Suddenly he started into life. It made her quiver almost with terror as he quickly pushed the hair off his forehead and came towards her.
“Half-past eight!” he said. “We’d better buck up. Where’s your French?”
Miriam shyly and rather bitterly produced her exercise-book. Every week she wrote for him a sort of diary of her inner life, in her own French. He had found this was the only way to get her to do compositions. And her diary was mostly a love-letter. He would read it now; she felt as if her soul’s history were going to be desecrated by him in his present mood. He sat beside her. She watched his hand, firm and warm, rigorously scoring her work. He was reading only the French, ignoring her soul that was there. But gradually his hand forgot its work. He read in silence, motionless. She quivered.
“‘Ce matin les oiseaux m’ont eveille,’ ”he read. “‘Il faisait encore un crepuscule. Mais la petite fenetre de ma chambre etait bleme, et puis, jaûne, et tous les oiseaux du bois eclaterent dans un chanson vif et résonnant. Toute l’aûbe tressaillit. J‘avais reve de vous. Est-ce que vous voyez aussi l’aûbe? Les oiseaux m‘éveillent presque tous les matins, et toujours il y a quelque chose de terreur dans le cri des grives. Il est si clair—’”10
Miriam sat tremulous, half ashamed. He remained quite still, trying to understand. He only knew she loved him. He was afraid of her love for him. It was too good for him, and he was inadequate. His own love was at fault, not hers. Ashamed, he corrected her work, humbly writing above her words.
“Look,” he said quietly, “the past participle conjugated with avoir agrees with the direct object when it precedes.”
She bent forward, trying to see and to understand. Her free, fine curls tickled his face. He started as if they had been red hot, shuddering. He saw her peering forward at the page, her red lips parted piteously, the black hair springing in fine strands across her tawny, ruddy cheek. She was coloured like a pomegranate for richness. His breath came short as he watched her. Suddenly she looked up at him. Her dark eyes were naked with their love, afraid, and yearning. His eyes, too, were dark, and they hurt her. They seemed to master her. She lost all her self-control, was exposed in fear. And he knew, before he could kiss her, he must drive something out of himself And a touch of hate for her crept back again into his heart. He returned to her exercise.
Suddenly he flung down the pencil, and was at the oven in a leap, turning the bread. For Miriam he was too quick. She started violently, and it hurt her with real pain. Even the way he crouched before the oven hurt her. There seemed to be something cruel in it, something cruel in the swift way he pitched the bread out of the tins, caught it up again. If only he had been gentle in his movements she would have felt so rich and warm. As it was, she was hurt.
He returned and finished the exercise.
“You’ve done well this week,” he said.
She saw he was flattered by her diary. It did not repay her entirely.
“You really do blossom out sometimes,” he said. “You ought to write poetry”
She lifted her head with joy, then she shook it mistrustfully.
“I don’t trust myself,” she said.
“You should try!”
Again she shook her head.
“Shall we read, or is it too late?” he asked.
“It is late—but we can read just a little,” she pleaded.
She was really getting now the food for her life during the next week. He made her copy Baudelaire’s “Le Balcon.”11 Then he read it for her. His voice was soft and caressing, but growing almost brutal. He had a way of lifting his lips and showing his teeth, passionately and bitterly, when he was much moved. This he did now. It made Miriam feel as if he were trampling on her. She dared not look at him, but sat with her head bowed. She could not understand why he got into such a tumult and fury. It made her wretched. She did not like Baudelaire, on the whole—nor Verlaine.
“Behold her singing in the field
Yon solitary highland lass.”
That nourished her heart. So did “Fair Ines.” And—
“It was a beauteous evening, calm and pure,
And breathing holy quiet like a nun.”12
These were like herself. And there was he, saying in his throat bitterly:“Tu te rappelleras la beauté des caresses.”13
The poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven, arranging the burnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion, the good ones at the top. The desiccated loaf remained swathed up in the scullery.
