Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated)

by D. H. Lawrence

  Her husband stares at her dumbly, betwixt anger and shame and sorrow, of which an undignified rage is predominant. The MOTHER carries out some pots to the scullery, re-enters, takes the slice of toast and butters it.

  FATHER: It’s about time as we had a light on it; I canna see what I’m eatin’.

  The MOTHER puts down the toast on the hob, and having fetched a dustpan from the scullery, goes out on right to the cellar to turn on the gas and to bring coals. She is heard coming up the steps heavily. She mends the fire, and then lights the gas at a brass pendant hanging over the table. Directly after there enters a young man of twenty-one, tall and broad, pale, clean-shaven, with the brownish hair of the “ginger” class, which is all ruffled when he has taken off his cap, after having pulled various books from his pockets and put them on the little cupboard top. He takes off his coat at door right as his sister has done.

  ERNEST (blowing slightly through pursed lips): Phew! It is hot in here!

  FATHER (bluntly, but amiably): Hot! It’s non hot! I could do wi’ it ten times hotter.

  MOTHER: Oh, you! You’ve got, as I’ve always said, a hide like a hippopotamus. You ought to have been a salamander.

  FATHER: Oh ah, I know tha’ll ha’e summat ter say.

  MOTHER: Is it raining now, Ernest?

  ERNEST: Just a drizzle in the air, like a thick mist.

  MOTHER: Ay, isn’t it sickening? You’d better take your boots off.

  ERNEST (sitting in his sister’s place on the sofa): Oh, they’re not wet.

  MOTHER: They must be damp.

  ERNEST: No, they’re not. There’s a pavement all the way. Here, look at my rose! One of the girls in Coll. gave it me, and the tan-yard girls tried to beg it. They are brazen hussies! “Gi’e’s thy flower, Sorry; gi’e’s thy buttonhole” — and one of them tried to snatch it. They have a bobby down by the tan-yard brook every night now. Their talk used to be awful, and it’s so dark down there, under the trees. Where’s Nellie?

  MOTHER: In Coombers’.

  ERNEST: Give me a bit of my paper, Father. You know the leaf I want: that with the reviews of books on.

  FATHER: Nay, I know nowt about reviews o’ books. Here t’art. Ta’e it.

  FATHER hands the newspaper to his son, who takes out two leaves and hands the rest back.

  ERNEST: Here you are; I only want this.

  FATHER: Nay, I non want it. I mun get me washed. We s’ll ha’e th’ men here directly.

  ERNEST: I say, Mater, another seven-and-six up your sleeve?

  MOTHER: I’m sure! And in the middle of the term, too! What’s it for this time?

  ERNEST: Piers the Ploughman, that piffle, and two books of Horace: Quintus Horatius Flaccus, dear old chap.

  MOTHER: And when have you to pay for them?

  ERNEST: Well, I’ve ordered them, and they’ll come on Tuesday. I’m sure I don’t know what we wanted that Piers Ploughman for — it’s sheer rot, and old Beasley could have gassed on it without making us buy it, if he’d liked. Yes, I did feel wild. Seven-and-sixpence!

  FATHER: I should non get tem, then. You needna buy ‘em unless you like. Dunna get ‘em, then.

  ERNEST: Well, I’ve ordered them.

  FATHER: If you ‘anna the money you canna ‘a’e ‘em, whether or not.

  MOTHER: Don’t talk nonsense. If he has to have them, he has. But the money you have to pay for books, and they’re no good when you’ve done with them! — I’m sure it’s really sickening, it is!

  ERNEST: Oh, never mind, Little; I s’ll get ‘em for six shillings. Is it a worry, Mütterchen?

  MOTHER: It is, but I suppose if it has to be, it has.

  ERNEST: Old Beasley is an old chough. While he was lecturing this afternoon Arnold and Hinrich were playing nap; and the girls always write letters, and I went fast asleep.

  FATHER: So that’s what you go’n to Collige for, is it?

  ERNEST (nettled): No, it isn’t. Only old Beasley’s such a dry old ass, with his lectures on Burke. He’s a mumbling parson, so what do you expect?

