Meanwhile Gerald sat in his room, reading. When Gudrun was gone, he was
left stupefied with arrested desire. He sat on the side of the bed for
an hour, stupefied, little strands of consciousness appearing and
reappearing. But he did not move, for a long time he remained inert,
his head dropped on his breast.
Then he looked up and realised that he was going to bed. He was cold.
Soon he was lying down in the dark.
But what he could not bear was the darkness. The solid darkness
confronting him drove him mad. So he rose, and made a light. He
remained seated for a while, staring in front. He did not think of
Gudrun, he did not think of anything.
Then suddenly he went downstairs for a book. He had all his life been
in terror of the nights that should come, when he could not sleep. He
knew that this would be too much for him, to have to face nights of
sleeplessness and of horrified watching the hours.
So he sat for hours in bed, like a statue, reading. His mind, hard and
acute, read on rapidly, his body understood nothing. In a state of
rigid unconsciousness, he read on through the night, till morning,
when, weary and disgusted in spirit, disgusted most of all with
himself, he slept for two hours.
Then he got up, hard and full of energy. Gudrun scarcely spoke to him,
except at coffee when she said: 'I shall be leaving tomorrow.' 'We will go together as far as Innsbruck, for appearance's sake?' he
asked.
'Perhaps,' she said.
She said 'Perhaps' between the sips of her coffee. And the sound of her
taking her breath in the word, was nauseous to him. He rose quickly to
be away from her.
He went and made arrangements for the departure on the morrow. Then,
taking some food, he set out for the day on the skis. Perhaps, he said
to the Wirt, he would go up to the Marienhutte, perhaps to the village
below.
To Gudrun this day was full of a promise like spring. She felt an
approaching release, a new fountain of life rising up in her. It gave
her pleasure to dawdle through her packing, it gave her pleasure to dip
into books, to try on her different garments, to look at herself in the
glass. She felt a new lease of life was come upon her, and she was
happy like a child, very attractive and beautiful to everybody, with
her soft, luxuriant figure, and her happiness. Yet underneath was death
itself.
In the afternoon she had to go out with Loerke. Her tomorrow was
perfectly vague before her. This was what gave her pleasure. She might
be going to England with Gerald, she might be going to Dresden with
Loerke, she might be going to Munich, to a girl-friend she had there.
Anything might come to pass on the morrow. And today was the white,
snowy iridescent threshold of all possibility. All possibility--that
was the charm to her, the lovely, iridescent, indefinite charm,--pure
illusion All possibility--because death was inevitable, and NOTHING was
possible but death.