“Mater needn’t know till morning,” he said. “It won’t upset her so much then as at night.”
Miriam looked in the bookcase, saw what postcards and letters he had received, saw what books were there. She took one that had interested him. Then he turned down the gas and they set off He did not trouble to lock the door.
He was not home again until a quarter to eleven. His mother was seated in the rocking-chair. Annie, with a rope of hair hanging down her back, remained sitting on a low stool before the fire, her elbows on her knees, gloomily. On the table stood the offending loaf unswathed. Paul entered rather breathless. No one spoke. His mother was reading the little local newspaper. He took off his coat, and went to sit down on the sofa. His mother moved curtly aside to let him pass. No one spoke. He was very uncomfortable. For some minutes he sat pretending to read a piece of paper he found on the table. Then———
“I forgot that bread, mother,” he said.
There was no answer from either woman.
“Well,” he said, “it’s only twopence ha’penny. I can pay you for that.”
Being angry, he put three pennies on the table and slid them towards his mother. She turned away her head. Her mouth was shut tightly.
“Yes,” said Annie, “you don’t know how badly my mother is!” The girl sat staring glumly into the fire.
“Why is she badly?” asked Paul, in his overbearing way.
“Well!” said Annie. “She could scarcely get home.”
He looked closely at his mother. She looked ill.
“Why could you scarcely get home?” he asked her, still sharply. She would not answer.
“I found her as white as a sheet sitting here,” said Annie, with a suggestion of tears in her voice.
“Well, why?” insisted Paul. His brows were knitting, his eyes dilating passionately.
“It was enough to upset anybody,” said Mrs. Morel, “hugging those parcels—meat, and green-groceries, and a pair of curtains—”
“Well, why did you hug them; you needn’t have done.”
“Then who would?”
“Let Annie fetch the meat.”
“Yes, and I would fetch the meat, but how was I to know. You were off with Miriam, instead of being in when my mother came.”
“And what was the matter with you?” asked Paul of his mother.
“I suppose it’s my heart,” she replied. Certainly she looked bluish round the mouth.
“And have you felt it before?”
“Yes—often enough.”
“Then why haven’t you told me?—and why haven’t you seen a doctor?”
Mrs. Morel shifted in her chair, angry with him for his hectoring.
“You’d never notice anything,” said Annie. “You’re too eager to be off with Miriam.”
“Oh, am I—and any worse than you with Leonard?”
“I was in at a quarter to ten.”
There was silence in the room for a time.
“I should have thought,” said Mrs. Morel bitterly, “that she wouldn’t have occupied you so entirely as to burn a whole ovenful of bread.”
“Beatrice was here as well as she.”
“Very likely. But we know why the bread is spoilt.”
“Why?” he flashed.
“Because you were engrossed with Miriam,” replied Mrs. Morel hotly.
“Oh, very well—then it was not!” he replied angrily.
He was distressed and wretched. Seizing a paper, he began to read. Annie, her blouse unfastened,
her long ropes of hair twisted into a plait, went up to bed, bidding him a very curt good-night.
Paul sat pretending to read. He knew his mother wanted to upbraid him. He also wanted to know what had made her ill, for he was troubled. So, instead of running away to bed, as he would have liked to do, he sat and waited. There was a tense silence. The clock ticked loudly.
“You’d better go to bed before your father comes in,” said the mother harshly. “And if you’re going to have anything to eat, you’d better get it.”
“I don’t want anything.”
It was his mother’s custom to bring him some trifle for supper on Friday night, the night of luxury for the colliers. He was too angry to go and find it in the pantry this night. This insulted her.
“If I wanted you to go to Selby on Friday night, I can imagine the scene,” said Mrs. Morel. “But you’re never too tired to go if she will come for you. Nay, you neither want to eat nor drink then.”
“I can’t let her go alone.”
“Can’t you? And why does she come?”
“Not because I ask her.”
“She doesn’t come without you want her—”
“Well, what if I do want her—” he replied.
