CHAPTER XXVIII.
GUDRUN IN THE POMPADOUR
Christmas drew near, all four prepared for flight. Birkin and Ursulawere busy packing their few personal things, making them ready to besent off, to whatever country and whatever place they might choose atlast. Gudrun was very much excited. She loved to be on the wing.
She and Gerald, being ready first, set off via London and Paris toInnsbruck, where they would meet Ursula and Birkin. In London theystayed one night. They went to the music-hall, and afterwards to thePompadour Cafe.
Gudrun hated the Cafe, yet she always went back to it, as did most ofthe artists of her acquaintance. She loathed its atmosphere of pettyvice and petty jealousy and petty art. Yet she always called in again,when she was in town. It was as if she HAD to return to this small,slow, central whirlpool of disintegration and dissolution: just give ita look.
She sat with Gerald drinking some sweetish liqueur, and staring withblack, sullen looks at the various groups of people at the tables. Shewould greet nobody, but young men nodded to her frequently, with a kindof sneering familiarity. She cut them all. And it gave her pleasure tosit there, cheeks flushed, eyes black and sullen, seeing them allobjectively, as put away from her, like creatures in some menagerie ofapish degraded souls. God, what a foul crew they were! Her blood beatblack and thick in her veins with rage and loathing. Yet she must sitand watch, watch. One or two people came to speak to her. From everyside of the Cafe, eyes turned half furtively, half jeeringly at her,men looking over their shoulders, women under their hats.
The old crowd was there, Carlyon in his corner with his pupils and hisgirl, Halliday and Libidnikov and the Pussum--they were all there.Gudrun watched Gerald. She watched his eyes linger a moment onHalliday, on Halliday's party. These last were on the look-out--theynodded to him, he nodded again. They giggled and whispered amongthemselves. Gerald watched them with the steady twinkle in his eyes.They were urging the Pussum to something.
She at last rose. She was wearing a curious dress of dark silk splashedand spattered with different colours, a curious motley effect. She wasthinner, her eyes were perhaps hotter, more disintegrated. Otherwiseshe was just the same. Gerald watched her with the same steady twinklein his eyes as she came across. She held out her thin brown hand tohim.
'How are you?' she said.
He shook hands with her, but remained seated, and let her stand nearhim, against the table. She nodded blackly to Gudrun, whom she did notknow to speak to, but well enough by sight and reputation.
'I am very well,' said Gerald. 'And you?'
'Oh I'm all wight. What about Wupert?'
'Rupert? He's very well, too.'
'Yes, I don't mean that. What about him being married?'
'Oh--yes, he is married.'
The Pussum's eyes had a hot flash.
'Oh, he's weally bwought it off then, has he? When was he married?'
'A week or two ago.'
'Weally! He's never written.'
'No.'
'No. Don't you think it's too bad?'
This last was in a tone of challenge. The Pussum let it be known by hertone, that she was aware of Gudrun's listening.
'I suppose he didn't feel like it,' replied Gerald.
'But why didn't he?' pursued the Pussum.
This was received in silence. There was an ugly, mocking persistence inthe small, beautiful figure of the short-haired girl, as she stood nearGerald.
'Are you staying in town long?' she asked.
'Tonight only.'
'Oh, only tonight. Are you coming over to speak to Julius?'
'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 satiricamusement in his eye.
'Are you having a good time?'
This was a direct blow for Gudrun, spoken in a level, toneless voice ofcallous ease.
'Yes,' he replied, quite colourlessly.
'I'm awf'lly sorry you aren't coming round to the flat. You aren't veryfaithful 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. Theyheard her level, toneless voice distinctly.
'He won't come over;--he is otherwise engaged,' it said. There was morelaughter 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 herslow, calm eyes. And she knew that the Pussum was one of hismistresses--and he knew she knew.
She looked round, and called for the waiter. She wanted an icedcocktail, of all things. This amused Gerald--he wondered what was up.
The Halliday party was tipsy, and malicious. They were talking outloudly about Birkin, ridiculing him on every point, particularly on hismarriage.
'Oh, DON'T make me think of Birkin,' Halliday was squealing. 'He makesme perfectly sick. He is as bad as Jesus. Lord, WHAT must I do to besaved!'
He giggled to himself tipsily.
'Do you remember,' came the quick voice of the Russian, 'the letters heused to send. Desire is holy-'
'Oh yes!' cried Halliday. 'Oh, how perfectly splendid. Why, I've gotone 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, itgives me the hiccup. Hic!--' They all giggled.
'What did he say in that one?' the Pussum asked, leaning forward, herdark, soft hair falling and swinging against her face. There wassomething curiously indecent, obscene, about her small, longish, darkskull, 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 drinkwater it would take off this hiccup? HIC! Oh, I feel perfectlyhelpless.'
'Isn't that the letter about uniting the dark and the light--and theFlux 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 oneof the best. There is a phase in every race--' he read in thesing-song, slow, distinct voice of a clergyman reading the Scriptures,'When the desire for destruction overcomes every other desire. In theindividual, this desire is ultimately a desire for destruction in theself--HIC!--' he paused and looked up.
'I hope he's going ahead with the destruction of himself,' said thequick 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 thinalready, there's only a fag-end to start on.'