  The FATHER grunts, rises and fetches a clean new bucket from the scullery. He hangs this on the top of the boiler, and turns on the water. Then he pulls on his flannel singlet and stands stripped to the waist, watching the hot water dribble into the bucket. The pail half-filled, he goes out to the scullery on left.

  Do you know what Professor Staynes said this morning, Mother? He said I’d got an instinct for Latin — and you know he’s one of the best fellows in England on the classics: edits Ovid and whatnot. An instinct for Latin, he said.

  MOTHER (smiling, gratified): Well, it’s a funny thing to have an instinct for.

  ERNEST: I generally get an alpha plus. That’s the highest, you know, Mater. Prof. Staynes generally gives me that.

  MOTHER: Your grandfather was always fond of dry reading: economics and history. But I don’t know where an instinct for Latin comes from — not from the Lamberts, that’s a certainty. Your Aunt Ellen would say, from the Vernons.

  She smiles ironically as she rises to pour him another cup of tea, taking the teapot from the hob and standing it, empty, on the father’s plate.

  ERNEST: Who are the Vernons?

  MOTHER (smiling): It’s a wonder your Aunt Ellen or your Aunt Eunice has never told you. . . .

  ERNEST: Well, they haven’t. What is it, Mütter?

  MOTHER (sniffing): A parcel of nonsense. . . .

  ERNEST: Oh, go on, Ma, you are tantalizing! You hug it like any blessed girl.

  MOTHER: Yes, your Aunt Ellen always said she would claim the peacock and thistle for her crest, if ever . . .

  ERNEST (delighted): The Peacock and Thistle! It sounds like the name of a pub.

  MOTHER: My great-great-grandfather married a Lady Vernon — so they say. As if it made any matter — a mere tale!

  ERNEST: Is it a fact though, Matoushka? Why didn’t you tell us before?

  MOTHER (sniffing): What should I repeat such —

  FATHER (shouting from the scullery, whence has come the noise of his washing): ‘An yer put that towil ter dry?

  MOTHER (muttering): The towel’s dry enough.

  She goes out and is heard taking the roller towel from behind the outer door. She returns, and stands before the fire, holding the towel to dry. ERNEST LAMBERT, having frowned and shrugged his shoulders, is reading.

  MOTHER: I suppose you won’t have that bit of rice pudding?

  Her son looks up, reaches over and takes the brown dish from the hearth. He begins to eat from the dish.

  ERNEST: I went to the “Savoy” to-day.

  MOTHER: I shouldn’t go to that vegetable place. I don’t believe there’s any substance in it.

  ERNEST: Substance! Oh, lord! I had an asparagus omelette, I believe they called it; it was too much for me! A great stodgy thing! But I like the Savoy, generally. It was —

  Somebody comes running across the yard. NELLIE LAMBERT enters with a rush.

  NELLIE: Hello! have you done?

  FATHER (from the scullery): Are you going to shut that doo-ar! (Shouting.)

  NELLIE (with a quick shrug of the shoulders): It is shut. (brightly, to her brother) Who brought this rose? It’ll just do for me. Who gave it you? — Lois?

  ERNEST (flushing): What do you want to know for? You’re always saying “Lois”. I don’t care a button about Lois.

  NELLIE: Keep cool, dear boy, keep cool.

  She goes flying lightly round, clearing the table. The FATHER, dripping, bending forward almost double, comes hurrying from the scullery to the fire. NELLIE whisks by him, her long pinafore rustling.

  FATHER (taking the towel): Ow (she) goes rushin’ about, draughtin’. (Rubs his head, sitting on his heels very close to the fire.)

  NELLIE (smiling contemptuously, to herself): Poor kid!

  FATHER (having wiped his face): An’ there isn’t another man in th’ kingdom as ‘ud stan’ i’ that scullery stark naked. It’s like standin’ i’ t’cowd watter.

  MOTHER (
calmly): Many a man stands in a colder.

  FATHER (shortly): Ah, I’ll back; I’ll back there is! Other men’s wives brings th’ puncheon on to th’ ‘earthstone, an’ gets the watter for ‘em, an’ —

  MOTHER: Other men’s wives may do: more fools them: you won’t catch me.

