Women in Love

by D. H. Lawrence

  CHAPTER XXII.

  WOMAN TO WOMAN

  They came to the town, and left Gerald at the railway station. Gudrunand Winifred were to come to tea with Birkin, who expected Ursula also.In the afternoon, however, the first person to turn up was Hermione.Birkin was out, so she went in the drawing-room, looking at his booksand papers, and playing on the piano. Then Ursula arrived. She wassurprised, unpleasantly so, to see Hermione, of whom she had heardnothing for some time.

  'It is a surprise to see you,' she said.

  'Yes,' said Hermione--'I've been away at Aix--'

  'Oh, for your health?'

  'Yes.'

  The two women looked at each other. Ursula resented Hermione's long,grave, downward-looking face. There was something of the stupidity andthe unenlightened self-esteem of a horse in it. 'She's got ahorse-face,' Ursula said to herself, 'she runs between blinkers.' Itdid seem as if Hermione, like the moon, had only one side to her penny.There was no obverse. She stared out all the time on the narrow, but toher, complete world of the extant consciousness. In the darkness, shedid not exist. Like the moon, one half of her was lost to life. Herself was all in her head, she did not know what it was spontaneously torun or move, like a fish in the water, or a weasel on the grass. Shemust always KNOW.

  But Ursula only suffered from Hermione's one-sidedness. She only feltHermione's cool evidence, which seemed to put her down as nothing.Hermione, who brooded and brooded till she was exhausted with the acheof her effort at consciousness, spent and ashen in her body, who gainedso slowly and with such effort her final and barren conclusions ofknowledge, was apt, in the presence of other women, whom she thoughtsimply female, to wear the conclusions of her bitter assurance likejewels which conferred on her an unquestionable distinction,established her in a higher order of life. She was apt, mentally, tocondescend to women such as Ursula, whom she regarded as purelyemotional. Poor Hermione, it was her one possession, this achingcertainty of hers, it was her only justification. She must be confidenthere, for God knows, she felt rejected and deficient enough elsewhere.In the life of thought, of the spirit, she was one of the elect. Andshe wanted to be universal. But there was a devastating cynicism at thebottom of her. She did not believe in her own universals--they weresham. She did not believe in the inner life--it was a trick, not areality. She did not believe in the spiritual world--it was anaffectation. In the last resort, she believed in Mammon, the flesh, andthe devil--these at least were not sham. She was a priestess withoutbelief, without conviction, suckled in a creed outworn, and condemnedto the reiteration of mysteries that were not divine to her. Yet therewas no escape. She was a leaf upon a dying tree. What help was therethen, but to fight still for the old, withered truths, to die for theold, outworn belief, to be a sacred and inviolate priestess ofdesecrated mysteries? The old great truths BAD been true. And she was aleaf of the old great tree of knowledge that was withering now. To theold and last truth then she must be faithful even though cynicism andmockery took place at the bottom of her soul.

  'I am so glad to see you,' she said to Ursula, in her slow voice, thatwas like an incantation. 'You and Rupert have become quite friends?'

  'Oh yes,' said Ursula. 'He is always somewhere in the background.'

  Hermione paused before she answered. She saw perfectly well the otherwoman's vaunt: it seemed truly vulgar.

  'Is he?' she said slowly, and with perfect equanimity. 'And do youthink you will marry?'

  The question was so calm and mild, so simple and bare and dispassionatethat Ursula was somewhat taken aback, rather attracted. It pleased heralmost like a wickedness. There was some delightful naked irony inHermione.

  'Well,' replied Ursula, 'HE wants to, awfully, but I'm not so sure.'

  Hermione watched her with slow calm eyes. She noted this new expressionof vaunting. How she envied Ursula a certain unconscious positivity!even her vulgarity!

  'Why aren't you sure?' she asked, in her easy sing song. She wasperfectly at her ease, perhaps even rather happy in this conversation.'You don't really love him?'

  Ursula flushed a little at the mild impertinence of this question. Andyet she could not definitely take offence. Hermione seemed so calmlyand sanely candid. After all, it was rather great to be able to be sosane.