“Why, nothing, if it was sensible or reasonable. But to go trapseing up there miles and miles in the mud, coming home at midnight, and got to go to Nottingham in the morning—”
“If I hadn’t, you’d be just the same.”
“Yes, I should, because there’s no sense in it. Is she so fascinating that you must follow her all that way?” Mrs. Morel was bitterly sarcastic. She sat still, with averted face, stroking with a rhythmic, jerked movement, the black sateen of her apron. It was a movement that hurt Paul to see.
“I do like her,” he said, “but—”
“Like her!” said Mrs. Morel, in the same biting tones. “It seems to me you like nothing and nobody else. There’s neither Annie, nor me, nor anyone now for you.”
“What nonsense, mother—you know I don’t love her—I—I tell you I don’t love her—she doesn’t even walk with my arm, because I don’t want her to.”
“Then why do you fly to her so often?”
“I do like to talk to her—I never said I didn’t. But I don’t love her.”
“Is there nobody else to talk to?”
“Not about the things we talk of. There’s a lot of things that you’re not interested in, that—”
“What things?”
Mrs. Morel was so intense that Paul began to pant.
“Why—painting—and books. You don’t care about Herbert Spencer.”14
“No,” was the sad reply. “And you won’t at my age.”
“Well, but I do now—and Miriam does—”
“And how do you know,” Mrs. Morel flashed defiantly, “that I shouldn’t. Do you ever try me!”
“But you don’t, mother, you know you don’t care whether a picture’s decorative or not; you don’t care what manner it is in.”
“How do you know I don’t care? Do you ever try me? Do you ever talk to me about these things, to try?”
“But it’s not that that matters to you, mother, you know t’s not.”
“What is it, then—what is it, then, that matters to me?” she flashed. He knitted his brows with pain.
“You’re old, mother, and we’re young.”
He only meant that the interests of her age were not the interests of his. But he realised the moment he had spoken that he had said the wrong thing.
“Yes, I know it well—I am old. And therefore I may stand aside; I have nothing more to do with you. You only want me to wait on you—the rest is for Miriam.”
He could not bear it. Instinctively he realised that he was life to her. And, after all, she was the chief thing to him, the only supreme thing.
“You know it isn‘t, mother, you know it isn’t!”
She was moved to pity by his cry.
“It looks a great deal like it,” she said, half putting aside her despair.
“No, mother—I really don’t love her. I talk to her, but I want to come home to you.”
He had taken off his collar and tie, and rose, bare-throated, to go to bed. As he stooped to kiss his mother, she threw her arms round his neck, hid her face on his shoulder, and cried, in a whimpering voice, so unlike her own that he writhed in agony:
“I can’t bear it. I could let another woman—but not her. She’d leave me no room, not a bit of room—”
And immediately he hated Miriam bitterly.
“And I’ve never—you know, Paul—I’ve never had a husband—not really—”
He stroked his mother’s hair, and his mouth was on her throat.
“And she exults so in taking you from me—she’s not like ordinary girls.”
“Well, I don’t love her, mother,” he murmured, bowing his head and hiding his eyes on her shoulder in misery. His mother kissed him a long, fervent kiss.
“My boy!” she said, in a voice trembling with passionate love.
Without knowing, he gently stroked her face.
“There,” said his mother, “now go to bed. You’ll be so tired in the morning.” As she was speaking she heard her husband coming. “There’s your father—now go.” Suddenly she looked at him almost as if in fear. “Perhaps I’m selfish. If you want her, take her, my boy.”
His mother looked so strange, Paul kissed her, trembling.
“Ha—mother!” he said softly.
Morel came in, walking unevenly. His hat was over one corner of his eye. He balanced in the doorway.
“At your mischief again?” he said venomously.
Mrs. Morel’s emotion turned into sudden hate of the drunkard who had come in thus upon her.
“At any rate, it is sober,” she said.
