Chapter 22 Woman to Woman

THEY CAME to the town, and left Gerald at the railway station. Gudrun and 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 books and papers, and playing on the piano. Then Ursula arrived. She was surprised, unpleasantly so, to see Hermione, of whom she had heard nothing 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 and the unenlightened self-esteem of a horse in it. `She's got a horse-face,' Ursula said to herself, `she runs between blinkers.' It did 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 to her, complete world of the extant consciousness. In the darkness, she did not exist. Like the moon, one half of her was lost to life. Her self was all in her head, she did not know what it was spontaneously to run or move, like a fish in the water, or a weasel on the grass. She must always know.

But Ursula only suffered from Hermione's one-sidedness. She only felt Hermione's cool evidence, which seemed to put her down as nothing. Hermione, who brooded and brooded till she was exhausted with the ache of her effort at consciousness, spent and ashen in her body, who gained so slowly and with such effort her final and barren conclusions of knowledge, was apt, in the presence of other women, whom she thought simply female, to wear the conclusions of her bitter assurance like jewels which conferred on her an unquestionable distinction, established her in a higher order of life. She was apt, mentally, to condescend to women such as Ursula, whom she regarded as purely emotional. Poor Hermione, it was her one possession, this aching certainty of hers, it was her only justification. She must be confident here, for God knows, she felt rejected and deficient enough elsewhere. In the life of thought, of the spirit, she was one of the elect. And she wanted to be universal. But there was a devastating cynicism at the bottom of her. She did not believe in her own universals -- they were sham. She did not believe in the inner life -- it was a trick, not a reality. She did not believe in the spiritual world -- it was an affectation. In the last resort, she believed in Mammon, the flesh, and the devil -- these at least were not sham. She was a priestess without belief, without conviction, suckled in a creed outworn, and condemned to the reiteration of mysteries that were not divine to her. Yet there was no escape. She was a leaf upon a dying tree. What help was there then, but to fight still for the old, withered truths, to die for the old, outworn belief, to be a sacred and inviolate priestess of desecrated mysteries? The old great truths bad been true. And she was a leaf of the old great tree of knowledge that was withering now. To the old and last truth then she must be faithful even though cynicism and mockery took place at the bottom of her soul.

`I am so glad to see you,' she said to Ursula, in her slow voice, that was 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 other woman's vaunt: it seemed truly vulgar.

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

The question was so calm and mild, so simple and bare and dispassionate that Ursula was somewhat taken aback, rather attracted. It pleased her almost like a wickedness. There was some delightful naked irony in Hermione.

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

Hermione watched her with slow calm eyes. She noted this new expression of 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 was perfectly 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. And yet she could not definitely take offence. Hermione seemed so calmly and sanely candid. After all, it was rather great to be able to be so sane.

`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, pensive eyes.

`Does he?' she said at length, without expression. Then, rousing, `And what 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 submission he insists on. He wants me to give myself up -- and I simply don't feel that 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. Hermione shuddered with a strange desire. Ah, if only he had asked her to subserve 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 -- I really don't know what he means. He says he wants the demon part of himself to be mated -- physically -- not the human being. You see he says one thing one day, and another the next -- and he always contradicts himself --'

`And always thinks about himself, and his own dissatisfaction,' said Hermione 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. `He wants me to accept him as -- as an absolute -- But it seems to me he doesn't want to give anything. He doesn't want real warm intimacy -- he won't have it -- he rejects it. He won't let me think, really, and he won't let me feel -- he hates feelings.'

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

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

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

`Yes,' said Ursula vaguely. After all, the tiresome thing was, he did not want an odalisk, he did not want a slave. Hermione would have been his slave -- there was in her a horrible desire to prostrate herself before a man -- a man who worshipped her, however, and admitted her as the supreme thing. He did not want an odalisk. He wanted a woman to take something from him, to give herself up so much that she could take the 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 to acknowledge her through everything, or would he use her just as his instrument, use her for his own private satisfaction, not admitting her? That was what the other men had done. They had wanted their own show, and they would not admit her, they turned all she was into nothingness. Just as Hermione now betrayed herself as a woman. Hermione was like a man, she believed only in men's things. She betrayed the woman in herself. And Birkin, would he acknowledge, or would he deny her?

