Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated)

by D. H. Lawrence

  “What with?” asked Somers.

  “What with?” Jack hesitated. “Why everything!” he blurted. “Everything! Body and soul and money and every blessed thing. I can trust you with EVERYTHING! Isn’t that right?”

  Somers looked with troubled eyes into the dark, dilated glowing eyes of the other man.

  “But I don’t know what it means,” he stammered. “EVERYTHING! It means so much, that it means nothing.”

  Jack nodded his head slowly.

  “Oh yes it does,” he reiterated. “Oh yes it does.”

  “Besides,” said Somers, “why should you trust me with ANYTHING, let alone everything. You’ve no occasion to trust me at all — except — as one neighbour trusts another, in common honour.”

  “Common honour!” Jack just caught up the words, not heeding the sense. “It’s more than common honour. It’s most uncommon honour. But look here,” he seemed to rouse himself. “Supposing I came to you, to ask you things, and tell you things, you’d answer me man to man, wouldn’t you? — with common honour? You’d treat everything I say with common honour, as between man and man?”

  “Why, yes, I hope so.”

  “I know you would. But for the sake of saying it, say it. I can trust you, can’t I? Tell me now, can I trust you?”

  Somers watched him. Was it any good making reservations and qualifications? The man was in earnest. And according to standards of commonplace honour, the so-called honour of man to man, Somers felt that he would trust Callcott, and that Callcott might trust him. So he said simply:

  “Yes.”

  A light leaped into Jack’s eyes.

  “That means you trust me, of course?” he said.

  “Yes,” replied Somers.

  “Done!” said Jack, rising to his feet and upsetting the chessmen. Somers also pushed his chair, and rose to his feet, thinking they were going across to the next house. But Jack came to him and flung an arm round his shoulders and pressed him close, trembling slightly, and saying nothing. Then he let go, and caught Somers by the hand.

  “This is fate,” he said, “and we’ll follow it up.” He seemed to cling to the other man’s hand. And on his face was a strange light of purpose and of passion, a look at once exalted and dangerous.

  “I’ll soon bring the others to see it,” he said.

  “But you know I don’t understand,” said Somers, withdrawing his hand and taking off his spectacles.

  “I know,” said Jack. “But I’ll let you know everything in a day or two. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if William James — if Jaz came here one evening — or you wouldn’t mind having a talk with him over in my shack.”

  “I don’t mind talking to anybody,” said the bewildered Somers.

  “Right you are.”

  They still sat for some time by the fire, silent; Jack was pondering. Then he looked up at Somers.

  “You and me,” he said in a quiet voice, “in a way we’re mates and in a way we’re not. In a way — it’s different.”

  With which cryptic remark he left it. And in a few minutes the women came running in with the sweets, to see if the men didn’t want a macaroon.

  On Sunday morning Jack asked Somers to walk with him across to the Trewhellas. That is, they walked to one of the ferry stations, and took the ferry steamer to Mosman’s Bay. Jack was a late riser on Sunday morning. The Somers, who were ordinary half-past seven people, rarely saw any signs of life in Wyewurk before half-past ten on the Sabbath — then it was Jack in trousers and shirt, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, having a look at his dahlias while Vicky prepared breakfast.

  So the two men did not get a start till eleven o’clock. Jack rolled along easily beside the smaller, quieter Somers. They were an odd couple, ill-assorted. In a colonial way, Jack was handsome, well-built, with strong, heavy limbs. He filled out his expensively tailored suit and looked a man who might be worth anything from five hundred to five thousand a year. The only lean, delicate part about him was his face. See him from behind, his broad shoulders and loose erect carriage and brown nape of the neck, and you expected a good square face to match. He turned, and his long lean rather pallid face really didn’t seem to belong to his strongly animal body. For the face wasn’t animal at all, except perhaps in a certain slow, dark, lingering look of the eyes, which reminded one of some animal or other, some patient, enduring animal with an indomitable but naturally passive courage.