“H‘m—h’m! h‘m—h’m!” he sneered. He went into the passage, hung up his hat and coat. Then they heard him go down three steps to the pantry. He returned with a piece of pork-pie in his fist. It was what Mrs. Morel had bought for her son.
“Nor was that bought for you. If you can give me no more than twenty-five shillings, I’m sure I’m not going to buy you pork-pie to stuff, after you’ve swilled a bellyful of beer.”
“Wha-at—wha-at!” snarled Morel, toppling in his balance. “Wha-at—not for me?” He looked at the piece of meat and crust, and suddenly, in a vicious spurt of temper, flung it into the fire.
Paul started to his feet.
“Waste your own stuff!” he cried.
“What—what!” suddenly shouted Morel, jumping up and clenching his fist. “I’ll show yer, yer young jockey!”
“All right!” said Paul viciously, putting his head on one side. “Show me!”
He would at that moment dearly have loved to have a smack at something. Morel was half crouching, fists up, ready to spring. The young man stood, smiling with his lips.
“Ussha!” hissed the father, swiping round with a great stroke just past his son’s face. He dared not, even though so close, really touch the young man, but swerved an inch away.
“Right!” said Paul, his eyes upon the side of his father’s mouth, where in another instant his fist would have hit. He ached for that stroke. But he heard a faint moan from behind. His mother was deadly pale and dark at the mouth. Morel was dancing up to deliver another blow.
“Father!” said Paul, so that the word rang.
Morel started, and stood at attention.
“Mother!” moaned the boy. “Mother!”
She began to struggle with herself. Her open eyes watched him, although she could not move. Gradually she was coming to herself He laid her down on the sofa, and ran upstairs for a little whisky, which at last she could sip. The tears were hopping down his face. As he kneeled in front of her he did not cry, but the tears ran down his face quickly. Morel, on the opposite side of the room, sat with his elbows on his knees glaring across.
“What’s a-matter with ’er?” he asked.
“Faint!” replied P
aul.
“H’m!”
The elderly man began to unlace his boots. He stumbled off to bed. His last fight was fought in that home.
Paul kneeled there, stroking his mother’s hand.
“Don’t be poorly, mother—don’t be poorly!” he said time after time.
“It’s nothing, my boy,” she murmured.
At last he rose, fetched in a large piece of coal, and raked the fire. Then he cleared the room, put everything straight, laid the things for breakfast, and brought his mother’s candle.
“Can you go to bed, mother?”
“Yes, I’ll come.”
“Sleep with Annie, mother, not with him.”
“No. I’ll sleep in my own bed.”
“Don’t sleep with him, mother.”
“I’ll sleep in my own bed.”
She rose, and he turned out the gas, then followed her closely upstairs, carrying her candle. On the landing he kissed her close.
“Good-night, mother.”
“Good-night!” she said.
He pressed his face upon the pillow in a fury of misery. And yet, somewhere in his soul, he was at peace because he still loved his mother best. It was the bitter peace of resignation.
The efforts of his father to conciliate him next day were a great humiliation to him.
Everybody tried to forget the scene.
9
Defeat of Miriam
PAUL was dissatisfied with himself and with everything. The deepest of his love belonged to his mother. When he felt he had hurt her, or wounded his love for her, he could not bear it. Now it was spring, and there was battle between him and Miriam. This year he had a good deal against her. She was vaguely aware of it. The old feeling that she was to be a sacrifice to this love, which she had had when she prayed, was mingled in all her emotions. She did not at the bottom believe she ever would have him. She did not believe in herself primarily: doubted whether she could ever be what he would demand of her. Certainly she never saw herself living happily through a lifetime with him. She saw tragedy, sorrow, and sacrifice ahead. And in sacrifice she was proud, in renunciation she was strong, for she did not trust herself to support everyday life. She was prepared for the big things and the deep things, like tragedy. It was the sufficiency of the small day-life she could not trust.
Sons and Lovers (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 28