Women in Love

Hermione loved to watch. She could see the Contessa's rapid, stoat-like

sensationalism, Gudrun's ultimate but treacherous cleaving to the woman

in her sister, Ursula's dangerous helplessness, as if she were

helplessly weighted, and unreleased.

'That was very beautiful,' everybody cried with one accord. But

Hermione writhed in her soul, knowing what she could not know. She

cried out for more dancing, and it was her will that set the Contessa

and Birkin moving mockingly in Malbrouk.

Gerald was excited by the desperate cleaving of Gudrun to Naomi. The

essence of that female, subterranean recklessness and mockery

penetrated his blood. He could not forget Gudrun's lifted, offered,

cleaving, reckless, yet withal mocking weight. And Birkin, watching

like a hermit crab from its hole, had seen the brilliant frustration

and helplessness of Ursula. She was rich, full of dangerous power. She

was like a strange unconscious bud of powerful womanhood. He was

unconsciously drawn to her. She was his future.

Alexander played some Hungarian music, and they all danced, seized by

the spirit. Gerald was marvellously exhilarated at finding himself in

motion, moving towards Gudrun, dancing with feet that could not yet

escape from the waltz and the two-step, but feeling his force stir

along his limbs and his body, out of captivity. He did not know yet how

to dance their convulsive, rag-time sort of dancing, but he knew how to

begin. Birkin, when he could get free from the weight of the people

present, whom he disliked, danced rapidly and with a real gaiety. And

how Hermione hated him for this irresponsible gaiety.

'Now I see,' cried the Contessa excitedly, watching his purely gay

motion, which he had all to himself. 'Mr Birkin, he is a changer.' Hermione looked at her slowly, and shuddered, knowing that only a

foreigner could have seen and have said this.

'Cosa vuol'dire, Palestra?' she asked, sing-song.

'Look,' said the Contessa, in Italian. 'He is not a man, he is a

chameleon, a creature of change.' 'He is not a man, he is treacherous, not one of us,' said itself over

in Hermione's consciousness. And her soul writhed in the black

subjugation to him, because of his power to escape, to exist, other

than she did, because he was not consistent, not a man, less than a

man. She hated him in a despair that shattered her and broke her down,

so that she suffered sheer dissolution like a corpse, and was

unconscious of everything save the horrible sickness of dissolution

that was taking place within her, body and soul.

The house being full, Gerald was given the smaller room, really the

dressing-room, communicating with Birkin's bedroom. When they all took

their candles and mounted the stairs, where the lamps were burning

subduedly, Hermione captured Ursula and brought her into her own

bedroom, to talk to her. A sort of constraint came over Ursula in the

big, strange bedroom. Hermione seemed to be bearing down on her, awful

and inchoate, making some appeal. They were looking at some Indian silk

shirts, gorgeous and sensual in themselves, their shape, their almost

corrupt gorgeousness. And Hermione came near, and her bosom writhed,

and Ursula was for a moment blank with panic. And for a moment

Hermione's haggard eyes saw the fear on the face of the other, there

was again a sort of crash, a crashing down. And Ursula picked up a

shirt of rich red and blue silk, made for a young princess of fourteen,

and was crying mechanically: 'Isn't it wonderful--who would dare to put those two strong colours

together--' Then Hermione's maid entered silently and Ursula, overcome with dread,

escaped, carried away by powerful impulse.