`Yes,' said Hermione, as each woman came out of her own separate reverie. `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 with rhapsodic intensity. `You should have a man like the old heroes -- you need 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 re-actions 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 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 commercialindustrial consciousness. I hate Italy and her national rant. 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 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.'

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

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

`Micio! Micio!' called Hermione, in her slow, deliberate sing-song. The young cat turned to look at her, then, with his slow and stately walk he 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 he vero, piccolo? E vero che mi ricordi? E vero?' And slowly she rubbed his head, slowly and with ironic indifference.

`Does he understand Italian?' said Ursula, who knew nothing of the language.

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

Tea was brought in. Birkin poured out for them. It was strange how inviolable was the intimacy which existed between him and Hermione. Ursula felt that she was an outsider. The very tea-cups and the old silver was a bond between Hermione and Birkin. It seemed to belong to an old, past world which they had inhabited together, and in which Ursula was a foreigner. She was almost a parvenue in their old cultured milieu. Her convention was not their convention, their standards were not her standards. But theirs were established, they had the sanction and the grace of age. He and she together, Hermione and Birkin, were people 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 she assumed her rights in Birkin's room maddened and discouraged Ursula. There was a fatality about it, as if it were bound to be. Hermione lifted the cat and put the cream before him. He planted his two paws on the 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, not letting him drink, holding him in her power. It was always the same, this joy in power she manifested, peculiarly in power over any male being. He blinked forbearingly, with a male, bored expression, licking his 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 a true static impressiveness, she was a social artist in some ways.

The cat refused to look at her, indifferently avoided her fingers, and began 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, humorous sing-song.

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

She lifted the Mino's white chin on her forefinger, slowly. The young cat looked round with a supremely forbearing air, avoided seeing anything, 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 of the saucer. Hermione lifted it down with delicate slowness. This deliberate, delicate carefulness of movement reminded Ursula of Gudrun.

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

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

Ursula had her nose out of joint. She wanted to go away now. It all seemed no good. Hermione was established for ever, she herself was ephemeral 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. `But there is no need for such hurry,' he said.

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

`Good-bye --' sang Hermione, detaining the band. `Must you really go now?'

`Yes, I think I'll go,' said Ursula, her face set, and averted from Hermione'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 had time to do it for her.

When she got outside the house she ran down the road in fury and agitation. It was strange, the unreasoning rage and violence Hermione roused in her, by her very presence. Ursula knew she gave herself away to 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 back and jeer in the faces of the two she had left behind. For they outraged her.

 

他们进了城后杰拉德就去火车站了。戈珍和温妮弗莱德同伯金一起去喝茶。伯金在等厄秀拉来，可下午第一个到的却是赫麦妮。伯金刚出去，于是她就进了客厅去看他的书和报纸，又去弹钢琴。随后厄秀拉到了。看到赫麦妮在这儿，她很不高兴，又感到惊讶，她好久没听到赫麦妮的音讯了。

“真想不到会见到您。”她说。

“是啊，”赫麦妮说，“我到爱克斯去了。”

“去疗养？”

“是的。”

两个女人对视着。厄秀拉很讨厌赫麦妮那张细长，阴沉的脸，那似乎是一张愚蠢、不开化但又颇为自尊的马脸。“她长着一张马脸，”她心里说，“还戴着马眼罩。”赫麦妮的确象月亮，你只能看到她的一面而看不到另一面。她总是盯着一个凸现狭小的世界，但她自己却以为那是全部的世界。在黑暗处她是不存在的。象月亮一样，她的一半丢给了生活。她的自我都装在她的心里，她不懂得什么叫自然冲动，比如鱼在水中游或鼬鼠在草丛中钻动。她总要通过知识去认识。