  Somers, in a light suit of thin cloth, made by an Italian tailor, and an Italian hat, just looked a foreign sort of little bloke — but a gentleman. The chief difference was that he looked sensitive all over, his body, even its clothing, and his feet, even his brown shoes, all equally sensitive with his face. Whereas Jack seemed strong and insensitive in the body, only his face vulnerable. His feet might have been made of leather all the way through, tramping with an insentient tread. Whereas Somers put down his feet delicately, as if they had a life of their own, mindful of each step of contact with the earth. Jack strode along: Somers seemed to hover along. There was decision in both of them, but oh, of such different quality. And each had a certain admiration of the other, and a very definite tolerance. Jack just barely tolerated the quiet finesse of Somers, and Somers tolerated with difficulty Jack’s facetious familiarity and heartiness.

  Callcott met quite a number of people he knew, and greeted them all heartily. “Hello Bill, old man, how’s things?” “New boots pinchin’ yet, Ant’ny? Hoppy sort of look about you this morning. Right ‘o! So long, Ant’ny!” “Different girl again, boy! go on, Sydney’s full of yer sisters. All right, goodbye, old chap.” The same breezy intimacy with all of them, and the moment they had passed by, they didn’t exist for him any more than the gull that had curved across in the air. They seemed to appear like phantoms, and disappear in the same instant, like phantoms. Like so many Flying Dutchmen the Australian’s acquaintances seemed to steer slap through his consciousness, and were gone on the wind. What was the consecutive thread in the man’s feelings? Not his feeling for any particular human beings, that was evident. His friends, even his loves, were just a series of disconnected, isolated moments in his life. Somers always came again upon this gap in the other man’s continuity. He felt that if he knew Jack for twenty years, and then went away, Jack would say: “Friend o’ mine, Englishman, rum sort of bloke, but not a bad sort. Dunno where he’s hanging out just now. Somewhere on the surface of the old humming-top, I suppose.”

  The only consecutive thing was that facetious attitude, which was the attitude of taking things as they come, perfected. A sort of ironical stoicism. Yet the man had a sort of passion, and a passionate identity. But not what Somers called human. And threaded on this ironical stoicism.

  They found Trewhella dressed and expecting them. Trewhella was a coal and wood merchant, on the north side. He lived quite near the wharf, had his sheds at the side of the house, and in the front a bit of garden running down to the practically tideless bay of the harbour. Across the bit of blue water were many red houses, and new, wide streets of single cottages, seaside-like, disappearing rather forlorn over the brow of the low hill.

  William James, or Jas, Jaz, as Jack called him, was as quiet as ever. The three men sat on a bench just above the brown rocks of the water’s edge, in the lovely sunshine, and watched the big ferry steamer slip in and discharge its stream of summer-dressed passengers, and embark another stream: watched the shipping of the middle harbour away to the right, and the boats loitering on the little bay in front. A motor-boat was sweeping at a terrific speed, like some broom sweeping the water, past the little round fort away in the open harbour, and two tall white sailing boats, all wing and no body, were tacking across the pale blue mouth of the bay. The inland sea of the harbour was all bustling with Sunday morning animation: and yet there seemed space, and loneliness. The low, coffee-brown cliffs opposite, too low for cliffs, looked as silent and as aboriginal as if white men had never come.

  The little girl Gladys came out shyly. Somers now noticed t
hat she wore spectacles.

  “Hello kiddie!” said Jack, “Come here and make a footstool of your uncle, and see what your Aunt Vicky’s been thinking of. Come on then, amble up this road.”

  He took her on his knee, and fished out of his pocket a fine sort of hat-band that Victoria had contrived with ribbon and artificial flowers and wooden beads. Gladys sat for a moment shyly on her uncle’s knee, and he held her there as if she were a big pillow he was scarcely conscious of holding. Her stepfather sat exactly as if the child did not exist, or were not present. It was neutrality brought to a remarkable pitch. Only Somers seemed actually aware that the child was a little human being — and to him she seemed so absent that he didn’t know what to make of her.

