“As you will,” he answered. “We’re not strangers—never should be, whatever happened. I will write to you now and again. You please yourself.”
“I see!” she answered cuttingly.
But he was at that stage at which nothing else hurts. He had made a great cleavage in his life. He had had a great shock when she had told him their love had been always a conflict. Nothing more mattered. If it never had been much, there was no need to make a fuss that it was ended.
He left her at the land-end. As she went home, solitary, in her new frock, having her people to face at the other end, he stood still with shame and pain in the highroad, thinking of the suffering he caused her.
In the reaction towards restoring his self-esteem, he went into the Willow Tree for a drink. There were four girls who had been out for the day, drinking a modest glass of port. They had some chocolates on the table. Paul sat near with his whisky. He noticed the girls whispering and nudging. Presently one, a bonny dark hussy, leaned to him and said:
“Have a chocolate?”
The others laughed loudly at her impudence.
“All right,” said Paul. “Give me a hard one—nut. I don’t like creams.
“Here you are then,” said the girl; “here’s an almond for you.”
She held the sweet between her fingers. He opened his mouth. She popped it in, and blushed.
“You are nice!” he said.
“Well,” she answered, “we thought you looked overcast, and they dared me offer you a chocolate.”
“I don’t mind if I have another—another sort,” he said.
And presently they were all laughing together.
It was nine o’clock when he got home, falling dark. He entered the house in silence. His mother, who had been waiting, rose anxiously.
“I told her,” he said.
“I’m glad,” replied the mother, with great relief.
He hung up his cap wearily.
“I said we’d have done altogether,” he said.
“That’s right, my son,” said the mother. “It’s hard for her now, but best in the long run. I know. You weren’t suited for her.”
He laughed shakily as he sat down.
“I’ve had such a lark with some girls in a pub,” he said.
His mother looked at him. He had forgotten Miriam now. He told her about the girls in the Willow Tree. Mrs. Morel looked at him. It seemed unreal, his gaiety. At the back of it was too much horror and misery.
“Now have some supper,” she said very gently.
Afterwards he said wistfully:
“She never thought she’d have me, mother, not from the first, and so she’s not disappointed.”
“I’m afraid,” said his mother, “she doesn’t give up hopes of you yet.”
“No,” he said, “perhaps not.”
“You’ll find it’s better to have done,” she said.
“I don’t know,” he said desperately.
“Well, leave her alone,” replied his mother.
So he left her, and she was alone. Very few people cared for her, and she for very few people. She remained alone with herself, waiting.
12
Passion
HE WAS gradually making it possible to earn a livelihood by his art. Liberty’s had taken several of his painted designs on various stuffs, and he could sell designs for embroideries, for altar-cloths, and similar things, in one or two places. It was not very much he made at present, but he might extend it. He had also made friends with the designer for a pottery firm, and was gaining some knowledge of his new acquaintance’s art. The applied arts interested him very much. At the same time he laboured slowly at his pictures. He loved to paint large figures, full of light, but not merely made up of lights and cast shadows, like the impressionists; rather definite figures that had a certain luminous quality, like some of Michael Angelo’s people. And these he fitted into a landscape, in what he thought true proportion. He worked a great deal from memory, using everybody he knew. He believed firmly in his work, that it was good and valuable. In spite of fits of depression, shrinking, everything, he believed in his work.
He was twenty-four when he said his first confident thing to his mother.
“Mother,” he said, “I s’ll make a painter that they’ll attend to.”
She sniffed in her quaint fashion. It was like a half-pleased shrug of the shoulders.
“Very well, my boy, we’ll see,” she said.
“You shall see, my pigeon! You see if you’re not swanky one of these days!”
“I’m quite content, my boy,” she smiled.
“But you’ll have to alter. Look at you with Minnie!”
Minnie was the small servant, a girl of fourteen.
“And what about Minnie?” asked Mrs. Morel, with dignity.
“I heard her this morning: ‘Eh, Mrs. Morel! I was going to do that,’ when you went out in the rain for some coal,” he said. “That looks a lot like your being able to manage servants!”
“Well, it was only the child’s niceness,” said Mrs. Morel.
“And you apologising to her: ‘You can’t do two things at once, can you?’”
“She was busy washing up,” replied Mrs. Morel.
“And what did she say? ‘It could easy have waited a bit. Now look how your feet paddle!’ ”
“Yes—brazen young baggage!” said Mrs. Morel, smiling.
He looked at his mother, laughing. She was quite warm and rosy again with love of him. It seemed as if all the sunshine were on her for a moment. He continued his work gladly. She seemed so well when she was happy that he forgot her grey hair.
And that year she went with him to the Isle of Wight for a holiday. It was too exciting for them both, and too beautiful. Mrs. Morel was full of joy and wonder. But he would have her walk with him more than she was able. She had a bad fainting bout. So grey her face was, so blue her mouth! It was agony to him. He felt as if someone were pushing a knife in his chest. Then she was better again, and he forgot. But the anxiety remained inside him, like a wound that did not close.