厄秀拉深受赫麦妮的这种片面之苦，它令厄秀拉毫无办法。赫麦妮常常是绞尽脑汁冥思苦索才能渐渐地获得干瘪的知识结论。但在别的女人面前，她惯于端起自信的架子，象戴着什么珠宝一样用知识把自己与其他她认为仅仅是女人的人区分开来，从而显得她高人一等。她惯于对厄秀拉这样的女人显得降尊纡贵，她认为她们是纯情感似的女人。可怜的赫麦妮，她的自信是她的一大财富，她觉得这样做是有道理的。她在此一定要显得自信，因为她不知为什么感到自己处处受排斥、感到虚弱。在思维与精神生活中，她是上帝的选民。尽管她很想与别人融洽，但她内心深处太愤世嫉俗了。她不相信自己会与人为善，那是摆样子罢了。她不相信什么内在的生活——这是一个骗局，不是现实。她不相信精神世界——那是一种假象。唯一让她相信的是贪欲、肉欲和魔王——这些至少不是虚假的。她是个没有信仰、没有信念的牧师，她从一种过时的，沦为重复的神话教义中吸取营养，这些教义对她来说压根儿就不神圣。可是她别无选择。她是一棵将死的树上的叶子。有什么办法呢？她只能为旧的、枯萎的真理而斗争，为旧的、过时的信仰而死，为被亵渎的神话作一个神圣不可侵犯的牧师。古老他伟大真理一直是正确的。她是古老的、伟大的知识之树上的叶子，可这棵树现在凋零了。尽管她的内心深处不乏愤世嫉俗，但对于这古老的真理她必须抱着忠诚的态度。

“见到您我很高兴，”她声音低得象念咒语一样对厄秀拉说。“您跟卢伯特已经成为很好的朋友了？”

“哦，是的，”厄秀拉说，“但他总是躲着我。”

赫麦妮没说话。她完全看得出厄秀拉在自吹自擂、这实在庸俗。

“是吗？”她缓慢、十分镇定地问，“你觉得你们会结婚吗？”

这问题提得那样平静，简单而毫无感情色彩，厄秀拉对这种不无恶意的挑衅有点吃惊，也有点高兴。赫麦妮的话语中颇有点嘲弄。

“哦，”厄秀拉说，“他很想结婚，可我拿不准。”

赫麦妮缓缓地审视着厄秀拉。她发现厄秀拉又在吹牛皮。她真忌妒厄秀拉身上这种毫不经意的自信，甚至她的庸俗之处！

“你为什么拿不准？”她语调毫无起伏地问。她十分安详、这种谈话令她高兴。“你真不爱他？”

听到这种不怎么切题的话，厄秀拉的脸微微发红。不过她又不会生她的气，因为赫麦妮看上去是那么平和、那么理智而坦率。能象她这么理智可真不简单。

“他说他需要的不是爱。”她回答。

“那是什么？”赫麦妮语调平缓地问。

“他要我在婚姻中真正接受他。”

赫麦妮沉默了片刻，阴郁的目光缓缓扫视着她。

“是吗？”她终于毫无表情地说。然后她问：“那么你不需要的是什么？你不需要婚姻吗？”

“不——我不——并不很想。我不想象他坚持的那样驯服。他需要我放弃自我，可我简直无法想象我会那样做。”

赫麦妮又沉默了好久才说：

“如果你不想你就不会做。”说完她又沉默了。一股奇特的欲望令赫麦妮不寒而栗。啊，如果伯金是要求她顺从他，成为他的奴隶，那该多么好！她颤抖着。

“你看，我不能——”

“可，说实在的，什么——”

她们双方同时张口说话而又同时打住了。然后赫麦妮似乎疲惫地率先开口道：

“他要你屈服于什么？”

