But Mrs. Morel took no notice. Night after night he forced himself to tell her things, although she did not listen. It drove him almost insane to have her thus. At last:
“What’s a-matter, mother?” he asked.
She did not hear.
“What’s a-matter?” he persisted. “Mother, what’s a-matter?”
“You know what’s the matter,” she said irritably, turning away.
The lad—he was sixteen years old—went to bed drearily. He was cut off and wretched through October, November and December. His mother tried, but she could not rouse herself. She could only brood on her dead son; he had been let to die so cruelly.
At last, on December 23, with his five shillings Christmas-box in his pocket, Paul wandered blindly home. His mother looked at him, and her heart stood still.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I’m badly, mother!” he replied. “Mr. Jordan gave me five shillings for a Christmas-box!”
He handed it to her with trembling hands. She put it on the table.
“You aren’t glad!” he reproached her; but he trembled violently.
“Where hurts you?” she said, unbuttoning his overcoat.
It was the old question.
“I feel badly, mother.”
She undressed him and put him to bed. He had pneumonia dangerously, the doctor said.
“Might he never have had it if I’d kept him at home, not let him go to Nottingham?” was one of the first things she asked.
“He might not have been so bad,” said the doctor.
Mrs. Morel stood condemned on her own ground.
“I should have watched the living, not the dead,” she told herself.
Paul was very ill. His mother lay in bed at nights with him; they could not afford a nurse. He grew worse, and the crisis approached. One night he tossed into consciousness in the ghastly, sickly feeling of dissolution, when all the cells in the body seem in intense irritability to be breaking down, and consciousness makes a last flare of struggle, like madness.
“I s’ll die, mother!” he cried, heaving for breath on the pillow.
She lifted him up, crying in a small voice:
“Oh, my son—my son!”
That brought him to. He realised her. His whole will rose up and arrested him. He put his head on her breast, and took ease of her for love.
“For some things,” said his aunt, “it was a good thing Paul was ill that Christmas. I believe it saved his mother.”
Paul was in bed for seven weeks. He got up white and fragile. His father had bought him a pot of scarlet and gold tulips. They used to flame in the window in the March sunshine as he sat on the sofa chattering to his mother. The two knitted together in perfect intimacy. Mrs. Morel’s life now rooted itself in Paul.
William had been a prophet. Mrs. Morel had a little present and a letter from Lily at Christmas. Mrs. Morel’s sister had a letter at the New Year.
“I was at a ball last night. Some delightful people were there, and I enjoyed myself thoroughly,” said the letter. “I had every dance—did not sit out one.”
Mrs. Morel never heard any more of her.
Morel and his wife were gentle with each other for some time after the death of their son. He would go into a kind of daze, staring wide-eyed and blank across the room. Then he got up suddenly and hurried out to the Three Spots, returning in his normal state. But never in his life would he go for a walk up Shepstone, past the office where his son had worked, and he always avoided the cemetery.
PART TWO
7
Lad-and-Girl Love
PAUL HAD been many times up to Willey Farm during the autumn. He was friends with the two youngest boys. Edgar the eldest, would not condescend at first. And Miriam also refused to be approached. She was afraid of being set at nought, as by her own brothers. The girl was romantic in her soul. Everywhere was a Walter Scott heroine being loved by men with helmets or with plumes in their caps.1 She herself was something of a princess turned into a swine-girl in her own imagination. And she was afraid lest this boy, who, nevertheless, looked something like a Walter Scott hero, who could paint and speak French, and knew what algebra meant, and who went by train to Nottingham every day, might consider her simply as the swine-girl, unable to perceive the princess beneath; so she held aloof.