After leaving Miriam he went almost straight to Clara. On the Monday following the day of the rupture he went down to the work-room. She looked up at him and smiled. They had grown very intimate unawares. She saw a new brightness about him.
“Well, Queen of Sheba!” he said, laughing.
“But why?” she asked.
“I think it suits you. You’ve got a new frock on.”
She flushed, asking:
“And what of it?”
“Suits you—awfully! I could design you a dress.”
“How would it be?”
He stood in front of her, his eyes glittering as he expounded. He kept her eyes fixed with his. Then suddenly he took hold of her. She half-started back. He drew the stuff of her blouse tighter, smoothed it over her breast.
“More so!” he explained.
But they were both of them flaming with blushes, and immediately he ran away. He had touched her. His whole body was quivering with the sensation.
There was already a sort of secret understanding between them. The next evening he went to the cinematograph with her for a few minutes before train-time. As they sat, he saw her hand lying near him. For some moments he dared not touch it. The pictures danced and dithered. Then he took her hand in his. It was large and firm; it filled his grasp. He held it fast. She neither moved nor made any sign. When they came out his train was due. He hesitated.
“Good-night,” she said. He darted away across the road.
The next day he came again, talking to her. She was rather superior with him.
“Shall we go a walk on Monday?” he asked.
She turned her face aside.
“Shall you tell Miriam?” she replied sarcastically.
“I have broken off with her,” he said.
“When?”
“Last Sunday.”
“You quarrelled?”
“No! I had made up my mind. I to
ld her quite definitely I should consider myself free.”
Clara did not answer, and he returned to his work. She was so quiet and so superb!
On the Saturday evening he asked her to come and drink coffee with him in a restaurant, meeting him after work was over. She came, looking very reserved and very distant. He had three-quarters of an hour to train-time.
“We will walk a little while,” he said.
She agreed, and they went past the Castle into the Park. He was afraid of her. She walked moodily at his side, with a kind of resentful, reluctant, angry walk. He was afraid to take her hand.
“Which way shall we go?” he asked as they walked in darkness.
“I don’t mind.”
“Then we’ll go up the steps.”
He suddenly turned round. They had passed the Park steps. She stood still in resentment at his suddenly abandoning her. He looked for her. She stood aloof. He caught her suddenly in his arms, held her strained for a moment, kissed her. Then he let her go.
“Come along,” he said, penitent.
She followed him. He took her hand and kissed her fingertips. They went in silence. When they came to the light, he let go her hand. Neither spoke till they reached the station. Then they looked each other in the eyes.
“Good-night,” she said.
And he went for his train. His body acted mechanically. People talked to him. He heard faint echoes answering them. He was in a delirium. He felt that he would go mad if Monday did not come at once. On Monday he would see her again. All himself was pitched there, ahead. Sunday intervened. He could not bear it. He could not see her till Monday. And Sunday intervened—hour after hour of tension. He wanted to beat his head against the door of the carriage. But he sat still. He drank some whisky on the way home, but it only made it worse. His mother must not be upset, that was all. He dissembled, and got quickly to bed. There he sat, dressed, with his chin on his knees, starting out of the window at the far hill, with its few lights. He neither thought nor slept, but sat perfectly still, staring. And when at last he was so cold that he came to himself, he found his watch had stopped at half-past two. It was after three o‘clock. He was exhausted, but still there was the torment of knowing it was only Sunday morning. He went to bed and slept. Then he cycled all day long, till he was fagged out.fg And he scarcely knew where he had been. But the day after was Monday. He slept till four o’clock. Then he lay and thought. He was coming nearer to himself—he could see himself, real, somewhere in front. She would go a walk with him in the afternoon. Afternoon! It seemed years ahead.
Slowly the hours crawled. His father got up; he heard him pottering about. Then the miner set off to the pit, his heavy boots scraping the yard. Cocks were still crowing. A cart went down the road. His mother got up. She knocked the fire. Presently she called him softly. He answered as if he were asleep. This shell of himself did well.
He was walking to the station—another mile! The train was near Nottingham. Would it stop before the tunnels? But it did not matter ; it would get there before dinner-time. He was at Jordan’s. She would come in half an hour. At any rate, she would be near. He had done the letters. She would be there. Perhaps she had not come. He ran downstairs. Ah! he saw her through the glass door. Her shoulders stooping a little to her work made him feel he could not go forward ; he could not stand. He went in. He was pale, nervous, awkward, and quite cold. Would she misunderstand him? He could not write his real self with this shell.
“And this afternoon,” he struggled to say. “You will come?”
“I think so,” she replied, murmuring.
He stood before her, unable to say a word. She hid her face from him. Again came over him the feeling that he would lose consciousness. He set his teeth and went upstairs. He had done everything correctly yet, and he would do so. All the morning things seemed a long way off, as they do to a man under chloroform. He himself seemed under a tight band of constraint. Then there was his other self, in the distance, doing things, entering stuff in a ledger, and he watched that far-off him carefully to see he made no mistake.
