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.
She did not want things to materialise, to take any definite shape. She
wanted, suddenly, at one moment of the journey tomorrow, to be wafted
into an utterly new course, by some utterly unforeseen event, or
motion. So that, although she wanted to go out with Loerke for the last
time into the snow, she did not want to be serious or businesslike.
And Loerke was not a serious figure. In his brown velvet cap, that made
his head as round as a chestnut, with the brown-velvet flaps loose and
wild over his ears, and a wisp of elf-like, thin black hair blowing
above his full, elf-like dark eyes, the shiny, transparent brown skin
crinkling up into odd grimaces on his small-featured face, he looked an
odd little boy-man, a bat.
Pages:
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972