Chapter 28 Gudrun in the Pompadour

CHRISTMAS DREW NEAR, all four prepared for flight. Birkin and Ursula were busy packing their few personal things, making them ready to be sent off, to whatever country and whatever place they might choose at last. Gudrun was very much excited. She loved to be on the wing.

She and Gerald, being ready first, set off via London and Paris to Innsbruck, where they would meet Ursula and Birkin. In London they stayed one night. They went to the music-hall, and afterwards to the Pompadour Cafe.

Gudrun hated the Cafe, yet she always went back to it, as did most of the artists of her acquaintance. She loathed its atmosphere of petty vice 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 it a look.

She sat with Gerald drinking some sweetish liqueur, and staring with black, sullen looks at the various groups of people at the tables. She would greet nobody, but young men nodded to her frequently, with a kind of sneering familiarity. She cut them all. And it gave her pleasure to sit there, cheeks flushed, eyes black and sullen, seeing them all objectively, as put away from her, like creatures in some menagerie of apish degraded souls. God, what a foul crew they were! Her blood beat black and thick in her veins with rage and loathing. Yet she must sit and watch, watch. One or two people came to speak to her. From every side 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 his girl, Halliday and Libidnikov and the Pussum -- they were all there. Gudrun watched Gerald. She watched his eyes linger a moment on Halliday, on Halliday's party. These last were on the look-out -- they nodded to him, he nodded again. They giggled and whispered among themselves. 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 splashed and spattered with different colours, a curious motley effect. She was thinner, her eyes were perhaps hotter, more disintegrated. Otherwise she was just the same. Gerald watched her with the same steady twinkle in his eyes as she came across. She held out her thin brown hand to him.

`How are you?' she said.

He shook hands with her, but remained seated, and let her stand near him, against the table. She nodded blackly to Gudrun, whom she did not know 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 her tone, 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 in the small, beautiful figure of the short-haired girl, as she stood near Gerald.

`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 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!'

`Go on -- go on,' said Maxim. `What comes next? It's really very interesting.'

`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, of course, it is a form of religious mania. He thinks he is the Saviour of man -- go on reading.'

`Surely,' Halliday intoned, ` "surely goodness and mercy hath followed me all the days of my life --" ' he broke off and giggled. Then he began again, intoning like a clergyman. ` "Surely there will come an end in us to this desire -- for the constant going apart, -- this passion for putting asunder -- everything -- ourselves, reducing ourselves part from part -- reacting in intimacy only for destruction, -- using sex as a great reducing agent, reducing the two great elements of male and female from their highly complex unity -- reducing the old ideas, going back to the savages for our sensations, -- always seeking to lose ourselves in some ultimate black sensation, mindless and infinite -- burning only with destructive fires, raging on with the hope of being burnt out utterly --" '

`I want to go,' said Gudrun to Gerald, as she signalled the waiter. Her eyes were flashing, her cheeks were flushed. The strange effect of Birkin's letter read aloud in a perfect clerical sing-song, clear and resonant, phrase by phrase, made the blood mount into her head as if she were mad.

She rose, whilst Gerald was paying the bill, and walked over to Halliday'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 the brilliant room, between the tables, in her measured fashion. It was some 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's retreating form. She was fashionably dressed in blackish-green and silver, her hat was brilliant green, like the sheen on an insect, but the brim was soft dark green, a falling edge with fine silver, her coat was dark green, lustrous, with a high collar of grey fur, and great fur cuffs, the edge of her dress showed silver and black velvet, her stockings and shoes were silver grey. She moved with slow, fashionable indifference to the door. The porter opened obsequiously for her, and, at her nod, hurried to the edge of the pavement and whistled for a taxi. The two lights of a vehicle almost immediately curved round towards her, like two eyes.

Gerald had followed in wonder, amid all the booing, not having caught her misdeed. He heard the Pussum's voice saying:

`Go and get it back from her. I never heard of such a thing! Go and get it back from her. Tell Gerald Crich -- there he goes -- go and make him give 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 woman who is well-dressed and contemptuous in her soul. Yet she was frozen with overwrought feelings. Gerald followed her.

`You've forgotten the man,' she said cooly, with a slight nod of her hat. Gerald gave the porter a shilling. The man saluted. They were in motion.