Her great companion was her mother. They were both brown-eyed, and inclined to be mystical, such women as treasure religion inside them, breathe it in their nostrils, and see the whole of life in a mist thereof. So to Miriam, Christ and God made one great figure, which she loved tremblingly and passionately when a tremendous sunset burned out the western sky, and Ediths, and Lucys, and Rowenas, Brian de Bois Guilberts, Rob Roys, and Guy Mannerings, rustled the sunny leaves in the morning, or sat in her bedroom aloft, alone, when it snowed.2 That was life to her. For the rest, she drudged in the house, which work she would not have minded had not her clean red floor been mucked up immediately by the trampling farm-boots of her brothers. She madly wanted her little brother of four to let her swathe him and stifle him in her love; she went to church reverently, with bowed head, and quivered in anguish from the vulgarity of the other choir-girls and from the common-sounding voice of the curate; she fought with her brothers, whom she considered brutal louts; and she held not her father in too high esteem because he did not carry any mystical ideas cherished in his heart, but only wanted to have as easy a time as he could, and his meals when he was ready for them.
She hated her position as swine-girl. She wanted to be considered. She wanted to learn, thinking that if she could read, as Paul said he could read, “Colomba,” or the “Voyage autour de ma Chambre,” the world would have a different face for her and a deepened respect.3 She could not be princess by wealth or standing. So she was mad to have learning whereon to pride herself. For she was different from other folk, and must not be scooped up among the common fry. Learning was the only distinction to which she thought to aspire.
Her beauty—that of a shy, wild, quivering sensitive thing—seemed nothing to her. Even her soul, so strong for rhapsody, was not enough. She must have something to reinforce her pride, because she felt different from other people. Paul she eyed rather wistfully. On the whole, she scorned the male sex. But here was a new specimen, quick, light, graceful, who could be gentle and who could be sad, and who was clever, and who knew a lot, and who had a death in the family. The boy’s poor morsel of learning exalted him almost sky-high in her esteem. Yet she tried hard to scorn him, because he would not see in her the princess but only the swine-girl. And he scarcely observed her.
Then he was so ill, and she felt he would be weak. Then she would be stronger than he. Then she could love him. If she could be mistress of him in his weakness, take care of him, if he could depend on her, if she could, as it were, have him in her arms, how she would love him!
As soon as the skies brightened and plum-blossom was out, Paul drove off in the milkman’s heavy float up to Willey Farm. Mr. Leivers shouted in a kindly fashion at the boy, then clicked to the horse as they climbed the hill slowly, in the freshness of the morning. White clouds went on their way, crowding to the back of the hills that were rousing in the spring-time. The water of Nethermere lay below, very blue against the seared meadows and the thorn-trees.
It was four and a half miles’ drive. Tiny buds on the hedges, vivid as copper-green, were opening into rosettes; and thrushes called, and blackbirds shrieked and scolded. It was a new, glamorous world.
Miriam, peeping through the kitchen window, saw the horse walk through the big white gate into the farmyard that was backed by the oak-wood, still bare. Then a youth in a heavy overcoat climbed down. He put up his hands for the whip and the rug that the good-looking, ruddy farmer handed down to him.
Miriam appeared in the doorway. She was nearly sixteen, very beautiful, with her warm colouring, her gravity, her eyes dilating suddenly like an ecstasy.
“I say,” said Paul, turning shyly aside, “your
daffodils are nearly out. Isn’t it early? But don’t they look cold?”
“Cold!” said Miriam, in her musical, caressing voice.
“The green on their buds—” and he faltered into silence timidly.
“Let me take the rug,” said Miriam over-gently.
“I can carry it,” he answered, rather injured. But he yielded it to her.
Then Mrs. Leivers appeared.
“I’m sure you’re tired and cold,” she said. “Let me take your coat. It is heavy. You mustn’t walk far in it.”
She helped him off with his coat. He was quite unused to such attention. She was almost smothered under its weight.
“Why, mother,” laughed the farmer as he passed through the kitchen, swinging the great milk-churns, “you’ve got almost more than you can manage there.”
She beat up the sofa cushions for the youth.
The kitchen was very small and irregular. The farm had been originally a labourer’s cottage. And the furniture was old and battered. But Paul loved it—loved the sack-bag that formed the hearth-rug, and the funny little corner under the stairs, and the small window deep in the corner, through which, bending a little, he could see the plum trees in the back garden and the lovely round hills beyond.
