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 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 least they said they were.We shall be a tea-party.What train did you come by, 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 good spirits, chattering the conventional commonplaces.Ursula was amazed and indignant at the way he made small-talk; he was adept as any fat in Christendom.
She became quite stiff, she would not answer.It all seemed to her so false and so belittling.And still Gudrun did not appear.
`I think I shall go to Florence for the winter,' said Hermione at length.
`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 her slow, heavy gaze.`Barnes is starting his school of aesthetics, and Olandese is going to give a set of discourses on the Italian national policy--'
`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 of commercial-industrial consciousness.I hate Italy and her national rant.And I think Barnes is an *******.'
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 influence was, she seemed to start his irritable attention into her direction exclusively, 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 went on, in rhapsodic manner: `Il Sandro mi scrive che ha accolto il piu grande entusiasmo, tutti i giovani, e fanciulle e ragazzi, sono tutti --' She went on in Italian, as if, in thinking of the Italians she thought 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 just industrialism -- that and a shallow jealousy I detest so much.'
`I think you are wrong -- I think you are wrong --' said Hermione.`It seems to me purely spontaneous and beautiful, the modern Italian's passion, for it is a passion, for Italy, L'Italia --'
`Do you know Italy well?' Ursula asked of Hermione.Hermione hated to be broken in upon in this manner.Yet she answered mildly:
`Yes, pretty well.I spent several years of my girlhood there, with my mother.My mother died in Florence.'
`Oh.'