“他说他命望我不带感情色彩地接受他，我真不明白他这是什么意思。他说他希望他魔鬼的一面找到伴侣——肉体上，不是人的一面。你瞧，他今天说东明天说西，总是自相矛盾。”

“总为自己着想，总想自己的不满之处。”赫麦妮缓缓地说。

“对，”厄秀拉叫道，“似乎只有他一个人重要。真要不得。”

但她马上又说：“他坚持要我接受他身上的什么东西——天知道是什么。他要我把他当，当上帝看，可我似乎觉得他不想给予什么。他并不需要真正热烈的亲昵，他不要这个，他讨厌这个。他不让我思考，真的，他不让我感知，他讨厌感情。”

赫麦妮沉默了好久，心里发苦。啊，如果他这样要求她该多好。他逼着她思考，逼着她钻进知识中去，然后又反过来憎恨她的思想和知识。

“他要我自沉，”厄秀拉又说，“要我失去我的自我——”

“既然如此，他干吗不要一个宫女？”赫麦妮软绵绵地说。

她的长脸上带着嘲讽悻悻然的表情。

“就是嘛，”厄秀拉含糊其辞地说。讨厌的是，他并不需要宫女，并不需要奴隶。赫麦妮本来可以成为他的奴隶——她强烈地希望屈从于一个男人——他崇拜她、把她当成至高无上的人。他并不需要宫女。他要一个女人从他那得到点什么，让这女人完全放弃自我从而能得到他最后的真实，最后的肉体真实。

如果她这样做，他会承认她吗？他能够通过所有一切来承认她还是仅仅把她当成他的工具，利用她来满足自己的私欲但又不接受她？别的男人都是这样做的。他们只要显示自己，但拒不接受她，把她的本来面目搞得一钱不值。这就如同赫麦妮背叛了女人自身一样，她只相信男人的东西。她背叛了女性的自己。至于伯金，他会承认她，还是否定她？

“是啊，”赫麦妮象刚从白日梦中醒来一样说。“那将会是个错误，我觉得那将会是个错误——”

“你指跟他结婚？”厄秀拉问。

“对，”赫麦妮缓缓地说，“我认为你需要一个男士般意志坚强的男人——”说着赫麦妮伸出手狂热地握成拳头。“你应该有一个象古代英雄一样的男人——你应该在他去打仗时站在他的身后观看他的力量，倾听他的呐喊——你需要一个肉体上强壮的男人，意志坚强的男人，而不是一个多愁善感的男人——”她不说了，似乎女巫已发出了预言。然后她又嗫嚅着：“你知道卢伯特不是这样的人，他不是。他身体不强壮，他需要别人的关心，极大的关心。他自己脾性多变，缺乏自信，要想帮助他需要巨大的耐性与理解力。我觉得你没耐心。你应该准备好，将来会受罪的。我无法告诉你要受多大的罪才能使他幸福。他的精神生活太紧张了，当然有时是很美妙的。但也会物极必反。我无法说我在他那儿都经受了些什么。我同他在一起时间太久了，我真地了解他，知道他是个什么人。可我必须对你说：我感到如果跟他结婚那会是一场灾难，对你来说灾难更大。”说着赫麦妮陷入了痛苦的梦境中。“他太没有准儿，太不稳定——他会厌倦，然后会变挂。

我无法告诉你他是如何变挂的。说不出那是多么令人气愤。他一时赞同喜爱的东西，不久就会对其大为光火，恨不得一毁了之。他总没个长性，总会这样可怕地变挂。总是这样由坏到好，由好到坏地变来变去。没有什么比这更可怕，比这更——”

“对，”厄秀拉谦卑地说，“你一定吃了不少苦头。”

这时赫麦妮脸上闪过一线不同寻常的光芒。她象受了什么启发似地握紧拳头。

“可是你必须自愿受苦——如果你要帮助他，如果他要真诚对待一切，你就要自愿为他时时刻刻受苦。”

