Women in Love (Barnes & Noble Classics S - D. H. Lawrence [171]
“Siccuro che capisce italiano,” sang Hermione, “non l’avrà 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 fore-finger, 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 hand. “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.
CHAPTER XXIII
Excurse1
NEXT DAY BIRKIN SOUGHT Ursula out. It happened to be the half-day at the Grammar School. He appeared towards the end of the morning, and asked her, would she drive with him in the afternoon. She consented. But her face was closed and unresponding, and his heart sank.
The afternoon was fine and dim. He was driving the motorcar, and she sat beside him. But still her face was closed against him, unresponding. When she became like this, like a wall against him, his heart contracted.
His life now seemed so reduced, that he hardly cared any more. At moments it seemed to him he did not care a straw whether Ursula or Hermione or anybody else existed or did not exist. Why bother! Why strive for a coherent, satisfied life? Why not drift on in a series of accidents—like a picaresque novel? Why not? Why bother about human relationships? Why take them seriously—male or female? Why form any serious connections at all? Why not be casual, drifting along, taking all for what it was worth?
And yet, still, he was damned and doomed to the old effort at serious living.