  FATHER: No, you wunna; you may back your life o’ that! An’ what if you ‘ad to?

  MOTHER: Who’d make me?

  FATHER (blustering): Me.

  MOTHER (laughing shortly): Not half a dozen such.

  The FATHER grunts. NELLIE, having cleared the table, pushes him aside a little and lets the crumbs fall into hearth.

  FATHER: A lazy, idle, stinkin’ trick!

  She whisks the tablecloth away without speaking.

  An’ tha doesna come waftin’ in again when I’m washin’ me, tha remembers.

  ERNEST (to his mother, who is turning the bread): Fancy! Swinburne’s dead.

  MOTHER: Yes, so I saw. But he was getting on.

  FATHER (to NELLIE, who has come to the boiler and is kneeling, getting a lading-can full of water): Here, Nellie, gie my back a wash.

  She goes out, and comes immediately with flannel and soap. She claps the flannel on his back.

  (Wincing) Ooo! The nasty bitch!

  NELLIE bubbles with laughter. The MOTHER turns aside to laugh.

  NELLIE: You great baby, afraid of a cold flannel!

  She finishes washing his back and goes into the scullery to wash the pots. The FATHER takes his flannel shirt from the bookcase cupboard and puts it on, letting it hang over his trousers. Then he takes a little blue-striped cotton bag from his pit trousers’ pocket and throws it on the table to his wife.

  FATHER: Count it. (He shuffles upstairs.)

  The MOTHER counts the money, putting it in little piles, checking it from two white papers. She leaves it on the table. ERNEST goes into the scullery to wash his hands and is heard talking to his sister, who is wiping the pots. A knock at the outer door.

  ERNEST: Good evening, Mr Barker.

  A VOICE: Good evenin’, Ernest.

  A miner enters: pale, short, but well-made. He has a hard-looking head with short black hair. He lays his cap on a chair.

  Good evenin’, Missis. ‘Asn’t Carlin come? Mester upstairs?

  MOTHER: Yes, he’ll be down in a minute. I don’t expect Mr Carlin will be many minutes. Sit down, Mr Barker. How’s that lad of yours?

  BARKER: Well, ‘e seems to be goin’ on nicely, thank yer. Dixon took th’ splints off last wik.

  MOTHER: Oh, well, that’s better. He’ll be alright directly. I should think he doesn’t want to go in the pit again.

  BARKER: ‘E doesna. ‘E says ‘e shall go farmin’ wi’ Jakes; but I shanna let ‘im. It’s nowt o’ a sort o’ job, that.

  MOTHER: No, it isn’t. (Lowering her voice.) And how’s missis?

  BARKER (also lowering his voice): Well, I don’t know. I want ter get back as soon as I’n got a few groceries an’ stuff in. I sent for Mrs Smalley afore I com’n out. An’ I’m come an’ forgot th’ market bag.

  MOTHER (going into the scullery): Have mine, have mine. Nay, I’ve got another. (Brings him a large carpet bag with leather handles.)

  BARKER: Thank yer, Missis. I can bring it back next wik. You sure you wunna want it?

  Another knock. Enter another man, fair, pale, smiling, an inconsiderable man.

  CARLIN: Hgh! Tha’s bested me then? Good evenin’, Missis.

  BARKER: Yes, I’n bet thee.

  Enter the FATHER. He has put on a turn-down collar and a black tie, and his black waistcoat is buttoned, but he wears no coat. The other men take off the large neckerchiefs, grey and white silk, in fine check, and show similar collars. The FATHER assumes a slight tone of superiority.

  FATHER: Well, you’ve arrived, then! An’ ‘ow’s the missis by now, Joe?

  BARKER: Well, I dun know, Walter. It might be any minnit.

  FATHER (sympathetically): Hu! We may as well set to, then, an’ get it done.

  They sit at the table, on the side of the fire. ERNEST LAMBERT comes in and takes an exercise-book from the shelves and begins to do algebra, using a text-book. He writes with a fountain-pen.

