Women in Love

to stand behind him as he goes into battle, you need to see his strength, and to hear his shout⁠—. You need a man physically strong, and virile in his will, not a sensitive man⁠—.” There was a break, as if the pythoness had uttered the oracle, and now the woman went on, in a rhapsody-wearied voice: “And you see, Rupert isn’t this, he isn’t. He is frail in health and body, he needs great, great care. Then he is so changeable and unsure of himself⁠—it requires the greatest patience and understanding to help him. And I don’t think you are patient. You would have to be prepared to suffer⁠—dreadfully. I can’t tell you how much suffering it would take to make him happy. He lives an intensely spiritual life, at times⁠—too, too wonderful. And then come the reactions. I can’t speak of what I have been through with him. We have been together so long, I really do know him, I do know what he is. And I feel I must say it; I feel it would be perfectly disastrous for you to marry him⁠—for you even more than for him.” Hermione lapsed into bitter reverie. “He is so uncertain, so unstable⁠—he wearies, and then reacts. I couldn’t tell you what his reactions are. I couldn’t tell you the agony of them. That which he affirms and loves one day⁠—a little latter he turns on it in a fury of destruction. He is never constant, always this awful, dreadful reaction. Always the quick change from 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 like one 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 anything at all⁠—”

“And I don’t want to suffer hourly and daily,” said Ursula. “I don’t, I should 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 of Ursula’s far distance from herself. For to Hermione suffering was the greatest reality, come what might. Yet she too had a creed of happiness.

“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 be disastrous, disastrous⁠—at least, to marry in a hurry. Can’t you be together without marriage? Can’t you go away and live somewhere without marriage? I do feel that marriage would be fatal, for both of you. I think 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 really important to me⁠—it’s he who wants it.”

“It is his idea for the moment,” said Hermione, with that weary finality, 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 and young⁠—it isn’t a question of years, or even of experience⁠—it is almost a question of race. Rupert is race-old, he comes of an old race⁠—and you seem to me so young, you come of a young, inexperienced race.”

“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 resentment and a touch of hopelessness. “It isn’t true,” she said to herself, silently addressing her adversary. “It isn’t true. And it is you who want a physically strong, bullying man, not I. It is you who want an unsensitive man, not I. You don’t know anything about Rupert, not really, in spite of the years you have had with him. You don’t give him a woman’s love, you give him an ideal love, and that is why he reacts away from you. You don’t know. You only know the dead things. Any kitchen maid would know something about him, you don’t know. What do you think your knowledge is but dead understanding, that doesn’t mean a thing. You are so false, and untrue, how could you know anything? What is 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 in yourself 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 other woman in vulgar antagonism. But then, Ursula could not understand, never would understand, could never be more than the usual jealous and unreasonable female, with a good deal of powerful female emotion, female attraction, and a fair amount of female understanding, but no mind. Hermione had decided long ago that where there was no mind, it was useless to appeal for reason⁠—one had merely to ignore the ignorant. And Rupert⁠—he had now reacted towards the strongly female, healthy, selfish woman⁠—it was his reaction for the time being⁠—there was no helping it all. It was all a foolish backward and forward, a violent oscillation that would at length be too violent for his coherency, and he would smash and be dead. There was no saving him. This violent and directionless reaction between animalism and spiritual truth would go on in him till he tore himself in two between the opposite directions, and disappeared meaninglessly out of life. It was no good⁠—he too was without unity, without mind, in the ultimate stages of 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 at once the antagonism in the atmosphere, something radical and insuperable, and he bit his lip. But he affected