Sons and Lovers

by D. H. Lawrence

  Miriam was indignant at anybody’s forcing the issues between them. She had been furious with her own father for suggesting to Paul, laughingly, that he knew why he came so much.

  “Who says?” she asked, wondering if her people had anything to do with it. They had not.

  “Mother—and the others. They say at this rate everybody will consider me engaged, and I ought to consider myself so, because it’s not fair to you. And I’ve tried to find out—and I don’t think I love you as a man ought to love his wife. What do you think about it?”

  Miriam bowed her head moodily. She was angry at having this struggle. People should leave him and her alone.

  “I don’t know,” she murmured.

  “Do you think we love each other enough to marry?” he asked definitely. It made her tremble.

  “No,” she answered truthfully. “I don’t think so—were too young.”

  “I thought perhaps,” he went on miserably, “that you, with your intensity in things, might have given me more—than I could ever make up to you. And even now—if you think it better—we’ll be engaged.”

  Now Miriam wanted to cry. And she was angry, too. He was always such a child for people to do as they liked with.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said firmly.

  He pondered a minute.

  “You see,” he said, “with me—I don’t think one person would ever monopolize me—be everything to me—I think never.”

  This she did not consider.

  “No,” she murmured. Then, after a pause, she looked at him, and her dark eyes flashed.

  “This is your mother,” she said. “I know she never liked me.”

  “No, no, it isn’t,” he said hastily. “It was for your sake she spoke this time. She only said, if I was going on, I ought to consider myself engaged.” There was a silence. “And if I ask you to come down any time, you won’t stop away, will you?”

  She did not answer. By this time she was very angry.

  “Well, what shall we do?” she said shortly. “I suppose I’d better drop French. I was just beginning to get on with it. But I suppose I can go on alone.”

  “I don’t see that we need,” he said. “I can give you a French lesson, surely.”

  “Well—and there are Sunday nights. I shan’t stop coming to chapel, because I enjoy it, and it’s all the social life I get. But you’ve no need to come home with me. I can go alone.”

  “All right,” he answered, rather taken aback. “But if I ask Edgar, he’ll always come with us, and then they can say nothing.”

  There was silence. After all, then, she would not lose much. For all their talk down at his home there would not be much difference. She wished they would mind their own business.

  “And you won’t think about it, and let it trouble you, will you?” he asked.

  “Oh no,” replied Miriam, without looking at him.

  He was silent. She thought him unstable. He had no fixity of purpose, no anchor of righteousness that held him.

  “Because,” he continued, “a man gets across his bicycle—and goes to work—and does all sorts of things. But a woman broods.”

  “No, I shan’t bother,” said Miriam. And she meant it.

  It had gone rather chilly. They went indoors.

  “How white Paul looks!” Mrs. Leivers exclaimed. “Miriam, you shouldn’t have let him sit out of doors. Do you think you’ve taken cold, Paul?”

  “Oh, no!” he laughed.

  But he felt done up. It wore him out, the conflict in himself. Miriam pitied him now. But quite early, before nine o’clock, he rose to go.

  “You’re not going home, are you?” asked Mrs. Leivers anxiously.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I said I’d be early.” He was very awkward.

  “But this is early,” said Mrs. Leivers.

  Miriam sat in the rocking-chair, and did not speak. He hesitated, expecting her to rise and go with him to the barn as usual for his bicycle. She remained as she was. He was at a loss.

  “Well—good-night, all!” he faltered.

  She spoke her good-night along with all the others. But as he went past the window he looked in. She saw him pale, his brows knit slightly in a way that had become constant with him, his eyes dark with pain.

  She rose and went to the doorway to wave good-bye to him as he passed through the gate. He rode slowly under the pine-trees, feeling a cur and a miserable wretch. His bicycle went tilting down the hills at random. He thought it would be a relief to break one’s neck.

  Two days later he sent her up a book and a little note, urging her to read and be busy.