But the ache and strain of it could not go on much longer. He worked incessantly. Still it was only twelve o’clock. As if he had nailed his clothing against the desk, he stood there and worked, forcing every stroke out of himself. It was a quarter to one; he could clear away. Then he ran downstairs.
“You will meet me at the Fountain at two o’clock,” he said.
“I can’t be there till half-past.”
“Yes!” he said.
She saw his dark, mad eyes.
“I will try at a quarter past.”
And he had to be content. He went and got some dinner. All the time he was still under chloroform, and every minute was stretched out indefinitely. He walked miles of streets. Then he thought he would be late at the meeting-place. He was at the Fountain at five past two. The torture of the next quarter of an hour was refined beyond expression. It was the anguish of combining the living self with the shell. Then he saw her. She came! And he was there.
“You are late,” he said.
“Only five minutes,” she answered.
“I’d never have done it to you,” he laughed.
She was in a dark blue costume. He looked at her beautiful figure.
“You want some flowers,” he said, going to the nearest florist’s.
She followed him in silence. He bought her a bunch of scarlet, brick-red carnations. She put them in her coat, flushing.
“That’s a fine colour!” he said.
“I’d rather have had something softer,” she said.
He laughed.
“Do you feel like a blot of vermilion walking down the street?” he said.
She hung her head, afraid of the people they met. He looked sideways at her as they walked. There was a wonderful close down on her face near the ear that he wanted to touch. And a certain heaviness, the heaviness of a very full ear of corn that dips slightly in the wind, that there was about her, made his brain spin. He seemed to be spinning down the street, everything going round.
As they sat in the tramcar, she leaned her heavy shoulder against him, and he took her hand. He felt himself coming round from the anaesthetic, beginning to breathe. Her ear, half-hidden among her blonde hair, was near to him. The temptation to kiss it was almost too great. But there were other people on top of the car. It still remained to him to kiss it. After all, he was not himself, he was some attribute of hers, like the sunshine that fell on her.
He looked quickly away. It had been raining. The big bluff of the Castle rock was streaked with rain, as it reared above the flat of the town. They crossed the wide, black space of the Midland Railway, and passed the cattle enclosure that stood out white. Then they ran down sordid Wilford Road.
She rocked slightly to the tram’s motion, and as she leaned against him, rocked upon him. He was a vigorous, slender man, with exhaustless energy. His face was rough, with rough-hewn features, like the common people’s; but his eyes under the deep brows were so full of life that they fascinated her. They seemed to dance, and yet they were still trembling on the finest balance of laughter. His mouth the same was just going to spring into a laugh of triumph, yet did not. There was a sharp suspense about him. She bit her lip moodily. His hand was hard clenched over hers.
They paid their two halfpennies at the turnstile and crossed the bridge. The Trent was very full. It swept silent and insidious under the bridge, travelling in a soft body. There had been a great deal of rain. On the river levels were flat gleams of flood water. The sky was grey, with glisten of silver here and there. In Wilford churchyard the dahlias were sodden with rain—wet black-crimson balls. No one was on the path that went along the green river meadow, along the elm-tree colonnade.
There was the faintest haze over the silvery-dark water and the green meadow-bank, and the elm-trees that were spangled with gold. The river slid by in a body, utterly silent and swift, intertwining among itself like some subtle, complex creature. Clar
a walked moodily beside him.
“Why,” she asked at length, in rather a jarring tone, “did you leave Miriam?”
He frowned.
“Because I wanted to leave her,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to go on with her. And I didn’t want to marry.”
She was silent for a moment. They picked their way down the muddy path. Drops of water fell from the elm-trees.
“You didn’t want to marry Miriam, or you didn’t want to marry at all?” she asked.
“Both,” he answered—“both!”
They had to manoeuvre to get to the stile, because of the pools of water.
“And what did she say?” Clara asked.
“Miriam? She said I was a baby of four, and that I always had battled her off.”
Clara pondered over this for a time.
“But you have really been going with her for some time?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And now you don’t want any more of her?”
“No. I know it’s no good.”
She pondered again.
“Don’t you think you’ve treated her rather badly?” she asked.
“Yes; I ought to have dropped it years back. But it would have been no good going on. Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“How old are you?” Clara asked.
“Twenty-five.”
“And I am thirty,” she said.
“I know you are.”
“I shall be thirty-one-or am I thirty-one?”
“I neither know nor care. What does it matter!”
They were at the entrance to the Grove. The wet, red track, already sticky with fallen leaves, went up the steep bank between the grass. On either side stood the elm-trees like pillars along a great aisle, arching over and making high up a roof from which the dead leaves fell. All was empty and silent and wet. She stood on top of the stile, and he held both her hands. Laughing, she looked down into his eyes. Then she leaped. Her breast came against his; he held her, and covered her face with kisses.
They went on up the slippery, steep red path. Presently she released his hand and put it round her waist.
“You press the vein in my arm, holding it so tightly,” she said.
Sons and Lovers (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 39