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Updated: May 31, 2025
Halliday came and sat at the table, putting his hand on his heart, and crying: 'Oh, it's given me such a turn! Pussum, I wish you wouldn't do these things. Why did you come back? 'Not for anything from you, she repeated. 'You've said that before, he cried in a high voice. She turned completely away from him, to Gerald Crich, whose eyes were shining with a subtle amusement.
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.
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.
Won't you come round to the flat? he said to Gerald. 'I should be so glad if you would. Do that'll be splendid. I say? He looked round for a waiter. 'Get me a taxi. Then he groaned again. 'Oh I do feel perfectly ghastly! Pussum, you see what you do to me. 'Then why are you such an idiot? she said with sullen calm. 'But I'm not an idiot! Oh, how awful!
She looked so small and childish and vulnerable, almost pitiful. And yet the black looks of her eyes made Gerald feel drowned in some potent darkness that almost frightened him. The men lit another cigarette and talked casually. In the morning Gerald woke late. He had slept heavily. Pussum was still asleep, sleeping childishly and pathetically.
One glass of wine was enough to make him drunk and giggling. Yet there was always a pleasant, warm naivete 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.
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.
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.
The Pussum lay in her bed, motionless, her round, dark eyes like black, unhappy pools. He could only see the black, bottomless pools of her eyes. Perhaps she suffered. The sensation of her inchoate suffering roused the old sharp flame in him, a mordant pity, a passion almost of cruelty. 'You are awake now, he said to her. 'What time is it? came her muted voice.
They felt the swift, muffled motion of the car. The Pussum sat near to Gerald, and she seemed to become soft, subtly to infuse herself into his bones, as if she were passing into him in a black, electric flow. Her being suffused into his veins like a magnetic darkness, and concentrated at the base of his spine like a fearful source of power.
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