`What was all the row about?' asked Gerald, in wondering excitement.

`I walked away with Birkin's letter,' she said, and he saw the crushed paper 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 are dogs! Why is Rupert such a fool as to write such letters to them? Why does he give himself away to such canaille? It's a thing that cannot be borne.'

Gerald wondered over her strange passion.

And she could not rest any longer in London. They must go by the morning train from Charing Cross. As they drew over the bridge, in the train, having glimpses of the river between the great iron girders, she cried:

`I feel I could never see this foul town again -- I couldn't bear to come back to it.'

 

圣诞节快到了，他们四个人都准备出走了。伯金和厄秀拉忙着打点行李物品，准备运走。不管是哪个国家，哪个地方，选好了地方就可以运送东西。戈珍十分激动。她喜欢旅行。

她和杰拉德先做好了准备，就启程上路了。经过伦敦和巴黎去因斯布鲁克，在那儿和厄秀拉及伯金相会。他们在伦敦过了一夜。他们先去听音乐，然后去庞巴多酒馆。

戈珍讨厌酒馆，可总得来这儿，她熟识的艺术家们都来这儿。她讨厌这里的气氛，充满了小阴谋、妒嫉和小气的艺术。可她一来伦敦总得来这儿。似乎她必须到这狭小的、堕落与死亡的缓缓转动的旋风中心。只是来看看而已。

她和杰拉德喝着甜酒，阴郁的眼睛凝视着桌旁一群一群的人。她跟谁都不打招呼，可小伙子们却不停地冲她点头调笑着，似乎很熟悉的样子。她理都不理他们这帮人。她绯红着脸坐在那儿，目光阴郁，从容地打量着他们，就象远远地观看着动物园中的猿猴一样。她感到这样很开心。天啊，这是一帮多么卑鄙的人！她看到他们就气不打一处来，对他们恨之入骨。可她必须坐在那儿看着他们。他们当中有一两个人过来跟她打招呼。酒馆的每一面都有眼睛在偷看她，眼神里带着嘲弄的意味，男的扭过头看她，女的则从帽子下看她。

那群故旧们都在这儿。卡里昂和他的学生及女友坐在他常坐的角落里。海里戴，里比德尼科夫及米纳蒂都在。戈珍看着杰拉德，发现他的目光停留在海里戴那帮人那边。这些人注视着他，冲他点点头，他也冲他们点点头。然后那几个人嘻笑着窃窃私语起来。杰拉德目光炯炯地看着他们。他们在怂恿米纳蒂做什么事。

米纳蒂终于站起身来。她身着黑绸衣，衣服上印着长长的浅条子，给人奇怪的线条感。她比以前瘦了，她的眼睛更显大了，目光更不诚实了。除此之外她没什么变化。杰拉德目不转睛地盯着她向这边走来。她向他伸出干瘦、白皙的手说：

“你好。”

他同她握手，但仍旧坐着，让她挨着桌子站立着。她冲戈珍冷漠地点头，她不知道该怎么跟她打招呼，但知道她很有名气，一看就知她是什么人。

“我很好，你呢？”杰拉德说。

“哦，我还好。卢伯特怎么样？”

“卢伯特？他也很好。”

“我知道，我指的不是这个。我是问他结婚了吗？”

“哦，结了，他结婚了。”

米纳蒂的目光变得热辣辣的。

“哦，他真地这样做了？什么时候结的？”

“一两周以前。”

“真的！他没写信告诉我们呀。”

“没有？”

“没有。你不觉得这样太不好了吗？”

这后一句话是一种挑战，从米纳蒂的语调里流露出来，她注意到戈珍在听。

“我想他不愿意这样做。”杰拉德说。

“为什么？”米纳蒂追问。

没人回答。这位短发漂亮的小个子女人站在杰拉德身边显得很固执，语气很有嘲弄的意味。

“你会在城里住好久吗？”她问。

“只今天晚上。”

“啊，今晚。要过来跟裘里斯谈谈吗？”

“今天晚上不行。”

“那好。我去告诉他。”随后又装神弄鬼地说：“你看上去很健康。”

