Thank God I have no son to undertake the onerous burden. Oh, if only every father could say to his boy: Look here, my son! These are your grandmother’s dreams of a man. Now you look out! — My dear old grandmother, my mother’s mother, I’m sure she dreamed ine almost to a t, except for a few details.
But the daughter starts, husbandly speaking, where the mother leaves off. The daughters of my mother, and of the mothers of my generation, start, as a rule, with “good husbands,” husbands who never fundamentally contradict them, whose lifelong attitude is: Ah right, dear! I know I’m wrong, as usual. This is the attitude of the husband of my generation.
It alters the position of the wife entirely. It is a fight for the woman to get the reins into her own hands, but once she’s got them, there she is! the reins have got her. She’s got to drive somewhere, to steer the matrimonial cart in some direction. “All right, dear! I’ll let you decide it, since you know better than I do!” says the husband, in every family matter. So she must keep on deciding. Or, if the husband balks her occasionally, she must keep up the pressure till he gives in.
Now driving the matrimonial cart is quite an adventure for a time, while the children are little, and all that. But later, the woman begins to think to herself: “Oh, damn the cart! Where do I come in?” She begins to feel she’s getting nothing out of it. It’s not good enough. Whether you’re the horse or whether you’re the driver doesn’t make any odds. So long as you’re both harnessed to the cart.
Then the woman of my generation begins to have ideas about her sons. They’d better not be so all-forsaken “good” as their father has been. They’d better be more sporting, and give a woman a bit more “life.” After all, what’s a family? It swallows a woman up until she’s fifty, and then puts the remains of her aside. Not good enough! No! My sons must be more manly, make plenty of money for a woman and give her a “life,” and not be such a muff about “goodness” and being “right.” What is being “right,” after all? Better enjoy yourself while you’ve got the chance.
So the sons of the younger generation emerge into the world — my sons, if I’d got any — wilh the intrinsic maternal charge ringing in their ears: “Make some money and give yourself a good time — and all of us. Enjoy yourself!”
The young men of the younger generation begin to fulfil the hidden dreams of my mother. They are jazzy — but not coarse. They are a bit Don-Juanish, but, let us hope, entirely without brutality or vulgarity. They are more elegant, and not much more moral. But they are still humble before a woman, especially the woman!
It is the secret dream of my mother, coming true.
And if you want to know what the next generation will be like, you must fathom the secret dreams of your wife: the woman of forty or so. There you will find the clue. And if you want to be more precise, then find out what is the young woman of twenty’s ideal of a man.
The poor young woman of twenty, she is rather stumped for an ideal of a man. So perhaps the next generation but one won’t be anything at all.
We are such stuff as our grandmothers’ dreams are made on. Even colliers are such stuff as their grandmothers’ dreams are made on. And if Queen Victoria’s dream was King George, then Queen Alexandra’s was the Prince of Wales, and Queen Mary’s will be — what?
But all this doesn’t take away from the fact that my home place is more depressing to me than death, and I wish my grandmother and all her generation had been better dreamers. “Those maids, thank God, are ‘neath the sod,” but their dreams we still have with us. It is a terrible thing to dream dreams that shall become flesh.
And when I see the young colliers dressed up like the Prince of Wales, dropping in to the Miners’ Welfare for another drink, or into the “Pally” for a dance — in evening suit to beat the band — or scooting down the black roads on a motor-bike, a leggy damsel behind — then I wish the mothers of my own generation, my own mother included, had been a little less frivolous as a dreamer. In life, so deadly earnest! And oh, what frivolous dreams our mothers must have had, as they sat in the pews of the Congregational Chapel with faces like saints! They must unconsciously have been dreaming jazz and short skirts, the Palais de Danse, the Film, and the motor-bike. It is enough to embitter one’s most sacred memories. “Lead Kindly Light” — unto the “Pally.” — The eleventh commandment: “Enjoy yourselves!”
Well, well! Even grandmothers’ dreams don’t always come true, that is, they aren’t allowed to. They’d come true right enough otherwise. But sometimes fate, and that long dragon the concatenation of circumstance, intervene. I am sure my mother never dreamed a dream that wasn’t well-off. My poor old grandmother might still dream noble poverty — myself, to wit! But my mother? Impossible! In her secret dreams, the sleeve-links were solid gold, and the socks were silk.
And now fate, the monster, frustrates. The pits don’t work. There’s reduced wages and short pay. The young colliers will have a hard time buying another pair of silk socks for the “Pally” when these are worn out. They’ll have to go in wool. As for the young lady’s fur coat — well, well! let’s hope it is seal, or some other hard- wearing skin, and not that evanescent chinchilla or squirrel that moults in a season.