  At this time he gave all his friendship to Edgar. He loved the family so much, he loved the farm so much; it was the dearest place on earth to him. His home was not so lovable. It was his mother. But then he would have been just as happy with his mother anywhere. Whereas Willey Farm he loved passionately. He loved the little pokey kitchen, where men’s boots tramped, and the dog slept with one eye open for fear of being trodden on; where the lamp hung over the table at night, and everything was so silent. He loved Miriam’s long, low parlour, with its atmosphere of romance, its flowers, its books, its high rosewood piano. He loved the gardens and the buildings that stood with their scarlet roofs on the naked edges of the fields, crept towards the wood as if for cosiness, the wild country scooping down a valley and up the uncultured hills of the other side. Only to be there was an exhilaration and a joy to him. He loved Mrs. Leivers, with her unworldliness and her quaint cynicism; he loved Mr. Leivers, so warm and young and lovable; he loved Edgar, who lit up when he came, and the boys and the children and Bill—even the sow Circe and the Indian game-cock called Tippoo.4 5 All this besides Miriam. He could not give it up.

  So he went as often, but he was usually with Edgar. Only all the family, including the father, joined in charades and games at evening. And later, Miriam drew them together, and they read “Macbeth” out of penny books, taking parts. It was great excitement. Miriam was glad, and Mrs. Leivers was glad, and Mr. Leivers enjoyed it. Then they all learned songs together from tonic sol-fa,ee singing in a circle round the fire. But now Paul was very rarely alone with Miriam. She waited. When she and Edgar and he walked home together from chapel or from the literary society in Bestwood, she knew his talk, so passionate and so unorthodox nowadays, was for her. She did envy Edgar, however, his cycling with Paul, his Friday nights, his days working in the fields. For her Friday nights and her French lessons were gone. She was nearly always alone, walking, pondering in the wood, reading, studying, dreaming, waiting. And he wrote to her frequently.

  One Sunday evening they attained to their old rare harmony. Edgar had stayed to Communion—he wondered what it was like—with Mrs. Morel. So Paul came on alone with Miriam to his home. He was more or less under her spell again. As usual, they were discussing the sermon. He was setting now full sail towards Agnosticism, but such a religious Agnosticism that Miriam did not suffer so badly. They were at the Renan “Vie de Jesus” stage.6 Miriam was the threshing-floor on which he threshed out all his beliefs. While he trampled his ideas upon her soul, the truth came out for him. She alone was his threshing-floor. She alone helped him towards realization. Almost impassive, she submitted to his argument and expounding. And somehow, because of her, he gradually realized where he was wrong. And what he realized, she realized. She felt he could not do without her.

  They came to the silent house. He took the key out of the scullery window, and they entered. All the time he went on with his discussion. He lit the gas, mended the fire, and brought her some cakes from the pantry. She sat on the sofa, quietly, with a plate on her knee. She wore a large white hat with some pinkish flowers. It was a cheap hat, but he liked it. Her face beneath was still and pensive, golden-brown and ruddy. Always her ears were hid in her short curls. She watched him.

  She liked him on Sundays. Then he wore a dark suit that showed the lithe movement of his body. There was a clean, clear-cut look about him. He went on wi
th his thinking to her. Suddenly he reached for a Bible. Miriam liked the way he reached up—so sharp, straight to the mark. He turned the pages quickly, and read her a chapter of St. John.7 As he sat in the arm-chair reading, intent, his voice only thinking, she felt as if he were using her unconsciously as a man uses his tools at some work he is bent on. She loved it. And the wistfulness of his voice was like a reaching to something, and it was as if she were what he reached with. She sat back on the sofa away from him, and yet feeling herself the very instrument his hand grasped. It gave her great pleasure.

  Then he began to falter and to get self-conscious. And when he came to the verse, “A woman, when she is in travail, hath sorrow because her hour is come,” he missed it out. Miriam had felt him growing uncomfortable. She shrank when the well-known words did not follow. He went on reading, but she did not hear. A grief and shame made her bend her head. Six months ago he would have read it simply. Now there was a scotch in his running with her. Now she felt there was really something hostile between them, something of which they were ashamed.