  'He says it isn't love he wants,' she replied.

  'What is it then?' Hermione was slow and level.

  'He wants me really to accept him in marriage.'

  Hermione was silent for some time, watching Ursula with slow, pensiveeyes.

  'Does he?' she said at length, without expression. Then, rousing, 'Andwhat is it you don't want? You don't want marriage?'

  'No--I don't--not really. I don't want to give the sort of SUBMISSIONhe insists on. He wants me to give myself up--and I simply don't feelthat I CAN do it.'

  Again there was a long pause, before Hermione replied:

  'Not if you don't want to.' Then again there was silence. Hermioneshuddered with a strange desire. Ah, if only he had asked HER tosubserve him, to be his slave! She shuddered with desire.

  'You see I can't--'

  'But exactly in what does--'

  They had both begun at once, they both stopped. Then, Hermione,assuming priority of speech, resumed as if wearily:

  'To what does he want you to submit?'

  'He says he wants me to accept him non-emotionally, and finally--Ireally don't know what he means. He says he wants the demon part ofhimself to be mated--physically--not the human being. You see he saysone thing one day, and another the next--and he always contradictshimself--'

  'And always thinks about himself, and his own dissatisfaction,' saidHermione slowly.

  'Yes,' cried Ursula. 'As if there were no-one but himself concerned.That makes it so impossible.'

  But immediately she began to retract.

  'He insists on my accepting God knows what in HIM,' she resumed. 'Hewants me to accept HIM as--as an absolute--But it seems to me hedoesn't want to GIVE anything. He doesn't want real warm intimacy--hewon't have it--he rejects it. He won't let me think, really, and hewon't let me FEEL--he hates feelings.'

  There was a long pause, bitter for Hermione. Ah, if only he would havemade this demand of her? Her he DROVE into thought, drove inexorablyinto knowledge--and then execrated her for it.

  'He wants me to sink myself,' Ursula resumed, 'not to have any being ofmy own--'

  'Then why doesn't he marry an odalisk?' said Hermione in her mildsing-song, 'if it is that he wants.' Her long face looked sardonic andamused.

  'Yes,' said Ursula vaguely. After all, the tiresome thing was, he didnot want an odalisk, he did not want a slave. Hermione would have beenhis slave--there was in her a horrible desire to prostrate herselfbefore a man--a man who worshipped her, however, and admitted her asthe supreme thing. He did not want an odalisk. He wanted a woman toTAKE something from him, to give herself up so much that she could takethe last realities of him, the last facts, the last physical facts,physical and unbearable.

  And if she did, would he acknowledge her? Would he be able toacknowledge her through everything, or would he use her just as hisinstrument, use her for his own private satisfaction, not admittingher? That was what the other men had done. They had wanted their ownshow, and they would not admit her, they turned all she was intonothingness. Just as Hermione now betrayed herself as a woman. Hermionewas like a man, she believed only in men's things. She betrayed thewoman in herself. And Birkin, would he acknowledge, or would he denyher?

  'Yes,' said Hermione, as each woman came out of her own separatereverie. 'It would be a mistake--I think it would be a mistake--'

  'To marry him?' asked Ursula.

  'Yes,' said Hermione slowly--'I think you need a man--soldierly,strong-willed--' Hermione held out her hand and clenched it withrhapsodic intensity. 'You should have a man like the old heroes--youneed to stand behind him as he goes into battle, you need to SEE hisstrength, and to HEAR his shout--. You need a man physically strong,and virile in his will, NOT a sensitive man--
.' There was a break, asif the pythoness had uttered the oracle, and now the woman went on, ina rhapsody-wearied voice: 'And you see, Rupert isn't this, he isn't. Heis frail in health and body, he needs great, great care. Then he is sochangeable and unsure of himself--it requires the greatest patience andunderstanding to help him. And I don't think you are patient. You wouldhave to be prepared to suffer--dreadfully. I can't TELL you how muchsuffering it would take to make him happy. He lives an INTENSELYspiritual life, at times--too, too wonderful. And then come thereactions. I can't speak of what I have been through with him. We havebeen together so long, I really do know him, I DO know what he is. AndI feel I must say it; I feel it would be perfectly DISASTROUS for youto marry him--for you even more than for him.' Hermione lapsed intobitter reverie. 'He is so uncertain, so unstable--he wearies, and thenreacts. I couldn't TELL you what his re-actions are. I couldn't TELLyou the agony of them. That which he affirms and loves one day--alittle latter he turns on it in a fury of destruction. He is neverconstant, always this awful, dreadful reaction. Always the quick changefrom good to bad, bad to good. And nothing is so devastating,nothing--'