“是的，我有这感觉。”杰拉德显得很洒脱，眼睛里闪着嘲弄、快活的目光。

“你过得不错吧？”

这句话对戈珍是个直接的打击，那语调平缓，冷漠而随便。

“是的。”他毫无感情色彩地说。

“很遗憾，你不能过来。你对朋友可不够意思呀。”

“不太够意思。”他说。

她冲他们两个点点头告别，缓缓地向她的座位走去。戈珍看着她，发觉她走路的姿势很怪：身体僵直，腰部却在扭。

他们听到她在那边有气无力地说：

“他不来——人家有人约了。”随后那边桌上发出更大声的说笑和窃窃私语。

“她是你的朋友吗？”戈珍沉静地看着杰拉德。

“我和伯金一起在海里戴家住过。”他迎着戈珍沉静审视的目光说，她知道米纳蒂是他的情妇之一——他清楚她知道这事。

她四下张望一下，唤来了侍从。她此时最想喝冰镇鸡尾酒。这让杰拉德心中暗笑，心想这有什么了不起的？

海里戴这帮人喝醉了，说出话来很恶毒。他们大声地议论伯金，讽刺他做的每件事，特别是他的婚姻。

“哦，别跟我提伯金，”海里戴尖声说，“他让我恶心。他跟基督一样坏。‘天啊，我怎么才能得救啊？！’”

说着他自己醉熏熏地窃笑起来。

“你还记得他常写的信吗？”那俄国人说话速度很快。

“‘欲望是神圣的’。”

“啊，对！”海里戴叫道，“太妙了。我衣袋里还有一封呢。

我肯定有。”

他说着从衣袋里掏出一堆纸来。

“我肯定我有！呃，天啊，有一封！”

杰拉德和戈珍全神贯注地看着他们。

“啊，太妙了，真妙，呃！别逗我笑，米纳蒂，它让我打嗝儿，嗝儿！”大家都笑了。

“他信中说什么了？”米纳蒂凑过去看，松散的头发飘落下来盖住了脸。她那又小又长的头显得不那么体面，特别是露出耳朵时更是这样。

“等会儿，等等！不，不，我不给你看，我来念。我念最好玩的那一段——嗝儿！天啊，我喝点水是不是就不会打嗝儿了？嗝儿！啊，我没救了！”

“是不是谈黑暗与光明的结合，还有，就是腐蚀流？”马克西姆说话快但吐音很准确。

“我想是这些。”米纳蒂说。

“哦，是吗？我都忘了——嗝儿——是那封，”海里戴说着展开了信。“嗝儿——，是的。简直太妙了！这是最妙的一封信。‘每个民族都有这么一句话——’”他象念《圣经》的牧师那样缓慢、清晰地念着信，“‘毁灭欲会战胜任何别的欲望。在每个人身上，这种欲望就是毁灭自我的欲望’——嗝儿——”他停下来看着大家。

“我希望他先毁灭自己做个样子再说，”那俄国人很快地说。海里戴窃笑着，有气无力地向后仰着头。

“他没什么可毁灭的，”米纳蒂说，“他已经够瘦的了，只有一把骨头渣儿了。”

“哦，很好！我喜欢读这种信！我相信它治好了我的病，不打嗝儿了！”海里戴尖叫着。“听我接着念下去嘛。‘这是一种衰退的过程，退回原形状态，随着腐蚀流回归，回归到生命原本的基本状态——！’啊，我的确觉得这太神奇了。它超过《圣经》了。”

“对，腐蚀流这句话，”俄国人说，“我记住这句话了。”

“他总在谈什么腐蚀，”米纳蒂说，“他一定很堕落，否则脑子里就不会想这么多。”

“很对！”俄国人说。

“让我念下去！哦，这一段妙不可言！听着。‘是在这大退化中，在生命体的退化中，我们获得了知识，超越了知识，获得了至深的感觉，这是一种狂喜。’哦，我真觉得这些话荒谬得出奇。你们不这样看吗？这些话象耶稣说的。‘如果，裘里斯，你需要和米纳蒂产生这种退化的狂喜，你就应该争取，直到获得了它。当然，你身上肯定也有一种活生生的积极创造欲——极端忠诚的关系，当活跃的腐蚀之花开败后。’我真不知道这些腐蚀之花是什么。米纳蒂，你是这样的花。”