  Rose came out bringing beer and sausage rolls, and the girl vanished away again, seemed to evaporate. Somers felt uncomfortable, and wondered what he had been brought for.

  “You know Cornwall, do you?” said William James, the Cornish singsong still evident in his Australian speech. He looked with his light-grey, inscrutable eyes at Somers.

  “I lived for a time near Padstow,” said Somers.

  “Padstow! Ay, I’ve been to Padstow,” said William James. And they talked for a while of the bleak, lonely northern coast of Cornwall, the black huge cliffs, with the gulls flying away below, and the sea boiling, and the wind blowing in huge volleys: and the black Cornish nights, with nothing but the violent weather outside.

  “Oh, I remember it, I remember it,” said William James. “Though I was a half-starved youngster on a bit of a farm out there, you know, for everlasting chasing half a dozen heifers from the cliffs, where the beggars wanted to fall over and kill themselves, and hunting for a dozen sheep among the gorsebushes, and wading up to my knees in mud most part of the year, and then in summer, in the dry times, having to haul water for a mile over the rocks in a wagon, because the well had run dry. And at the end of it my father gave me one new suit in two years, and sixpence a week. Ay, that was a life for you. I suppose if I was there still he’d be giving me my keep and five shillin’ a week — if he could open his heart as wide as two half-crowns, which I’m doubting very much.”

  “You have money out here, at least,” said Somers. “But there was a great fascination for me, in Cornwall.”

  “Fascination! And where do you find the fascination? In a little Wesleyan chapel of a Sunday night, and a girl with her father waiting for her with a strap if she’s not in by nine o’clock? Fascination, did you say?”

  “It had a great fascination for me — a magic — a magic in the atmosphere.”

  “All the fairy tales they’ll tell you,” said William James, looking at the other man with a smile of slow ridicule. “Why ye didn’t go and believe them, did ye?”

  “More or less. I could more easily have believed them there than anywhere else I’ve been.”

  “Ay, no doubt. And that shows what sort of a place it be. Lot of damn silly nonsense.” He stirred on his seat impatiently.

  “At any rate, you’re well out of it. You’re set up all right here,” said Somers, who was secretly amused. The other man did not answer for some time.

  “Maybe I am,” he said at last, “I’m not pining to go back and work for my father, I tell you, on a couple of pasties and a lot of abuse. No, after that, I’d like you to tell me what’s wrong with Australia.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Somers, “Probably nothing at all.”

  Again William James was silent. He was a short, thick man, with a little felt hat that sat over his brow with a half humorous flap. He had his knees wide apart, and his hands clasped between them. And he looked for the most part down at the ground. When he did cock his eye at Somers, it was with a look of suspicion marked with humour and troubled with a certain desire. The man was restless, desirous, craving something — heaven knows what.

  “You thinking of settling out here then, are you?” he asked.

  “No,” said Somers. “But I don’t say I won’t. It depends.”

  William James fidgeted, tapping his feet rapidly on the ground, though his body was silent. He was not like Jack. He too, was sensitive all over, though his body looked so thick it was silently alive, and his feet were still uneasy. He was young too, with a youth that troubled him. And his nature was secretive, maybe treacherous. It was evident Jack only half liked him.

  “You’ve got the money, you can live where you like and go where you like,” said William James, looking up at Somers. “Well, I might do the same. If I cared to do it, I could live quietly on what I’ve got, whether here or in England.” Somers recognized the Cornishman in this.

  “You could very easily have as much as I’ve got,” he said laughing.

  “The thing is, what’s the good of a life of idleness?” said William James.

  “What’s the good of a life of work?” laughed Somers.

  Shrewdly, with quick grey eye, Trewhella looked at the other man to see if he were laughing at him.

  “Yet I expect you’ve got some purpose in coming to Australia,” said William James, a trifle challenging.

  “Maybe I had — or have — maybe it was just whim.”

  Again the other man looked shrewdly, to see if it were the truth.