  'Yes,' said Ursula humbly, 'you must have suffered.'

  An unearthly light came on Hermione's face. She clenched her hand likeone inspired.

  'And one must be willing to suffer--willing to suffer for him hourly,daily--if you are going to help him, if he is to keep true to anythingat all--'

  'And I don't WANT to suffer hourly and daily,' said Ursula. 'I don't, Ishould be ashamed. I think it is degrading not to be happy.'

  Hermione stopped and looked at her a long time.

  'Do you?' she said at last. And this utterance seemed to her a mark ofUrsula's far distance from herself. For to Hermione suffering was thegreatest reality, come what might. Yet she too had a creed ofhappiness.

  'Yes,' she said. 'One SHOULD be happy--' But it was a matter of will.

  'Yes,' said Hermione, listlessly now, 'I can only feel that it would bedisastrous, disastrous--at least, to marry in a hurry. Can't you betogether without marriage? Can't you go away and live somewhere withoutmarriage? I do feel that marriage would be fatal, for both of you. Ithink for you even more than for him--and I think of his health--'

  'Of course,' said Ursula, 'I don't care about marriage--it isn't reallyimportant to me--it's he who wants it.'

  'It is his idea for the moment,' said Hermione, with that wearyfinality, and a sort of SI JEUNESSE SAVAIT infallibility.

  There was a pause. Then Ursula broke into faltering challenge.

  'You think I'm merely a physical woman, don't you?'

  'No indeed,' said Hermione. 'No, indeed! But I think you are vital andyoung--it isn't a question of years, or even of experience--it isalmost a question of race. Rupert is race-old, he comes of an oldrace--and you seem to me so young, you come of a young, inexperiencedrace.'

  'Do I!' said Ursula. 'But I think he is awfully young, on one side.'

  'Yes, perhaps childish in many respects. Nevertheless--'

  They both lapsed into silence. Ursula was filled with deep resentmentand a touch of hopelessness. 'It isn't true,' she said to herself,silently addressing her adversary. 'It isn't true. And it is YOU whowant a physically strong, bullying man, not I. It is you who want anunsensitive man, not I. You DON'T know anything about Rupert, notreally, in spite of the years you have had with him. You don't give hima woman's love, you give him an ideal love, and that is why he reactsaway from you. You don't know. You only know the dead things. Anykitchen maid would know something about him, you don't know. What doyou think your knowledge is but dead understanding, that doesn't mean athing. You are so false, and untrue, how could you know anything? Whatis the good of your talking about love--you untrue spectre of a woman!How can you know anything, when you don't believe? You don't believe inyourself and your own womanhood, so what good is your conceited,shallow cleverness--!'

  The two women sat on in antagonistic silence. Hermione felt injured,that all her good intention, all her offering, only left the otherwoman in vulgar antagonism. But then, Ursula could not understand,never would understand, could never be more than the usual jealous andunreasonable female, with a good deal of powerful female emotion,female attraction, and a fair amount of female understanding, but nomind. Hermione had decided long ago that where there was no mind, itwas useless to appeal for reason--one had merely to ignore theignorant. And Rupert--he had now reacted towards the strongly female,healthy, selfish woman--it was his reaction for the time being--therewas no helping it all. It was all a foolish backward and forward, aviolent oscillation that would at length be too violent for hiscoherency, and he would smash and be dead. There was no saving him.This violent and directionless reaction between animalism and spiritualtruth would go on in him till he tore himself in two between theopposite directions, and disappeared meaninglessly out of life. It wasno good--he too was without unity, without MIND, in the ultimate stagesof living; not quite man enough to make a destiny for a woman.