“谢谢，那你是什么呢？”

“啊，我是另一朵，按照这封信所说我肯定是的！我们都是——嗝儿——恶之花！这太妙了，伯金是一座折磨人的地狱。折磨人的庞巴多——嗝儿！”

“接着念，念下去，”马克西姆说，“下面的话是什么？太有意思了。”

“我觉得这样写太可怕了。”米纳蒂说。

“是啊，我也这么看，”俄国人说，“他是个妄自尊大的人，当然这表现出他的宗教疯狂症，他觉得他是人类的救星。接着读。”

“当然了，”海里戴拖长声音道，“‘当然了，我一生中都有善和宽容追随着我——’”海里戴停下来窃笑着，然后又象个牧师一样拖长声音念看。“‘我们这种欲望肯定会消失的，因为这种毁灭的激情会破碎，把我们一点点地粉碎——亲昵只是为了毁灭，性成了退化的媒介，把男人和女人这两种基本因素高度复杂的统一体削弱——削弱旧的观念，回归到野性的感觉中去，不断地寻求在黑暗的感知中失去自我。盲目地、无限地被毁灭的火焰燃烧，希望被火烧尽——’”

“我想走了，”戈珍对杰拉德边说边打手式叫来侍从。她眼睛发亮，脸颊绯红。海里戴象牧师一样逐字逐句地朗读伯金的信，声音清晰又响亮，这让她觉得血直往头上涌，令她发疯。

杰拉德付款时，她站起身向海里戴桌边走去。他们都抬头看她。

“请原谅，”她说，“你念的是一封真正的信吗？”

“哦，是的，”海里戴说，“确实是真的。”

“我可以看看吗？”

海里戴着了迷似地傻笑着把信递给她。

“谢谢。”她说。

说完她拿着信走出了酒馆，款款地从桌子中间穿过，走出了这灯火辉煌的屋子。好半天以后人们才意识到都发生了些什么事儿。

海里戴桌旁发出轻蔑的“呸”，然后这个角落的人们都冲戈珍的背影啐起来。她墨绿色与银灰相间的衣服很时髦，帽子是嫩绿色的，就象昆虫的壳，但帽沿儿则是深绿的，描了一圈银边。她的外衣是墨绿的，闪闪发光，毛领子高高竖起，衣服镶着银色与黑色的绸边儿。她的袜子和鞋子是银灰色的。她拿着架子缓缓、漠然地向门口走去。侍从谄媚地为她开门并守在门边伺候，在她示意下奔向便道旁打个口哨唤来出租车。车上的两盏灯几乎象两只眼睛一样立即向她转过来。

杰拉德在一片啐声中追出来，他不知道戈珍有什么做得不对，他听到米纳蒂说：

“去，把信从她那儿要回来。从来没有见过这种事！向她要回来。去告诉杰拉德·克里奇——他走了，让他向她要。”

戈珍站在车门边，侍从为她打开了门。

“去旅馆吗？”她冲匆匆而来的杰拉德问。

“你乐意去哪儿就去哪儿。”他说。

“好！”她说。然后对司机说，“去瓦格斯塔夫——巴顿大街。”

司机点点头，放下旗子。

戈珍故做冷漠，象所有衣着华贵、目空一切的女人一样进了汽车。杰拉德随她进了汽车。

“你忘了那仆人，”她冷漠地点一下头。杰拉德忙给了侍从一个先令。那人敬个礼。车开动了。

“他们闹什么呢？”杰拉德不解地问。

“我拿了伯金的信就走开了。”她看看手中揉烂了的信说。

他露出满意的眼神。

“啊！”他说，“太好了！一群笨蛋！”

“我真想杀了他们！”她激动地说，“一群狗！他们是一群狗！卢伯特真傻，怎么会给他们写这样的信？！他干吗要向这群下等人暴露思想？这太不能令人容忍了。”

杰拉德揣度着她这奇特的激情。

她在伦敦再也呆不下去了。他们必须坐早车离开这儿。他们在火车经过大桥时，她望着铁桥下的河水叫道：

“我再也不要见到这肮脏的城市了，一回来我就无法忍受这地方。”