  She ate her cake mechanically. He tried to go on with his argument, but could not get back the right note. Soon Edgar came in. Mrs. Morel had gone to her friends’. The three set off to Willey Farm.

  Miriam brooded over his split with her. There was something else he wanted. He could not be satisfied; he could give her no peace. There was between them now always a ground for strife. She wanted to prove him. She believed that his chief need in life was herself. If she could prove it, both to herself and to him, the rest might go; she could simply trust to the future.

  So in May she asked him to come to Willey Farm and meet Mrs. Dawes. There was something he hankered after. She saw him, whenever they spoke of Clara Dawes, rouse and get slightly angry. He said he did not like her. Yet he was keen to know about her. Well, he should put himself to the test. She believed that there were in him desires for higher things, and desires for lower, and that the desire for the higher would conquer. At any rate, he should try. She forgot that her “higher” and “lower” were arbitrary.

  He was rather excited at the idea of meeting Clara at Willey Farm. Mrs. Dawes came for the day. Her heavy, dun-coloured hair was coiled on top of her head. She wore a white blouse and navy skirt, and somehow, wherever she was, seemed to make things look paltry and insignificant. When she was in the room, the kitchen seemed too small and mean altogether. Miriam’s beautiful twilighty parlour looked stiff and stupid. All the Leivers were eclipsed like candles. They found her rather hard to put up with. Yet she was perfectly amiable, but indifferent, and rather hard.

  Paul did not come till afternoon. He was early. As he swung off his bicycle, Miriam saw him look round at the house eagerly. He would be disappointed if the visitor had not come. Miriam went out to meet him, bowing her head because of the sunshine. Nasturtiums were coming out crimson under the cool green shadow of their leaves. The girl stood, dark-haired, glad to see him.

  “Hasn’t Clara come?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied Miriam in her musical tone. “She’s reading.”

  He wheeled his bicycle into the barn. He had put on a handsome tie, of which he was rather proud, and socks to match.

  “She came this morning?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied Miriam, as she walked at his side. “You said you’d bring me that letter from the man at Liberty’s. Have you remembered ?”

  “Oh, dash, no!” he said. “But nag at me till you get it.”

  “I don’t like to nag at you.”

  “Do it whether or not. And is she any more agreeable?” he continued.

  “You know I always think she is quite agreeable.”

  He was silent. Evidently his eagerness to be early to-day had been the newcomer. Miriam already began to suffer. They went together towards the house. He took the clips off his trousers, but was too lazy to brush the dust from his shoes, in spite of the socks and tie.

  Clara sat in the cool parlour reading. He saw the nape of her white neck, and the fine hair lifted from it. She rose, looking at him indifferently. To shake hands she lifted her arm straight, in a manner that seemed at once to keep him at a distance, and yet to fling something to him. He noticed how her breasts swelled inside her blouse, and how her shoulder curved handsomely under the thin muslin at the top of her arm.

  “You have chosen a fine day,” he said.

  “It happens so,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said; “I am glad.”

  She sat down, not thanking him for his politeness.

  “What have you been doing all morning?” asked Paul of Miriam.

  “Well, you see,” said Miriam, coughing huskily, “Clara only came with father—and so—she’s not been here very long.”

  Clara sat leaning on the table, holding aloof. He noticed her hands were large, but well kept. And the skin on them seemed almost coarse, opaque, and white, with fine golden hairs. She did not mind if he observed her hands. She intended to scorn him. Her heavy arm lay negligently on the table. Her mouth was closed as if she were offended, and she kept her face slightly averted.

  “You were at Margaret Bonford’s meeting the other evening,” he said to her.8

  Miriam did not know this courteous Paul. Clara glanced at him.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Why,” asked Miriam, “how do you know?”

  “I went in for a few minutes before the train came,” he answered.

  Clara turned away again rather disdainfully.

  “I think she’s a lovable little woman,” said Paul.

  “Margaret Bonford!” exclaimed Clara. “She’s a great deal cleverer than most men.”