  They sat on till Birkin came in and found them together. He felt atonce the antagonism in the atmosphere, something radical andinsuperable, and he bit his lip. But he affected a bluff manner.

  'Hello, Hermione, are you back again? How do you feel?'

  'Oh, better. And how are you--you don't look well--'

  'Oh!--I believe Gudrun and Winnie Crich are coming in to tea. At leastthey said they were. We shall be a tea-party. What train did you comeby, Ursula?'

  It was rather annoying to see him trying to placate both women at once.Both women watched him, Hermione with deep resentment and pity for him,Ursula very impatient. He was nervous and apparently in quite goodspirits, chattering the conventional commonplaces. Ursula was amazedand indignant at the way he made small-talk; he was adept as any FAT inChristendom. She became quite stiff, she would not answer. It allseemed to her so false and so belittling. And still Gudrun did notappear.

  'I think I shall go to Florence for the winter,' said Hermione atlength.

  'Will you?' he answered. 'But it is so cold there.'

  'Yes, but I shall stay with Palestra. It is quite comfortable.'

  'What takes you to Florence?'

  'I don't know,' said Hermione slowly. Then she looked at him with herslow, heavy gaze. 'Barnes is starting his school of aesthetics, andOlandese is going to give a set of discourses on the Italian nationalpolicy-'

  'Both rubbish,' he said.

  'No, I don't think so,' said Hermione.

  'Which do you admire, then?'

  'I admire both. Barnes is a pioneer. And then I am interested in Italy,in her coming to national consciousness.'

  'I wish she'd come to something different from national consciousness,then,' said Birkin; 'especially as it only means a sort ofcommercial-industrial consciousness. I hate Italy and her nationalrant. And I think Barnes is an amateur.'

  Hermione was silent for some moments, in a state of hostility. But yet,she had got Birkin back again into her world! How subtle her influencewas, she seemed to start his irritable attention into her directionexclusively, in one minute. He was her creature.

  'No,' she said, 'you are wrong.' Then a sort of tension came over her,she raised her face like the pythoness inspired with oracles, and wenton, in rhapsodic manner: 'Il Sandro mi scrive che ha accolto il piugrande entusiasmo, tutti i giovani, e fanciulle e ragazzi, sonotutti--' She went on in Italian, as if, in thinking of the Italians shethought in their language.

  He listened with a shade of distaste to her rhapsody, then he said:

  'For all that, I don't like it. Their nationalism is justindustrialism--that and a shallow jealousy I detest so much.'

  'I think you are wrong--I think you are wrong--' said Hermione. 'Itseems to me purely spontaneous and beautiful, the modern Italian'sPASSION, for it is a passion, for Italy, L'Italia--'

  'Do you know Italy well?' Ursula asked of Hermione. Hermione hated tobe broken in upon in this manner. Yet she answered mildly:

  'Yes, pretty well. I spent several
years of my girlhood there, with mymother. My mother died in Florence.'

  'Oh.'

  There was a pause, painful to Ursula and to Birkin. Hermione howeverseemed abstracted and calm. Birkin was white, his eyes glowed as if hewere in a fever, he was far too over-wrought. How Ursula suffered inthis tense atmosphere of strained wills! Her head seemed bound round byiron bands.

  Birkin rang the bell for tea. They could not wait for Gudrun anylonger. When the door was opened, the cat walked in.

  'Micio! Micio!' called Hermione, in her slow, deliberate sing-song. Theyoung cat turned to look at her, then, with his slow and stately walkhe advanced to her side.

  'Vieni--vieni qua,' Hermione was saying, in her strange caressive,protective voice, as if she were always the elder, the mother superior.'Vieni dire Buon' Giorno alla zia. Mi ricorde, mi ricorde bene--non hevero, piccolo? E vero che mi ricordi? E vero?' And slowly she rubbedhis head, slowly and with ironic indifference.

