'They are no good to me, they are of no use in my art,' Loerke repeated impatiently. 'I don't find them beautiful.'
'You are an epicure,' said Gerald, with a slight sarcastic laugh.
'And what about men?' asked Gudrun suddenly.
'Yes, they are good at all ages,' replied Loerke. 'A man should be big and powerful—whether he is old or young is of no account, so he has the size, something of massiveness and—and stupid form.'
Ursula went out alone into the world of pure, new snow.
But the dazzling whiteness seemed to beat upon her till it hurt her, she felt the cold was slowly strangling her soul.
Her head felt dazed and numb. Suddenly she wanted to go away. It occurred to her, like a miracle, that she might go away into another world. She had felt so doomed up here in the eternal snow, as if there were no beyond.
Now suddenly, as by a miracle she remembered that away beyond, below her, lay the dark fruitful earth, that towards the south there were stretches of land dark with orange trees and cypress, grey with olives, that ilex trees lifted wonderful plumy tufts in shadow against a blue sky.
Miracle of miracles!—this utterly silent, frozen world of the mountain-tops was not universal!
One might leave it and have done with it.
One might go away.
She wanted to realise the miracle at once.
She wanted at this instant to have done with the snow-world, the terrible, static ice-built mountain tops.
She wanted to see the dark earth, to smell its earthy fecundity, to see the patient wintry vegetation, to feel the sunshine touch a response in the buds.
She went back gladly to the house, full of hope.
Birkin was reading, lying in bed.
'Rupert,' she said, bursting in on him. 'I want to go away.'
He looked up at her slowly.
'Do you?' he replied mildly.
She sat by him und put her arms round his neck.
It surprised her that he was so little surprised.
'Don't YOU?' she asked troubled.
'I hadn't thought about it,' he said. 'But I'm sure I do.'
She sat up, suddenly erect.
'I hate it,' she said. 'I hate the snow, and the unnaturalness of it, the unnatural light it throws on everybody, the ghastly glamour, the unnatural feelings it makes everybody have.'
He lay still and laughed, meditating.
'Well,' he said, 'we can go away—we can go tomorrow.
We'll go tomorrow to Verona, and find Romeo and Juliet, and sit in the amphitheatre—shall we?'
Suddenly she hid her face against his shoulder with perplexity and shyness.
He lay so untrammelled.
'Yes,' she said softly, filled with relief.
She felt her soul had new wings, now he was so uncaring. 'I shall love to be Romeo and Juliet,' she said. 'My love!'
'Though a fearfully cold wind blows in Verona,' he said, 'from out of the Alps.
We shall have the smell of the snow in our noses.'
She sat up and looked at him.
'Are you glad to go?' she asked, troubled.
His eyes were inscrutable and laughing.
She hid her face against his neck, clinging close to him, pleading:
'Don't laugh at me—don't laugh at me.'
'Why how's that?' he laughed, putting his arms round her.
'Because I don't want to be laughed at,' she whispered.
He laughed more, as he kissed her delicate, finely perfumed hair.
'Do you love me?' she whispered, in wild seriousness. 'Yes,' he answered, laughing.
Suddenly she lifted her mouth to be kissed.
Her lips were taut and quivering and strenuous, his were soft, deep and delicate.
He waited a few moments in the kiss.
Then a shade of sadness went over his soul.
'Your mouth is so hard,' he said, in faint reproach.
'And yours is so soft and nice,' she said gladly.
'But why do you always grip your lips?' he asked, regretful.