  “Well, I didn’t say she wasn’t,” he said, deprecating. “She’s lovable for all that.”

  “And, of course, that is all that matters,” said Clara witheringly.

  He rubbed his head, rather perplexed, rather annoyed.

  “I suppose it matters more than her cleverness,” he said; “which, after all, would never get her to heaven.”

  “It’s not heaven she wants to get—it’s her fair share on earth,” retorted Clara. She spoke as if he were responsible for some deprivation which Miss Bonford suffered.

  “Well,” he said, “I thought she was warm, and awfully nice—only too frail. I wished she was sitting comfortably in peace—”

  “‘Darning her husband’s stockings,’” said Clara scathingly.

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind darning even my stockings,” he said. “And I’m sure she’d do them well. Just as I wouldn’t mind blacking her boots if she wanted me to.”

  But Clara refused to answer this sally of his. He talked to Miriam for a little while. The other woman held aloof.

  “Well,” he said, “I think I’ll go and see Edgar. Is he on the land?”

  “I believe,” said Miriam, “he’s gone for a load of coal. He should be back directly.”

  “Then,” he said, “I’ll go and meet him.”

  Miriam dared not propose anything for the three of them. He rose and left them.

  On the top road, where the gorseef was out, he saw Edgar walking lazily beside the mare, who nodded her white-starred forehead as she dragged the clanking load of coal. The young farmer’s face lighted up as he saw his friend. Edgar was good-looking, with dark, warm eyes. His clothes were old and rather disreputable, and he walked with considerable pride.

  “Hello!” he said, seeing Paul bareheaded. “Where are you going?”

  “Came to meet you. Can’t stand ‘Nevermore.’”9

  Edgar’s teeth flashed in a laugh of amusement.

  “Who is ‘Nevermore’?” he asked.

  “The lady—Mrs. Dawes—it ought to be Mrs. The Raven that quothed ‘Nevermore.’”

  Edgar laughed with glee.

  “Don’t you like her?” he asked.

  “Not a fat lot,” said Paul. “Why, do you?”

  “No!” The answer came with a deep ring of conviction. “No!” Edgar pursed up
his lips. “I can’t say she’s much in my line.” He mused a little. Then: “But why do you call her ‘Nevermore’?” he asked.

  “Well,” said Paul, “if she looks at a man she says haughtily ‘Nevermore,’ and if she looks at herself in the looking-glass she says disdainfully ‘Nevermore,’ and if she thinks back she says it in disgust, and if she looks forward she says it cynically.”

  Edgar considered this speech, failed to make much out of it, and said, laughing:

  “You think she’s a man-hater?”

  “She thinks she is,” replied Paul.

  “But you don’t think so?”

  “No,” replied Paul.

  “Wasn’t she nice with you, then?”

  “Could you imagine her nice with anybody?” asked the young man.

  Edgar laughed. Together they unloaded the coal in the yard. Paul was rather self-conscious, because he knew Clara could see if she looked out of the window. She didn’t look.

  On Saturday afternoons the horses were brushed down and groomed. Paul and Edgar worked together, sneezing with the dust that came from the pelts of Jimmy and Flower.

  “Do you know a new song to teach me?” said Edgar.

  He continued to work all the time. The back of his neck was sun-red when he bent down, and his fingers that held the brush were thick. Paul watched him sometimes.

  “‘Mary Morrison’?”eg suggested the younger.

  Edgar agreed. He had a good tenor voice, and he loved to learn all the songs his friend could teach him, so that he could sing whilst he was carting. Paul had a very indifferent baritone voice, but a good ear. However, he sang softly, for fear of Clara. Edgar repeated the line in a clear tenor. At times they both broke off to sneeze, and first one, then the other, abused his horse.

  Miriam was impatient of men. It took so little to amuse them—even Paul. She thought it anomalous in him that he could be so thoroughly absorbed in a triviality.

  It was tea-time when they had finished.

  “What song was that?” asked Miriam.

  Edgar told her. The conversation turned to singing.

  “We have such jolly times,” Miriam said to Clara.