“Won’t you lie down?” said Mrs. Leivers.
“Oh no; I’m not tired,” he said. “Isn’t it lovely coming out, don’t you think? I saw a sloe-bush in blossom and a lot of celandines. I’m glad it’s sunny.”
“Can I give you anything to eat or to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“How’s your mother?”
“I think she’s tired now. I think she’s had too much to do. Perhaps in a little while she’ll go to Skegness with me.4 Then she’ll be able to rest. I s’ll be glad if she can.”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Leivers. “It’s a wonder she isn’t ill herself.”
Miriam was moving about preparing dinner. Paul watched everything that happened. His face was pale and thin, but his eyes were quick and bright with life as ever. He watched the strange, almost rhapsodic way in which the girl moved about, carrying a great stew-jar to the oven, or looking in the saucepan. The atmosphere was different from that of his own home, where everything seemed so ordinary. When Mr. Leivers called loudly outside to the horse, that was reaching over to feed on the rose-bushes in the garden, the girl started, looked round with dark eyes, as if something had come breaking in on her world. There was a sense of silence inside the house and out. Miriam seemed as in some dreamy tale, a maiden in bondage, her spirit dreaming in a land far away and magical. And her discoloured, old blue frock and her broken boots seemed only like the romantic rags of King Cophetua’s beggar-maid.5
She suddenly became aware of his keen blue eyes upon her, taking her all in. Instantly her broken boots and her frayed old frock hurt her. She resented his seeing everything. Even he knew that her stocking was not pulled up. She went into the scullery, blushing deeply. And afterwards her hands trembled slightly at her work. She nearly dropped all she handled. When her inside dream was shaken, her body quivered with trepidation. She resented that he saw so much.
Mrs. Leivers sat for some time talking to the boy, although she was needed at her work. She was too polite to leave him. Presently she excused herself and rose. After a while she looked into the tin saucepan.
“Oh dear, Miriam,” she cried, “these potatoes have boiled dry!”
Miriam started as if she had been stung.
“Have they, mother?” she cried.
“I shouldn’t care, Miriam,” said the mother, “if I hadn’t trusted them to you.” She peered into the pan.
The girl stiffened as if from a blow. Her dark eyes dilated; she remained standing in the same spot.
“Well,” she answered, gripped tight in self-conscious shame, “I’m sure I looked at them five minutes since.”
“Yes,” said the mother, “I know it’s easily done.”
“They’re not much burned,” said Paul. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”
Mrs. Leivers looked at the youth with her brown, hurt eyes.
“It wouldn’t matter but for the boys,” she said to him. “Only Miriam knows what a trouble they make if the potatoes are ‘caught.’”
“Then,” thought Paul to himself, “you shouldn’t let them make a trouble.”
After a while Edgar came in. He wore leggings, and his boots were covered with earth. He was rather small, rather formal, for a farmer. He glanced at Paul, nodded to him distantly, and said:
“Dinner ready?”
“Nearly, Edgar,” replied the mother apologetically.
“I’m ready for mine,” said the young man, taking up the newspaper and reading. Presently the rest of the family trooped in. Dinner was served. The meal went rather brutally. The over-gentleness and apologetic tone of the mother brought out all the brutality of manners in the sons. Edgar tasted the potatoes, moved his mouth quickly like a rabbit, looked indignantly at his mother, and said:
“These potatoes are burnt, mother.”
“Yes, Edgar. I forgot them for a minute. Perhaps you’ll have bread if you can’t eat them.”
Edgar looked in anger across at Miriam.
“What was Miriam doing that she couldn’t attend to them?” he said.
Miriam looked up. Her mouth opened, her dark eyes blazed and winced, but she said nothing. She swallowed her anger and her shame, bowing her dark head.
“I’m sure she was trying hard,” said the mother.
“She hasn’t got sense even to boil the potatoes,” said Edgar. “What is she kept at home for?”
