“But you’re not now,” she said. “You’re not that now: a broken-backed snake that’s been trodden on.”
“I don’t know what I am. There’s black days ahead.”
“No!” she protested, clinging to him. “Why? Why?”
“There’s black days coming for us all and for everybody,” he repeated with a prophetic gloom.
“No! You’re not to say it!”
He was silent. But she could feel the black void of despair inside him. That was the death of all desire, the death of all love: this despair that was like the dark cave inside the men, in which their spirit was lost.
“And you talk so coldly about sex,” she said. “You talk as if you had only wanted your own pleasure and satisfaction.”
She was protesting nervously against him.
“Nay!” he said. “I wanted to have my pleasure and satisfaction of a woman, and I never got it: because I could never get my pleasure and satisfaction of her unless she got hers of me at the same time. And it never happened. It takes two.”
“But you never believed in your women. You don’t even believe really in me,” she said.
“I don’t know what believing in a woman means.”
“That’s it, you see!”
She still was curled on his lap. But his spirit was grey and absent, he was not there for her. And everything she said drove him further.
“But what do you believe in?” she insisted.