“可我不想时时刻刻受苦，”厄秀拉说。“我不想，我觉得那是耻辱。活得不幸福是一种耻辱。”

赫麦妮不语，久久地看着她。

“是吗？”她终于说。这似乎表明她同厄秀拉之间有着漫长的距离。对赫麦妮来说，受苦是伟大的真实，不管发生什么都是这样。当然她也有幸福的教义。

“是的，”她说，“一个人应该幸福。可这取决于意志。”

“对，”赫麦妮无精打采地说。“我只是感到，急急忙忙结婚会酿成灾难的。你们难道不结婚就不能在一起吗？你们难道不能到别处去生活，不结婚吗？我的确感到结婚对你们双方来说都是不幸的。对你来说更为不幸。另外，我为他的健康担忧。”

“当然了，”厄秀拉说，“我并不在乎结不结婚，对我来说这并不十分重要，是他想要结婚的。”

“这是他一时的主意，”赫麦妮疲惫地说，那种肯定的语气表明：你们年轻人哪懂这个。

一阵沉默，随后厄秀拉结结巴巴挑战似地问道：

“你是否以为我仅仅是个肉体上的女人？”

“不，不是的。”赫麦妮说，“不，真的不是！但我觉得你充满了活力，你年轻——这是岁月甚至是经验的问题，这几乎是种族的问题。卢伯特来自一个古老的种族，他那个种族老了，所以他也老了，可你看上去是那么年轻，你来自一个年轻、尚无经验的种族。”

“是吗？！”厄秀拉说，“可我觉得从某种角度来说他太年轻了。”

“是的，也许在许多方面他还很孩子气。但无论如何——”

她们都沉默了。厄秀拉深感厌烦、绝望。“这不是真的，”她对自己说，也是在向自己的敌人默默挑战。“这不是真的。是你，你想要一个身体健壮、气势凌人的男人，不是我。是你，你想要一个无愁无感的男人，不是我。你并不了解卢伯特，真地不了解，别看你同他一起共事那么久。你并没有把女人的爱给予他，你给予他的只是一种理想的爱，就因为这个他才离开了你。你不知道，你只知道僵死的东西，任何女厨子都会对他有所了解，可你却不了解他。你认为你的知识是什么？不过是一些说明不了任何事物的僵死的理解。你太虚假了，太不真实了，你能知道什么？你谈什么爱不爱的有什么用？你是个虚伪的女精灵！当你什么都不相信时你能懂得什么？你并不相信你自己，不相信你女人的自我，那么，你那傲慢、浅薄的聪明又有什么用？！”

两个女人在沉默中敌视地面面相觑。赫麦妮感到受了伤害，却原来她的好意和她的馈赠只换来了这个女人庸俗的敌意。厄秀拉无法理解这些，永远也不会理解，她不过是一般的爱妒忌、毫无理性的女人，有着女人强烈的情感，女人的诱惑力和女性的理解力，但就是没有理性。赫麦妮早就看透了，对一个没理性的人呼唤理性是没用的，对无知的人最好是不予理睬。卢伯特现在反过来追求这个女性十足、健康而自私的女人了，这是他一时的举动，谁也没办法阻止他。这是一种愚蠢的进退与摆动，最终他会无法承受，会被粉碎并死去的。谁也救不了他。这种在兽欲与精神之间毫无目标的剧烈摇摆会把他撕裂，最终他会毫无意义地从生活中消失掉。这对他一点好处都没有。他也是个没有统一性的人，在生活的最高层次上，他也是个没有理智的人，他谈不上有男子气，不能决定一个女人的命运。

直到伯金回来，她们一直坐在这儿。伯金立时感到了这里的敌对气氛，这是一种强烈、不可调和的敌对感。他咬咬嘴唇装作若无其事地说：

“哈啰，赫麦妮，你回来了？感觉如何？”

