Women in Love

'Yes. LOOK how stock and stupid and brutal it is. Horses are sensitive,

quite delicate and sensitive, really.' He raised his shoulders, spread his hands in a shrug of slow

indifference, as much as to inform her she was an amateur and an

impertinent nobody.

'Wissen Sie,' he said, with an insulting patience and condescension in

his voice, 'that horse is a certain FORM, part of a whole form. It is

part of a work of art, a piece of form. It is not a picture of a

friendly horse to which you give a lump of sugar, do you see--it is

part of a work of art, it has no relation to anything outside that work

of art.' Ursula, angry at being treated quite so insultingly DE HAUT EN BAS,

from the height of esoteric art to the depth of general exoteric

amateurism, replied, hotly, flushing and lifting her face.

'But it IS a picture of a horse, nevertheless.' He lifted his shoulders in another shrug.

'As you like--it is not a picture of a cow, certainly.' Here Gudrun broke in, flushed and brilliant, anxious to avoid any more

of this, any more of Ursula's foolish persistence in giving herself

away.

'What do you mean by "it is a picture of a horse?"' she cried at her

sister. 'What do you mean by a horse? You mean an idea you have in YOUR

head, and which you want to see represented. There is another idea

altogether, quite another idea. Call it a horse if you like, or say it

is not a horse. I have just as much right to say that YOUR horse isn't

a horse, that it is a falsity of your own make-up.' Ursula wavered, baffled. Then her words came.

'But why does he have this idea of a horse?' she said. 'I know it is

his idea. I know it is a picture of himself, really--' Loerke snorted with rage.

'A picture of myself!' he repeated, in derision. 'Wissen sie, gnadige

Frau, that is a Kunstwerk, a work of art. It is a work of art, it is a

picture of nothing, of absolutely nothing. It has nothing to do with

anything but itself, it has no relation with the everyday world of this

and other, there is no connection between them, absolutely none, they

are two different and distinct planes of existence, and to translate

one into the other is worse than foolish, it is a darkening of all

counsel, a making confusion everywhere. Do you see, you MUST NOT

confuse the relative work of action, with the absolute world of art.

That you MUST NOT DO.' 'That is quite true,' cried Gudrun, let loose in a sort of rhapsody.

'The two things are quite and permanently apart, they have NOTHING to

do with one another. I and my art, they have nothing to do with each

other. My art stands in another world, I am in this world.' Her face was flushed and transfigured. Loerke who was sitting with his

head ducked, like some creature at bay, looked up at her, swiftly,

almost furtively, and murmured, 'Ja--so ist es, so ist es.' Ursula was silent after this outburst. She was furious. She wanted to

poke a hole into them both.