When one is grown up, money is lying about at one's service.It is only when one is young that it is rare.Take no thought for money -- that always lies to hand.'
`Does it?' she said, laughing.
`Always.The Gerald will give you a sum, if you ask him for it --'
She flushed deeply.
`I will ask anybody else,' she said, with some difficulty -- `but not him.'
Loerke looked closely at her.
`Good,' he said.`Then let it be somebody else.Only don't go back to that England, that school.No, that is stupid.'
Again there was a pause.He was afraid to ask her outright to go with him, he was not even quite sure he wanted her; and she was afraid to be asked.He begrudged his own isolation, was very chary of sharing his life, even for a day.
`The only other place I know is Paris,' she said, `and I can't stand that.'
She looked with her wide, steady eyes full at Loerke.He lowered his head and averted his face.
`Paris, no!' he said.`Between the religion d'amour, and the latest 'ism, and the new turning to Jesus, one had better ride on a carrousel all day.But come to Dresden.I have a studio there -- I can give you work, -- oh, that would be easy enough.I haven't seen any of your things, but I believe in you.Come to Dresden -- that is a fine town to be in, and as good a life as you can expect of a town.You have everything there, without the foolishness of Paris or the beer of Munich.'
He sat and looked at her, coldly.What she liked about him was that he spoke to her simple and flat, as to himself.He was a fellow craftsman, a fellow being to her, first.
`No -- Paris,' he resumed, `it makes me sick.Pah -- l'amour.I detest it.L'amour, l'amore, die Liebe -- I detest it in every language.Women and love, there is no greater tedium,' he cried.
She was slightly offended.And yet, this was her own basic feeling.
Men, and love -- there was no greater tedium.
`I think the same,' she said.
`A bore,' he repeated.`What does it matter whether I wear this hat or another.So love.I needn't wear a hat at all, only for convenience.
Neither need I love except for convenience.I tell you what, gnadige Frau --' and he leaned towards her -- then he made a quick, odd gesture, as of striking something aside -- `gnadige Fraulein, never mind -- I tell you what, I would give everything, everything, all your love, for a little companionship in intelligence --' his eyes flickered darkly, evilly at her.`You understand?' he asked, with a faint smile.`It wouldn't matter if she were a hundred years old, a thousand -- it would be all the same to me, so that she can understand.' He shut his eyes with a little snap.
Again Gudrun was rather offended.Did he not think her good looking, then? Suddenly she laughed.
`I shall have to wait about eighty years to suit you, at that!' she said.`I am ugly enough, aren't I?'
He looked at her with an artist's sudden, critical, estimating eye.
`You are beautiful,' he said, `and I am glad of it.But it isn't that -- it isn't that,' he cried, with emphasis that flattered her.`It is that you have a certain wit, it is the kind of understanding.For me, I am little, chetif, insignificant.Good! Do not ask me to be strong and handsome, then.
But it is the me --' he put his fingers to his mouth, oddly -- `it is the me that is looking for a mistress, and my me is waiting for the thee of the mistress, for the match to my particular intelligence.
