‘Not tonight.’
‘Oh very well. I’ll tell him then.’ Then came her touch of diablerie. ‘You’re looking awf’lly fit.’
‘Yes—I feel it.’ Gerald was quite calm and easy, a spark of satiric amusement in his eye.
‘Are you having a good time?’
This was a direct blow for Gudrun, spoken in a level, toneless voice of callous ease.
‘Yes,’ he replied, quite colourlessly.
‘I’m awf’lly sorry you aren’t coming round to the flat. You aren’t very faithful to your fwiends.’
‘Not very,’ he said.
She nodded them both ‘Good-night’, and went back slowly to her own set. Gudrun watched her curious walk, stiff and jerking at the loins. They heard her level, toneless voice distinctly.
‘He won’t come over;—he is otherwise engaged,’ it said. There was more laughter and lowered voices and mockery at the table.
‘Is she a friend of yours?’ said Gudrun, looking calmly at Gerald.
‘I’ve stayed at Halliday’s flat with Birkin,’ he said, meeting her slow, calm eyes. And she knew that the Pussum was one of his mistresses—and he knew she knew.
She looked round, and called for the waiter. She wanted an iced cocktail, of all things. This amused Gerald—he wondered what was up.
The Halliday party was tipsy, and malicious. They were talking out loudly about Birkin, ridiculing him on every point, particularly on his marriage.
‘Oh, DON’T make me think of Birkin,’ Halliday was squealing. ‘He makes me perfectly sick. He is as bad as Jesus. “Lord, WHAT must I do to be saved!”’
He giggled to himself tipsily.
‘Do you remember,’ came the quick voice of the Russian, ‘the letters he used to send. “Desire is holy-”’
‘Oh yes!’ cried Halliday. ‘Oh, how perfectly splendid. Why, I’ve got one in my pocket. I’m sure I have.’
He took out various papers from his pocket book.
‘I’m sure I’ve—HIC! OH DEAR!—got one.’
Gerald and Gudrun were watching absorbedly.
‘Oh yes, how perfectly—HIC!—splendid! Don’t make me laugh, Pussum, it gives me the hiccup. Hic!—’ They all giggled.
‘What did he say in that one?’ the Pussum asked, leaning forward, her dark, soft hair falling and swinging against her face. There was something curiously indecent, obscene, about her small, longish, dark skull, particularly when the ears showed.
‘Wait—oh do wait! NO-O, I won’t give it to you, I’ll read it aloud. I’ll read you the choice bits,—hic! Oh dear! Do you think if I drink water it would take off this hiccup? HIC! Oh, I feel perfectly helpless.’
‘Isn’t that the letter about uniting the dark and the light—and the Flux of Corruption?’ asked Maxim, in his precise, quick voice.
‘I believe so,’ said the Pussum.
‘Oh is it? I’d forgotten—HIC!—it was that one,’ Halliday said, opening the letter. ‘HIC! Oh yes. How perfectly splendid! This is one of the best. “There is a phase in every race—”’ he read in the sing-song, slow, distinct voice of a clergyman reading the Scriptures, ‘“When the desire for destruction overcomes every other desire. In the individual, this desire is ultimately a desire for destruction in the self”—HIC!—’ he paused and looked up.
‘I hope he’s going ahead with the destruction of himself,’ said the quick voice of the Russian. Halliday giggled, and lolled his head back, vaguely.
‘There’s not much to destroy in him,’ said the Pussum. ‘He’s so thin already, there’s only a fag-end to start on.’
‘Oh, isn’t it beautiful! I love reading it! I believe it has cured my hiccup!’ squealed Halliday. ‘Do let me go on. “It is a desire for the reduction process in oneself, a reducing back to the origin, a return along the Flux of Corruption, to the original rudimentary conditions of being—!” Oh, but I DO think it is wonderful. It almost supersedes the Bible-‘
‘Yes—Flux of Corruption,’ said the Russian, ‘I remember that phrase.’
‘Oh, he was always talking about Corruption,’ said the Pussum. ‘He must be corrupt himself, to have it so much on his mind.’
‘Exactly!’ said the Russian.
‘Do let me go on! Oh, this is a perfectly wonderful piece! But do listen to this. “And in the great retrogression, the reducing back of the created body of life, we get knowledge, and beyond knowledge, the phosphorescent ecstasy of acute sensation.” Oh, I do think these phrases are too absurdly wonderful. Oh but don’t you think they ARE—they’re nearly as good as Jesus. “And if, Julius, you want this ecstasy of reduction with the Pussum, you must go on till it is fulfilled. But surely there is in you also, somewhere, the living desire for positive creation, relationships in ultimate faith, when all this process of active corruption, with all its flowers of mud, is transcended, and more or less finished—” I do wonder what the flowers of mud are. Pussum, you are a flower of mud.’
‘Thank you—and what are you?’
‘Oh, I’m another, surely, according to this letter! We’re all flowers of mud—FLEURS—HIC! DU MAL! It’s perfectly wonderful, Birkin harrowing Hell—harrowing the Pompadour—HIC!’