For the young lady won’t get another fur coat in a hurry, if she has to wait for her collier father to buy it. Not that he would refuse it her. What is a man for, except to provide for his wife and daughters? But you can’t get blood out of a stone, nor cash out of a collier, not any more.
It is a soft, hazy October day, with the dark green Midlands fields looking somewhat sunken, and the oak trees brownish, the mean houses shabby and scaly, and the whole countryside somewhat dead, expunged, faintly blackened under the haze. It is a queer thing that countries die along with their inhabitants. This countryside is dead: or so inert, it is as good as dead. The old sheep-bridge where I used to swing as a boy is now an iron affair. The brook where we caught minnows now runs on a concrete bed. The old sheep-dip, the dipping-hole, as we called it, where we bathed, has somehow disappeared, so has the mill-dam and the little water-fall. It’s all a concrete arrangement now, like a sewer. And the people’s lives are the same, all running in concrete channels like a vast cloaca.
At Engine Lane Crossing, where I used to sit as a tiny child and watch the trucks shunting with a huge grey horse and a man with a pole, there are now no trucks. It is October, and there should be hundreds. But there are no orders. The pits are turning half-time. Today they are not turning at all. The men are all at home: no orders, no work.
And the pit is fuming silently, there is no rattle of screens, and the head-stock wheels are still. That was always an ominous sign, except on Sundays: even when I was a small child. The head-stock wheels twinkling against the sky, that meant work and life, men “earning a living,” if living can be earned.
But the pit is foreign to me anyhow, so many new big buildings round it, electric plant and all the rest. It’s a wonder even the shafts are the same. But they must be: the shafts where we used to watch the cage-loads of colliers coming up suddenly, with a start: then the men streaming out to turn in their lamps, then trailing off, all grey, along the lane home; while the screens still rattled, and the pony on the sky-line still pulled along the tub of “dirt,” to tip over the edge of the pit-bank.
It is different now: all is much more impersonal and mechanical and abstract. I don’t suppose the children of today drop “nuts” of coal down the shaft, on Sunday afternoons, to hear them hit, hit with an awful resonance against the sides far down, before there comes the last final plump into the endlessly far-off sump. My father was always so angry if he knew we dropped coals down the shaft: If there was a man at t’bottom, it’d kill ‘im straight off. How should you like that? — We didn’t quite know how we should have liked it.
But anyhow Moorgreen is no more what it was: or it is too much more. Even the rose-bay willow-herb, which seems to love collieries, no longer showed its hairy autumn thickets and its last few spikes of rose around
the pit-pond and on the banks. Only the yellow snapdragon, toad-flax, still was there.
Up from Moorgreen goes a footpath past the quarry and up the fields, out to Renshaw’s farm. This was always a favourite walk of mine. Beside the path lies the old quarry, part of it very old and deep and filled in with oak trees and guelder-rose and tangle of briars, the other part open, with square wall neatly built up with dry-stone on the side under the plough-fields, and the bed still fairly level and open. This open part of the quarry was blue with dog- violets in spring, and, on the smallish brambles, the first handsome blackberries came in autumn. Thank heaven, it is late October, and too late for blackberries, or there would still be here some wretched men with baskets, ignominiously combing the brambles for the last berry. When I was a boy, how a man, a full-grown miner, would have been despised for going with a little basket lousing the hedges for a blackberry or two. But the men of my generation put their pride in their pocket, and now their pockets are empty.
The quarry was a haunt of mine, as a boy. I loved it because, in the open part, it seemed so sunny and dry and warm, the pale stone, the pale, slightly sandy bed, the dog-violets and the early daisies. And then the old part, the deep part, was such a fearsome place. It was always dark — you had to crawl under bushes. And you came upon honeysuckle and nightshade, that no one ever looked upon. And at the dark sides were little, awful rocky caves, in which I imagined the adders lived.
There was a legend that these little caves or niches in the rocks were “everlasting wells,” like the everlasting wells at Matlock. At Matlock the water drips in caves, and if you put an apple in there, or a bunch of grapes, or even if you cut your hand off and put it in, it won’t decay, it will turn everlasting. Even if you put a bunch of violets in, they won’t die they’ll turn everlasting.
Later, when I grew up and went to Matlock-only sixteen miles away — and saw the infamous everlasting wells, that the water only made a hoary nasty crust of stone on everything, and the stone hand was only a glove siuffed with sand, being “petrified,” I was disgusted. But still, when I see the stone fruits that people have in bowls for decoration, purple, semi-translucent stone grapes, and lemons, I think: these are the real fruits from the everlasting wells.
In the soft, still afternoon I found the quarry not very much changed. The red berries shone quietly on the briars. And in this still, warm, secret place of the earth I felt my old childish longing to pass through a gate, into a deeper, sunnier, more silent world.