  'Does he understand Italian?' said Ursula, who knew nothing of thelanguage.

  'Yes,' said Hermione at length. 'His mother was Italian. She was bornin my waste-paper basket in Florence, on the morning of Rupert'sbirthday. She was his birthday present.'

  Tea was brought in. Birkin poured out for them. It was strange howinviolable was the intimacy which existed between him and Hermione.Ursula felt that she was an outsider. The very tea-cups and the oldsilver was a bond between Hermione and Birkin. It seemed to belong toan old, past world which they had inhabited together, and in whichUrsula was a foreigner. She was almost a parvenue in their old culturedmilieu. Her convention was not their convention, their standards werenot her standards. But theirs were established, they had the sanctionand the grace of age. He and she together, Hermione and Birkin, werepeople of the same old tradition, the same withered deadening culture.And she, Ursula, was an intruder. So they always made her feel.

  Hermione poured a little cream into a saucer. The simple way sheassumed her rights in Birkin's room maddened and discouraged Ursula.There was a fatality about it, as if it were bound to be. Hermionelifted the cat and put the cream before him. He planted his two paws onthe edge of the table and bent his gracious young head to drink.

  'Siccuro che capisce italiano,' sang Hermione, 'non l'avra dimenticato,la lingua della Mamma.'

  She lifted the cat's head with her long, slow, white fingers, notletting him drink, holding him in her power. It was always the same,this joy in power she manifested, peculiarly in power over any malebeing. He blinked forbearingly, with a male, bored expression, lickinghis whiskers. Hermione laughed in her short, grunting fashion.

  'Ecco, il bravo ragazzo, come e superbo, questo!'

  She made a vivid picture, so calm and strange with the cat. She had atrue static impressiveness, she was a social artist in some ways.

  The cat refused to look at her, indifferently avoided her fingers, andbegan to drink again, his nose down to the cream, perfectly balanced,as he lapped with his odd little click.

  'It's bad for him, teaching him to eat at table,' said Birkin.

  'Yes,' said Hermione, easily assenting.

  Then, looking down at the cat, she resumed her old, mocking, humoroussing-song.

  'Ti imparano fare brutte cose, brutte cose--'

  She lifted the Mino's white chin on her forefinger, slowly. The youngcat looked round with a supremely forbearing air, avoided seeinganything, withdrew his chin, and began to wash his face with his paw.Hermione grunted her laughter, pleased.

  'Bel giovanotto--' she said.

  The cat reached forward again and put his fine white paw on the edge ofthe saucer. Hermione lifted it down with delicate slowness. Thisdeliberate, delicate carefulness of movement reminded Ursula of Gudrun.

  'No! Non e permesso di mettere il zampino nel tondinetto. Non piace albabbo. Un signor gatto cosi selvatico--!'

  And she kept her finger on the softly planted paw of the cat, and hervoice had the same whimsical, humorous note of bullying.

  Ursula had her nose out of joint. She wanted to go away now. It allseemed no good. Hermione was established for ever, she herself wasephemeral and had not yet even arrived.

  'I will go now,' she said suddenly.

  Birkin looked at her almost in fear--he so dreaded her anger. 'Butthere is no need for such hurry,' he said.

  'Yes,' she answered. 'I will go.' And turning to Hermione, before therewas time to say any more, she held out her hand and said 'Good-bye.'

  'Good-bye--' sang Hermione, detaining the band. 'Must you really gonow?'

  'Yes, I think I'll go,' said Ursula, her face set, and averted fromHermione's eyes.

  'You think you will--'

  But Ursula had got her hand free. She turned to Birkin with a quick,almost jeering: 'Good-bye,' and she was opening the door before he hadtime to do it for her.

  When she got outside the house she ran down the road in fury andagitation. It was strange, the unreasoning rage and violence Hermioneroused in her, by her very presence. Ursula knew she gave herself awayto the other woman, she knew she looked ill-bred, uncouth, exaggerated.But she did not care. She only ran up the road, lest she should go backand jeer in the faces of the two she had left behind. For they outragedher.