“On’y for eating everything that’s left in th’ pantry,” said Maurice
“They don’t forget that potato-pie against our Miriam,” laughed the father.
She was utterly humiliated. The mother sat in silence, suffering, like some saint out of place at the brutal board.
It puzzled Paul. He wondered vaguely why all this intense feeling went running because of a few burnt potatoes. The mother exalted everything—even a bit of housework—to the plane of a religious trust. The sons resented this; they felt themselves cut away underneath, and they answered with brutality and also with a sneering superciliousness.
Paul was just opening out from childhood into manhood. This atmosphere, where everything took a religious value, came with a subtle fascination to him. There was something in the air. His own mother was logical. Here there was something different, something he loved, something that at times he hated.
Miriam quarrelled with her brothers fiercely. Later in the afternoon, when they had gone away again, her mother said:
“You disappointed me at dinner-time, Miriam.”
The girl dropped her head.
“They are such brutes!” she suddenly cried, looking up with flashing eyes.
“But hadn’t you promised not to answer them?” said the mother. “And I believed in you. I can’t stand it when you wrangle.”
“But they’re so hateful!” cried Miriam, “and—and low.”
“Yes, dear. But how often have I asked you not to answer Edgar back? Can’t you let him say what he likes?”
“But why should he say what he likes?”
“Aren’t you strong enough to bear it, Miriam, if even for my sake? Are you so weak that you must wrangle with them?”
Mrs. Leivers stuck unflinchingly to this doctrine of “the other cheek.” She could not instil it at all into the boys. With the girls she succeeded better, and Miriam was the child of her heart. The boys loathed the other cheek when it was presented to them.6 Miriam was often sufficiently lofty to turn it. Then they spat on her and hated her. But she walked in her proud humility, living within herself.
There was always this feeling of jangle and discord in the Leivers family. Although the boys resented so bitterly this eternal appeal to their deeper feelings of resignation and proud humility, yet it had its effect on them. They could not establish between themselves and an outsi
der just the ordinary human feeling and unexaggerated friendship ; they were always restless for the something deeper. Ordinary folk seemed shallow to them, trivial and inconsiderable. And so they were unaccustomed, painfully uncouth in the simplest social intercourse, suffering, and yet insolent in their superiority. Then beneath was the yearning for the soul-intimacy to which they could not attain because they were too dumb, and every approach to close connection was blocked by their clumsy contempt of other people. They wanted genuine intimacy, but they could not get even normally near to anyone, because they scorned to take the first steps, they scorned the triviality which forms common human intercourse.
Paul fell under Mrs. Leivers’s spell. Everything had a religious and intensified meaning when he was with her. His soul, hurt, highly developed, sought her as if for nourishment. Together they seemed to sift the vital fact from an experience.
Miriam was her mother’s daughter. In the sunshine of the afternoon mother and daughter went down the fields with him. They looked for nests. There was a jenny wren’s in the hedge by the orchard.
“I do want you to see this,” said Mrs. Leivers.
He crouched down and carefully put his finger through the thorns into the round door of the nest.
“It’s almost as if you were feeling inside the live body of the bird,” he said, “it’s so warm. They say a bird makes its nest round like a cup with pressing its breast on it. Then how did it make the ceiling round, I wonder?”
The nest seemed to start into life for the two women. After that, Miriam came to see it every day. It seemed so close to her. Again, going down the hedgeside with the girl, he noticed the celandines, scalloped splashes of gold, on the side of the ditch.
“I like them,” he said, “when their petals go flat back with the sunshine. They seemed to be pressing themselves at the sun.”
And then the celandines ever after drew her with a little spell. Anthropomorphic as she was, she stimulated him into appreciating things thus, and then they lived for her. She seemed to need things kindling in her imagination or in her soul before she felt she had them. And she was cut off from ordinary life by her religious intensity which made the world for her either a nunnery garden or a paradise, where sin and knowledge were not, or else an ugly, cruel thing.
Sons and Lovers (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 20