Women in Love. D. H. Lawrence

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СКАЧАТЬ face of the young man. Its very softness was an attraction; it was a soft, warm, corrupt nature, into which one might plunge with gratification.

      “But he has no hold over you, has he?” Gerald asked.

      “You see he made me go and live with him, when I didn’t want to,” she replied. “He came and cried to me, tears, you never saw so many, saying he couldn’t bear it unless I went back to him. And he wouldn’t go away, he would have stayed for ever. He made me go back. Then every time he behaves in this fashion. And now I’m going to have a baby, he wants to give me a hundred pounds and send me into the country, so that he would never see me nor hear of me again. But I’m not going to do it, after—”

      A queer look came over Gerald’s face.

      “Are you going to have a child?” he asked incredulous. It seemed, to look at her, impossible, she was so young and so far in spirit from any childbearing.

      She looked full into his face, and her dark, inchoate eyes had now a furtive look, and a look of a knowledge of evil, dark and indomitable. A flame ran secretly to his heart.

      “Yes,” she said. “Isn’t it beastly?”

      “Don’t you want it?” he asked.

      “I don’t,” she replied emphatically.

      “But—” he said, “how long have you known?”

      “Ten weeks,” she said.

      All the time she kept her dark, inchoate eyes full upon him. He remained silent, thinking. Then, switching off and becoming cold, he asked, in a voice full of considerate kindness:

      “Is there anything we can eat here? Is there anything you would like?”

      “Yes,” she said, “I should adore some oysters.”

      “All right,” he said. “We’ll have oysters.” And he beckoned to the waiter.

      Halliday took no notice, until the little plate was set before her. Then suddenly he cried:

      “Pussum, you can’t eat oysters when you’re drinking brandy.”

      “What has it go to do with you?” she asked.

      “Nothing, nothing,” he cried. “But you can’t eat oysters when you’re drinking brandy.”

      “I’m not drinking brandy,” she replied, and she sprinkled the last drops of her liqueur over his face. He gave an odd squeal. She sat looking at him, as if indifferent.

      “Pussum, why do you do that?” he cried in panic. He gave Gerald the impression that he was terrified of her, and that he loved his terror. He seemed to relish his own horror and hatred of her, turn it over and extract every flavour from it, in real panic. Gerald thought him a strange fool, and yet piquant.

      “But Pussum,” said another man, in a very small, quick Eton voice, “you promised not to hurt him.”

      “I haven’t hurt him,” she answered.

      “What will you drink?” the young man asked. He was dark, and smooth-skinned, and full of a stealthy vigour.

      “I don’t like porter, Maxim,” she replied.

      “You must ask for champagne,” came the whispering, gentlemanly voice of the other.

      Gerald suddenly realised that this was a hint to him.

      “Shall we have champagne?” he asked, laughing.

      “Yes please, dwy,” she lisped childishly.

      Gerald watched her eating the oysters. She was delicate and finicking in her eating, her fingers were fine and seemed very sensitive in the tips, so she put her food apart with fine, small motions, she ate carefully, delicately. It pleased him very much to see her, and it irritated Birkin. They were all drinking champagne. Maxim, the prim young Russian with the smooth, warm-coloured face and black, oiled hair was the only one who seemed to be perfectly calm and sober. Birkin was white and abstract, unnatural, Gerald was smiling with a constant bright, amused, cold light in his eyes, leaning a little protectively towards the Pussum, who was very handsome, and soft, unfolded like some red lotus in dreadful flowering nakedness, vainglorious now, flushed with wine and with the excitement of men. Halliday looked foolish. One glass of wine was enough to make him drunk and giggling. Yet there was always a pleasant, warm naïveté about him, that made him attractive.

      “I’m not afwaid of anything except black-beetles,” said the Pussum, looking up suddenly and staring with her black eyes, on which there seemed an unseeing film of flame, fully upon Gerald. He laughed dangerously, from the blood. Her childish speech caressed his nerves, and her burning, filmed eyes, turned now full upon him, oblivious of all her antecedents, gave him a sort of licence.

      “I’m not,” she protested. “I’m not afraid of other things. But black-beetles—ugh!” she shuddered convulsively, as if the very thought were too much to bear.

      “Do you mean,” said Gerald, with the punctiliousness of a man who has been drinking, “that you are afraid of the sight of a black-beetle, or you are afraid of a black-beetle biting you, or doing you some harm?”

      “Do they bite?” cried the girl.

      “How perfectly loathsome!” exclaimed Halliday.

      “I don’t know,” replied Gerald, looking round the table. “Do black-beetles bite? But that isn’t the point. Are you afraid of their biting, or is it a metaphysical antipathy?”

      The girl was looking full upon him all the time with inchoate eyes.

      “Oh, I think they’re beastly, they’re horrid,” she cried. “If I see one, it gives me the creeps all over. If one were to crawl on me, I’m sure I should die—I’m sure I should.”

      “I hope not,” whispered the young Russian.

      “I’m sure I should, Maxim,” she asseverated.

      “Then one won’t crawl on you,” said Gerald, smiling and knowing. In some strange way he understood her.

      “It’s metaphysical, as Gerald says,” Birkin stated.

      There was a little pause of uneasiness.

      “And are you afraid of nothing else, Pussum?” asked the young Russian, in his quick, hushed, elegant manner.

      “Not weally,” she said. “I am afwaid of some things, but not weally the same. I’m not afwaid of blood.”

      “Not afwaid of blood!” exclaimed a young man with a thick, pale, jeering face, who had just come to the table and was drinking whisky.

      The Pussum turned on him a sulky look of dislike, low and ugly.

      “Aren’t you really afraid of blud?” the other persisted, a sneer all over his face.

      “No, I’m not,” she retorted.

      “Why, have you ever seen blood, СКАЧАТЬ