n 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.

'It isn't a word of it true, of all this harangue you have made me,'
she replied flatly. 'The horse is a picture of your own stock, stupid
brutality, and the girl was a girl you loved and tortured and then
ignored.'

He looked up at her with a small smile of contempt in his eyes. He
would not trouble to answer this last charge.

Gudrun too was silent in exasperated contempt. Ursula WAS such an
insufferab