  “You aren’t investing money out here, are you?”

  “No, I’ve none to invest.”

  “Because if you was, I’d advise you not to.” And he spat into the distance, and kept his hands clasped tight.

  All this time Jack sat silent and as if unconcerned, but listening attentively.

  “Australians have always been croakers,” he said now.

  “What do you think of this Irish business?” asked William James.

  “I? I really don’t think much at all. I don’t feel Ireland is my job, personally. If I had to say, offhand, what I’d do myself, why, if I could I’d just leave the Irish to themselves, as they want, and let them wipe each other out or kiss and make friends as they please. They bore me rather.”

  “And what about the Empire?”

  “That again isn’t my job. I’m only one man, and I know it. But personally, I’d say to India and Australia and all of them the same — if you want to stay in the Empire, stay; if you want to go out, go.”

  “And suppose they went out?”

  “That’s their affair.”

  “Supposing Australia said she was coming out of the Empire and governing herself, and only keeping a sort of entente with Britain. What do you think she’d make of it?”

  “By the looks of things, I think she’d make a howling mess of it. Yet it might do her good if she were thrown entirely on her own resources. You’ve got to have something to keep you steady. England has really kept the world steady so far — as steady as it’s been. That’s my opinion. Now she’s not keeping it very steady, and the world’s sick of being bossed, anyhow. Seems to me you may as well sink or swim on your own resources.”

  “Perhaps we’re too likely to find ourselves sinking.”

  “Then you’ll come to your senses, after you’ve sunk for the third time.”

  “What, about England? Cling to England again, you mean?”

  “No, I don’t. I mean you can’t put the brotherhood of man on a wage basis.”

  “That’s what a good many people say here,” put in Jack.

  “You don’t trust socialism then?” said Jaz, in a quiet voice.

  “What sort of socialism? Trades unionism? Soviet?”

  “Yes, any.”

  “I really don’t care about politics. Politics is no more than your country’s housekeeping. If I had to swallow my whole life up in housekeeping, I wouldn’t keep house at all; I’d sleep under a hedge. Same with a country and politics. I’d rather have no country than be gulfed in politics and social stuff. I’d rather have the moon for a motherland.”

  Jaz was silent for a time, contemplating his knuckles.

  “And that,” he said, “is how the big majority of Australians feel, and that’s why the
y care nothing about Australia. It’s cruel to the country.”

  “Anyhow, no sort of POLITICS will help the country,” said Somers.

  “If it won’t, then nothing will,” retorted Jaz.

  “So you’d advise us all to be like seven-tenths of us here, not care a blooming hang about anything except your dinner and which horse gets in?” asked Jack, not without sarcasm.

  Now Richard was silent, driven into a corner.

  “Why,” he said, “there’s just this difference. The bulk of Australians don’t care about Australia — that is, you say they don’t. And why don’t they? Because they care about nothing at all, neither in earth below or heaven above. They just blankly don’t care about anything, and they live in defiance, a sort of slovenly defiance of care of any sort, human or inhuman, good or bad. If they’ve got one belief left, now the war’s safely over, it’s a dull, rock-bottom belief in obstinately not caring, not caring about anything. It seems to me they think it manly, the only manliness, not to care, not to think, not to attend to life at all, but just to tramp blankly on from moment to moment, and over the edge of death without caring a straw. The final manliness.”

  The other two men listened in silence, the distant colonial silence that hears the voice of the old country passionately speaking against them.

  “But if they’re not to care about politics, what are they to care about?” asked Jaz, in his small, insinuating voice.

  There was a moment’s pause. Then Jack added his question:

  “Do you yourself really care about anything, Mr. Somers?”

  Richard turned and looked him for a moment in the eyes. And then, knowing the two men were trying to corner him, he said coolly:

  “Why, yes. I care supremely.”

  “About what?” Jack’s question was soft as a drop of water falling into water, and Richard sat struggling with himself.

  “That,” he answered, “you either know or don’t know. And if you don’t know, it would only be words my trying to tell.”