“哦，好多了。你好吗？你脸色不太好。”

“哦！我相信戈珍和温妮·克里奇会来喝茶的。她们说过要来的。我们将开个茶会。厄秀拉，你坐哪班车来的？”

他这种试图讨好两个女人的样子很让人讨厌。两个女人都看着他，赫麦妮既恨他又可怜他，厄秀拉则很不耐烦。他很紧张。很明显他今天精神不错，嘴里聊些家常话。厄秀拉对他这种聊闲话的样子既吃惊又生气。他谈起基督教来甚是在行。她对这种话题表现麻木，不予回答。这些在她原来是如此虚伪渺小。直到这时戈珍仍未出现。

“我将去佛罗伦萨过冬天。”赫麦妮终于说。

“是吗？”他说，“那儿太冷了。”

“是的，不过我将同帕拉斯特拉在一起。我会过得很舒服的。”

“你怎么想起去佛罗伦萨的？”

“我也不知道，”赫麦妮缓缓地说。然后她目光沉重地盯着他道：“巴奈斯将开设美学课，奥兰狄斯将发表一系列有关意大利民族政策的演说——”

“都是废话。”他说。

“不，我不这样看。”赫麦妮说。

“那你喜欢哪一个？”

“我都喜欢。巴奈斯是一个开拓者。我又对意大利感兴趣，对意大利即将兴起的民族意识感兴趣。”

“我希望兴起民族意识以外的东西，”伯金说，“这不过意味着一种商业——工业意识罢了。我讨厌意大利，讨厌意大利式的夸夸其谈。我认为巴奈斯还不成熟。”

赫麦妮怀着敌意沉默了一会儿。可不管怎么说，她再一次让伯金回到了她的世界中！她的影响是多么微妙，她似乎顷刻间就将他的注意力引向了自己这方面。他是她的猎物。

“不，你错了，”她说。然后她又象受到神谕启示的女巫一样抬起头疯狂地说：“桑德罗写信告诉我，他受到了极其热情的款待，所有的年轻人，男孩女孩都有。”她用意大利语说。

他厌恶地听着她的狂言，说：

“不管怎么说，我仍不喜欢它。他们的民族主义就是工业主义，对这种工业主义以及他们那浅薄的忌妒心我讨厌透了。”

“我觉得你错了，你错了。”赫麦妮说。“我似乎觉得那纯粹是自然冲动，很美，现代意大利的激情，那是一种激情，对意大利来说——”

“你很了解意大利吗？”厄秀拉问赫麦妮。赫麦妮讨厌别人如此插话，但她还是和气地回答：

“是的，很了解。我小时候同母亲一起在那儿住了好几年。

我母亲就死在佛罗伦萨。”

“哦，是这样。”

人们不说话了，这沉默令厄秀拉和伯金十分痛苦。赫麦妮倒显得平静、心不在焉。伯金脸色苍白，眼睛红红的象在发高烧，他太劳累了。这种紧张的气氛真叫厄秀拉难受！她觉得自己的头让铁条箍紧了。

伯金揿铃叫人送茶。他们不能再等戈珍了。门一开，进来一只猫。

“米西奥！米西奥！”赫麦妮故意压低嗓门儿叫着。小猫看看她，然后缓缓地迈着优雅的步子向她身边走来。

“过来，到这边来。”赫麦妮疼爱地说，似乎她总是长者，是母亲，口气总是带优越感。“来向姨妈问早安。你还记得我，是吗，我的小东西。真的记得我？”她说着缓缓抚摸着它的头。

“它懂意大利话吗？”厄秀拉问，她一点也不懂意大利话。

“懂，”赫麦妮说，“它的母亲是意大利猫，我们在佛罗伦萨时卢伯特生日那天它出生于我的字纸篓里，成了他的生日礼物。”

