`Shouldn't think so!' she teased.`Why the poor girl is lying at this moment overwhelmed, dying with love for you.She thinks you're wonderful -- oh marvellous, beyond what man has ever been.Really, isn't it funny?'
`Why funny, what is funny?' he asked.
`Why to see you working it on her,' she said, with a half reproach that confused the male conceit in him.`Really Gerald, the poor girl --!'
`I did nothing to her,' he said.
`Oh, it was too shameful, the way you simply swept her off her feet.'
`That was Schuhplatteln,' he replied, with a bright grin.
`Ha -- ha -- ha!' laughed Gudrun.
Her mockery quivered through his muscles with curious re-echoes.When he slept he seemed to crouch down in the bed, lapped up in his own strength, that yet was hollow.
And Gudrun slept strongly, a victorious sleep.Suddenly, she was almost fiercely awake.The small timber room glowed with the dawn, that came upwards from the low window.She could see down the valley when she lifted her head: the snow with a pinkish, half-revealed magic, the fringe of pine-trees at the bottom of the slope.And one tiny figure moved over the vaguely-illuminated space.
She glanced at his watch; it was seven o'clock.He was still completely asleep.And she was so hard awake, it was almost frightening -- a hard, metallic wakefulness.She lay looking at him.
He slept in the subjection of his own health and defeat.She was overcome by a sincere regard for him.Till now, she was afraid before him.She lay and thought about him, what he was, what he represented in the world.Afine, independent will, he had.She thought of the revolution he had worked in the mines, in so short a time.She knew that, if he were confronted with any problem, any hard actual difficulty, he would overcome it.If he laid hold of any idea, he would carry it through.He had the faculty of making order out of confusion.Only let him grip hold of a situation, and he would bring to pass an inevitable conclusion.
For a few moments she was borne away on the wild wings of ambition.
Gerald, with his force of will and his power for comprehending the actual world, should be set to solve the problems of the day, the problem of industrialism in the modern world.She knew he would, in the course of time, effect the changes he desired, he could re-organise the industrial system.She knew he could do it.As an instrument, in these things, he was marvellous, she had never seen any man with his potentiality.He was unaware of it, but she knew.
He only needed to be hitched on, he needed that his hand should be set to the task, because he was so unconscious.And this she could do.She would marry him, he would go into Parliament in the Conservative interest, he would clear up the great muddle of labour and industry.He was so superbly fearless, masterful, he knew that every problem could be worked out, in life as in geometry.And he would care neither about himself nor about anything but the pure working out of the problem.He was very pure, really.
Her heart beat fast, she flew away on wings of elation, imagining a future.He would be a Napoleon of peace, or a Bismarck -- and she the woman behind him.She had read Bismarck's letters, and had been deeply moved by them.And Gerald would be freer, more dauntless than Bismarck.
But even as she lay in fictitious transport, bathed in the strange, false sunshine of hope in life, something seemed to snap in her, and a terrible cynicism began to gain upon her, blowing in like a wind.Everything turned to irony with her: the last flavour of everything was ironical.
When she felt her pang of undeniable reality, this was when she knew the hard irony of hopes and ideas.
She lay and looked at him, as he slept.He was sheerly beautiful, he was a perfect instrument.To her mind, he was a pure, inhuman, almost superhuman instrument.His instrumentality appealed so strongly to her, she wished she were God, to use him as a tool.
And at the same instant, came the ironical question: `What for?' She thought of the colliers' wives, with their linoleum and their lace curtains and their little girls in high-laced boots.She thought of the wives and daughters of the pit-managers, their tennis-parties, and their terrible struggles to be superior each to the other, in the social scale.There was Shortlands with its meaningless distinction, the meaningless crowd of the Criches.There was London, the House of Commons, the extant social world.My God!
Young as she was, Gudrun had touched the whole pulse of social England.
She had no ideas of rising in the world.She knew, with the perfect cynicism of cruel youth, that to rise in the world meant to have one outside show instead of another, the advance was like having a spurious half-crown instead of a spurious penny.The whole coinage of valuation was spurious.Yet of course, her cynicism knew well enough that, in a world where spurious coin was current, a bad sovereign was better than a bad farthing.But rich and poor, she despised both alike.
Already she mocked at herself for her dreams.They could be fulfilled easily enough.But she recognised too well, in her spirit, the mockery of her own impulses.What did she care, that Gerald had created a richly-paying industry out of an old worn-out concern? What did she care? The worn-out concern and the rapid, splendidly organised industry, they were bad money.
Yet of course, she cared a great deal, outwardly -- and outwardly was all that mattered, for inwardly was a bad joke.
Everything was intrinsically a piece of irony to her.She leaned over Gerald and said in her heart, with compassion:
`Oh, my dear, my dear, the game isn't worth even you.You are a fine thing really -- why should you be used on such a poor show!'
Her heart was breaking with pity and grief for him.And at the same moment, a grimace came over her mouth, of mocking irony at her own unspoken tirade.Ah, what a farce it was! She thought of Parnell and Katherine O'Shea.
Parnell! After all, who can take the nationalisation of Ireland seriously?