  CARLIN: They gran’ things, them fountain-pens.

  BARKER: They are that!

  CARLIN: What’s th’ mak on it, Ernest?

  ERNEST: It’s an Onoto.

  BARKER: Oh-ah! An’ ‘ow dun yer fill it? They says as it hold wi’ a vacum.

  ERNEST: It’s like this: you push this down, put the nib in th’ ink, and then pull it out. It’s a sort of a pump.

  BARKER: Um! It’s a canny thing, that!

  CARLIN: It is an’ a’.

  FATHER: Yes, it’s a very good idea. (He is slightly condescending.)

  MOTHER: Look at the bread, Ernest.

  ERNEST: Alright, Mater.

  She goes upstairs, it being tacitly understood that she shall not know how much money falls to her husband’s share as chief “butty” in the weekly reckoning.

  BARKER: Is it counted?

  FATHER: Yes. It’s alright, Ernest?

  ERNEST (not looking up): Yes.

  They begin to reckon, first putting aside the wages of their day men; then the FATHER and BARKER take four-and-three-pence, as equivalent to CARLIN’S rent, which has been stopped; then the FATHER gives a coin each, dividing the money in that way. It is occasionally a puzzling process and needs the Ready Reckoner from the shelf behind.

  END OF ACT I

  ACT II

  Scene, as before: the men are just finishing reckoning. BARKER and CARLIN, talking in a mutter, put their money in their pockets. ERNEST LAMBERT is drawing a circle with a pair of compasses. CARLIN rises.

  CARLIN: Well, I might as well be shiftin’.

  BARKER: Ay, I mun get off.

  Enter NELLIE, who has finished washing the pots, drying her hands on a small towel. She crosses to the mirror hanging at the right extremity of the mantelpiece.

  CARLIN: Well, Nellie!

  NELLIE (very amiably, even gaily): Good evening, Mr Carlin. Just off?

  CARLIN: Yes — ah mun goo.

  BARKER: An’ ‘ow’s th’ instrument by now, Nellie?

  NELLIE: The instrument? Oh, the piano! Ours is a tinny old thing. Oh, yes, you’re learning. How are you getting on?

  BARKER: Oh, we keep goin’ on, like. ‘Ave you got any fresh music?

  FATHER: Ah, I bet ‘er ‘as. Ow’s gerrin’ some iv’ry day or tow.

  NELLIE: I’ve got some Grieg — lovely! Hard, though. It is funny — ever so funny.

  BARKER: An’ yer iver ‘eared that piece “The Maiden’s Prayer”?

  NELLIE (turning aside and laughing): Yes. Do you like it? It is pretty, isn’t it?

  BARKER: I ‘ad that for my last piece.

  NELLIE: Did you? Can you play it?

  BARKER (with some satisfaction): Yes, I can do it pretty fair. ‘An yer got th’ piece?

  NELLIE: Yes. Will you play it for us? Half a minute.

  She finishes stroking her hair up with her side-combs, and, taking the matches from the mantelpiece, leads the way to the door.

  Come on.

  FATHER: Yes, step forward, Joe.

  BARKER goes out after NELLIE. Through the open door comes the crashing sound of the miner’s banging through The Maiden’s Prayer on an old sharp-toned piano. CARLIN stands listening, and shakes his head at the FATHER, who smiles back, glancing at the same time nervously at his son, who has buried his hands in his hair.

  CARLIN: Well, are ter comin’ down, George? (He moves towards the door.)

  FATHER (lighting his pipe — between the puffs): In about quarter of an hour, Fred.

  CARLIN: Good night, then. Good night, Ernest. (He goes out.)

  The MOTHER is heard coming downstairs. She glances at her son, and shuts the passage door. Then she hurries to the oven and turns the bread. As she moves away again her husband thrusts out his hand and gives her something.

  F
ATHER (going towards the passage door): I know it’s a bad wik. (He goes out.)

  MOTHER (counts the money he has given her, gives a little rapid clicking with her tongue on the roof of her mouth, tossing her head up once): Twenty-eight shillings! (Counts again.) Twenty-eight shillings! (To her son.) And what was the cheque?