Women in Love

The twilight spread a weird, unearthly light overhead, bluish-rose in

colour, the cold blue night sank on the snow. In the valley below,

behind, in the great bed of snow, were two small figures: Gudrun

dropped on her knees, like one executed, and Loerke sitting propped up

near her. That was all.

Gerald stumbled on up the slope of snow, in the bluish darkness, always

climbing, always unconsciously climbing, weary though he was. On his

left was a steep slope with black rocks and fallen masses of rock and

veins of snow slashing in and about the blackness of rock, veins of

snow slashing vaguely in and about the blackness of rock. Yet there was

no sound, all this made no noise.

To add to his difficulty, a small bright moon shone brilliantly just

ahead, on the right, a painful brilliant thing that was always there,

unremitting, from which there was no escape. He wanted so to come to

the end--he had had enough. Yet he did not sleep.

He surged painfully up, sometimes having to cross a slope of black

rock, that was blown bare of snow. Here he was afraid of falling, very

much afraid of falling. And high up here, on the crest, moved a wind

that almost overpowered him with a sleep-heavy iciness. Only it was not

here, the end, and he must still go on. His indefinite nausea would not

let him stay.

Having gained one ridge, he saw the vague shadow of something higher in

front. Always higher, always higher. He knew he was following the track

towards the summit of the slopes, where was the marienhutte, and the

descent on the other side. But he was not really conscious. He only

wanted to go on, to go on whilst he could, to move, to keep going, that

was all, to keep going, until it was finished. He had lost all his

sense of place. And yet in the remaining instinct of life, his feet

sought the track where the skis had gone.

He slithered down a sheer snow slope. That frightened him. He had no

alpenstock, nothing. But having come safely to rest, he began to walk

on, in the illuminated darkness. It was as cold as sleep. He was

between two ridges, in a hollow. So he swerved. Should he climb the

other ridge, or wander along the hollow? How frail the thread of his

being was stretched! He would perhaps climb the ridge. The snow was

firm and simple. He went along. There was something standing out of the

snow. He approached, with dimmest curiosity.

It was a half-buried Crucifix, a little Christ under a little sloping

hood, at the top of a pole. He sheered away. Somebody was going to

murder him. He had a great dread of being murdered. But it was a dread

which stood outside him, like his own ghost.