'Oh, isn't it beautiful! I love reading it! I believe it has cured myhiccup!' squealed Halliday. 'Do let me go on. It is a desire for thereduction process in oneself, a reducing back to the origin, a returnalong the Flux of Corruption, to the original rudimentary conditions ofbeing--! Oh, but I DO think it is wonderful. It almost supersedes theBible-'
'Yes--Flux of Corruption,' said the Russian, 'I remember that phrase.'
'Oh, he was always talking about Corruption,' said the Pussum. 'He mustbe 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 dolisten to this. And in the great retrogression, the reducing back ofthe created body of life, we get knowledge, and beyond knowledge, thephosphorescent ecstasy of acute sensation. Oh, I do think thesephrases are too absurdly wonderful. Oh but don't you think theyARE--they're nearly as good as Jesus. And if, Julius, you want thisecstasy of reduction with the Pussum, you must go on till it isfulfilled. But surely there is in you also, somewhere, the livingdesire for positive creation, relationships in ultimate faith, when allthis process of active corruption, with all its flowers of mud, istranscended, and more or less finished-- I do wonder what the flowersof 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 flowersof mud--FLEURS--HIC! DU MAL! It's perfectly wonderful, Birkin harrowingHell--harrowing the Pompadour--HIC!'
'Go on--go on,' said Maxim. 'What comes next? It's really veryinteresting.'
'I think it's awful cheek to write like that,' said the Pussum.
'Yes--yes, so do I,' said the Russian. 'He is a megalomaniac, ofcourse, it is a form of religious mania. He thinks he is the Saviour ofman--go on reading.'
'Surely,' Halliday intoned, 'surely goodness and mercy hath followedme all the days of my life--' he broke off and giggled. Then he beganagain, intoning like a clergyman. 'Surely there will come an end inus to this desire--for the constant going apart,--this passion forputting asunder--everything--ourselves, reducing ourselves part frompart--reacting in intimacy only for destruction,--using sex as a greatreducing agent, reducing the two great elements of male and female fromtheir highly complex unity--reducing the old ideas, going back to thesavages for our sensations,--always seeking to LOSE ourselves in someultimate black sensation, mindless and infinite--burning only withdestructive fires, raging on with the hope of being burnt oututterly--'
'I want to go,' said Gudrun to Gerald, as she signalled the waiter. Hereyes were flashing, her cheeks were flushed. The strange effect ofBirkin's letter read aloud in a perfect clerical sing-song, clear andresonant, phrase by phrase, made the blood mount into her head as ifshe were mad.
She rose, whilst Gerald was paying the bill, and walked over toHalliday's table. They all glanced up at her.
'Excuse me,' she said. 'Is that a genuine letter you are reading?'
'Oh yes,' said Halliday. 'Quite genuine.'
'May I see?'
Smiling foolishly he handed it to her, as if hypnotised.
'Thank you,' she said.
And she turned and walked out of the Cafe with the letter, all down thebrilliant room, between the tables, in her measured fashion. It wassome moments before anybody realised what was happening.
From Halliday's table came half articulate cries, then somebody booed,then all the far end of the place began booing after Gudrun'sretreating form. She was fashionably dressed in blackish-green andsilver, her hat was brilliant green, like the sheen on an insect, butthe brim was soft dark green, a falling edge with fine silver, her coatwas dark green, lustrous, with a high collar of grey fur, and great furcuffs, the edge of her dress showed silver and black velvet, herstockings and shoes were silver grey. She moved with slow, fashionableindifference to the door. The porter opened obsequiously for her, and,at her nod, hurried to the edge of the pavement and whistled for ataxi. The two lights of a vehicle almost immediately curved roundtowards her, like two eyes.
Gerald had followed in wonder, amid all the booing, not having caughther misdeed. He heard the Pussum's voice saying:
'Go and get it back from her. I never heard of such a thing! Go and getit back from her. Tell Gerald Crich--there he goes--go and make himgive it up.'
Gudrun stood at the door of the taxi, which the man held open for her.
'To the hotel?' she asked, as Gerald came out, hurriedly.
'Where you like,' he answered.
'Right!' she said. Then to the driver, 'Wagstaff's--Barton Street.'
The driver bowed his head, and put down the flag.
Gudrun entered the taxi, with the deliberate cold movement of a womanwho is well-dressed and contemptuous in her soul. Yet she was frozenwith overwrought feelings. Gerald followed her.
'You've forgotten the man,' she said cooly, with a slight nod of herhat. Gerald gave the porter a shilling. The man saluted. They were inmotion.
'What was all the row about?' asked Gerald, in wondering excitement.
'I walked away with Birkin's letter,' she said, and he saw the crushedpaper in her hand.
His eyes glittered with satisfaction.
'Ah!' he said. 'Splendid! A set of jackasses!'
'I could have KILLED them!' she cried in passion. 'DOGS!--they aredogs! Why is Rupert such a FOOL as to write such letters to them? Whydoes he give himself away to such canaille? It's a thing that CANNOT BEBORNE.'
Gerald wondered over her strange passion.
And she could not rest any longer in London. They must go by themorning train from Charing Cross. As they drew over the bridge, in thetrain, having glimpses of the river between the great iron girders, shecried:
'I feel I could NEVER see this foul town again--I couldn't BEAR to comeback to it.'