Women in Love

'Do you do nothing but architectural sculpture?' Gudrun asked him one

evening.

'Not now,' he replied. 'I have done all sorts--except portraits--I

never did portraits. But other things--' 'What kind of things?' asked Gudrun.

He paused a moment, then rose, and went out of the room. He returned

almost immediately with a little roll of paper, which he handed to her.

She unrolled it. It was a photogravure reproduction of a statuette,

signed F. Loerke.

'That is quite an early thing--NOT mechanical,' he said, 'more

popular.' The statuette was of a naked girl, small, finely made, sitting on a

great naked horse. The girl was young and tender, a mere bud. She was

sitting sideways on the horse, her face in her hands, as if in shame

and grief, in a little abandon. Her hair, which was short and must be

flaxen, fell forward, divided, half covering her hands.

Her limbs were young and tender. Her legs, scarcely formed yet, the

legs of a maiden just passing towards cruel womanhood, dangled

childishly over the side of the powerful horse, pathetically, the small

feet folded one over the other, as if to hide. But there was no hiding.

There she was exposed naked on the naked flank of the horse.

The horse stood stock still, stretched in a kind of start. It was a

massive, magnificent stallion, rigid with pent-up power. Its neck was

arched and terrible, like a sickle, its flanks were pressed back, rigid

with power.

Gudrun went pale, and a darkness came over her eyes, like shame, she

looked up with a certain supplication, almost slave-like. He glanced at

her, and jerked his head a little.

'How big is it?' she asked, in a toneless voice, persisting in

appearing casual and unaffected.

'How big?' he replied, glancing again at her. 'Without pedestal--so

high--' he measured with his hand--'with pedestal, so--' He looked at her steadily. There was a little brusque, turgid contempt

for her in his swift gesture, and she seemed to cringe a little.

'And what is it done in?' she asked, throwing back her head and looking

at him with affected coldness.

He still gazed at her steadily, and his dominance was not shaken.

'Bronze--green bronze.' 'Green bronze!' repeated Gudrun, coldly accepting his challenge. She

was thinking of the slender, immature, tender limbs of the girl, smooth

and cold in green bronze.

'Yes, beautiful,' she murmured, looking up at him with a certain dark

homage.

He closed his eyes and looked aside, triumphant.

'Why,' said Ursula, 'did you make the horse so stiff? It is as stiff as

a block.' 'Stiff?' he repeated, in arms at once.