茶来了，伯金为每个人斟了一杯。奇怪的是，他和赫麦妮之间的亲密关系是那么不容侵犯，令厄秀拉觉得自己象个局外人。那茶杯和上面古老的镀银是赫麦妮和伯金之间的纽带，它似乎属于一个他们共同生活过的世界，那儿对厄秀拉来说是陌生的。在他们那古老文化的环境中，厄秀拉犹如一个暴发户一样。她的习俗与他们的不同，他们的标准跟她的也不一样。但他们的习俗与标准已得到确认，他们得到了岁月的认可，因此而体面。他和她——伯金和赫麦妮共同属于同一旧的传统，属于同一种枯萎的文化。而厄秀拉则是个闯入他们之间的入侵者，她总有这种感觉。

赫麦妮往浅盘里倒了一点奶油。她在伯金屋里毫不费力地显示出自己的权力，这既令厄秀拉发疯又令她泄气。赫麦妮的动作中表现出一种必然，似乎她必须这样不可。赫麦妮托起小猫的头，把奶油送到它嘴边。只见幼猫两只爪子扒住桌沿，低下优雅的头去吮奶油。

“我相信它懂意大利语。”赫麦妮说，“你没忘了你的母语吧？”

赫麦妮苍白细长的手托起猫头阻止它吸吮。猫完全在她的掌握之中。她总是这样显示自己的力量，特别是显示自己控制男性的力量。只见这只雄性小猫忍耐着眨眨眼睛，露出雄性的厌烦表情，舌头舐了舐胡须。这副样子令赫麦妮“卟哧”笑出声来。

“这是个好孩子，这孩子多傲慢！”

她如此平静、奇特地冲猫做出一个逗乐儿的姿态。她很有一种静态美，从某种意义上说她是个社交艺术家。

那猫拒绝看她，毫不在意地躲开她的手指，又去吃奶油。只见它鼻子凑近奶油，但又丝毫不沾一点，嘴巴巴嗒巴嗒地吃着。

“教它在桌子上吃东西，这很不好。”伯金说。

“那倒是。”赫麦妮赞同说。

然后她看着猫，又恢复了她那种嘲弄味的幽默语调：

“他们尽教你干坏事，干坏事。”

她用手指尖缓缓托起小猫雪白的脖子，小猫极有耐性地四下张望着，但又躲闪着不看任何东西，继而缩回脖子，用爪子洗脸。赫麦妮从嗓子眼儿里挤出一声满意的笑。

“俊小伙子——”

小猫再次走上前来，漂亮的前爪搭在盘沿上。赫麦妮忙轻轻地挪开盘子。这种刻意细腻的动作令厄秀拉觉得象戈珍。

“不，你不能把你的小爪子放到小盘子里，爸爸不喜欢。

公猫先生，野极了！”

她的手指头仍然摸着小猫软软的爪子，她的声音也具有某种魔力与霸道腔。

厄秀拉觉得很失意。她想一走了之，可似乎这样做又不好。赫麦妮是永久站得住脚根的，而她厄秀拉却是短暂的，甚至站都没站住。

“我这就走。”她突然说。

伯金几乎有点害怕地看着她——他太怕她生气了。“不必这样急吧？”他忙说。

“是的，”她说，“我这就走。”说完她转身冲着赫麦妮伸出手来不等对方说什么就道了一声“再见。”

“再见——”赫麦妮仍握着她的手。“一定要现在走吗？”

“是的，我想我该走了。”厄秀拉沉下脸，不再看赫麦妮的眼睛。

“你想你要——”

厄秀拉抽出自己的手，转身冲伯金调侃般地道一声“再见”，然后刻不容缓地打开门。

出了门她就气鼓鼓地沿着马路跑了起来。真奇怪，赫麦妮激起了她心中的无名火。厄秀拉知道她向另一个女人让步了，她知道自己显得缺少教养、粗俗、过分。可她不在乎。她只顾在路上奔跑，否则她就会回去当着伯金和赫麦妮的面讽刺他们，因为是他们惹恼了她。