The sun shone in, but the shadows already were deep. Yet I had to creep away into the darkness of bushes, into the lower hollow of the tree-filled quarry I felt, as I had always felt, there was something there. And as I wound my way, stooping, through the unpleasant tangle, I stared, hearing a sudden rush and clatter of falling earth. Some part of the quarry must be giving way.
I found the place, awar at the depth under the trees and bushes, a new place where yellow earth and whitish earth and pale rock had slid down new in a heap. And at the top of the heap was a crack, a little slantingly upright slit or orifice in the rock.
I looked at the new place curiously, the pallid new earth and rock among the jungle of vegetation, the little opening above, into the earth. A touch of sunlight came through the oak-leaves and fell on the new place and ihe aperture, and the place flashed and twinkled. I had to climb up to look at it.
It was a little crystalline cavity in the rock, all crystal, a little pocket or womb of quartz, among the common stone. It was pale and colourless, the stuff we call spar, from which they make little bowls and mementoes, in Matlock. But through the flat-edged, colourless crystal of the >par ran a broad vein of purplish crystal, wavering inwards as if it were arterial. And that was a vein of the Blue John spar that is rather precious.
The place fascinated me, especially the vein of purple, and I had to clamber into the tiny cave, which would just hold me. It seemed warm in there, as if the shiny rock were warm and alive, and it seemed to me there was a strange perfume, of rock, of living rock like hard, bright flesh, faintly perfumed with phlox. It was a subtie yet most fascinating secret perfume, an inward perfume. I crept right into the little cavity, into the narrow inner end where the vein of purple ran, and I curled up there, like an animal in its hole. “Now,” I thought, “for a little while I am safe and sound, and the vulgar world doesn’t exist for me.” I curled together with soft, curious voluptuousness. The scent of inwardness and of life, a queer scent like phlox, with a faint narcotic inner quality like opium or like truffles, became very vivid to me, then faded. I suppose I must have gone to sleep.
Later, I don’t know how much later, it may have been a minute, or an eternity, I was wakened by feeling something lifting me, lifting me with a queer, half-sickening motion, curiously exciting, in a slow little rhythmic heave that was at once soft and powerful, gentle and violent, grateful and violating. I could do nothing, not even wake up: yet I was not really terrified, only utterly wonder- struck.
Then the lifting and heaving ceased, and I was cold. Something harsh passed over me: I realized it was my face: I realized I had a face. Then immediately a sharpness and bitingness flew into me, flew right into me, through what must have been my nostrils, into my body, what must have been my breast. Roused by a terrific shock of amazement, suddenly a new thing rushed into me, right into me, with a sweep that swept me away, and at the same time I felt that first thing moving somewhere in me, there was a movement that came aloud.
There were some dizzy moments when my I, my consciousness, wheeled and swooped like an eagle that is going to wheel away into the sky and be gone. Yet I felt her, my I, my life, wheeling closer, closer, my consciousness. And suddenly she closed with me, and I knew, I came awake.
I knew. I knew I was alive. I even heard a voice say: “He’s alive!” Those were the first words I heard.
And I opened my eyes again and blinked with terror, knowing the light of day. I shut them again, and felt sensations out in space, somewhere, and yet upon me. Again my eyes were opened, and I even saw objects, great things that were here and were there and then were not there. And the sensations out in space drew nearer, as it were, to me, the middle me.
So consciousness swooped and swerved, returning in great swoops. I realized that I was I, and that this I was also a body that ended abruptly in feet and hands. Feet! yes, feet! I remembered even the word. Feet!
I roused a little, and saw a greyish pale nearness that I recognized was my body, and something terrible moving upon it and making sensations in it. Why was it grey, my own nearness? Then I felt that other sensation, that I call aloudness. and I knew it. It was “Dust of ages!” That was the aloudness: “Dust of ages!”
In another instant I knew that violent movingness that was making sensations away out upon me. It was somebody. In terror and wonder the realization came to me: it was somebody, another one, a man. A man, making sensations on me! A man, who made the aloudness: “Dust of ages.” A man! Still I could not grasp it. The conception would not return whole to me.
Yet once it had lodged within me, my consciousness established itself. I moved. I even moved my legs, my far-off feet. Yes! And an aloudness came out of me, even of me. I knew. I even knew now that I had a throat. And in another moment I should know something else.
It came all of a sudden. I saw the man’s face. I saw it, a ruddy sort of face with a nose and a trimmed beard. I even knew more. 1 said: “Why — ?”
And the face quickly looked at me, with blue eyes into my eyes, and I struggled as if to get up.
“Art awake?” it said.
And somewhere, I knew there was the word Yes! But it had not yet come to me.
But I knew, I knew! Dimly I came to know that I was lying in sun on new earth that was spilled before my little, opened cave. I remembered my cave. But why I should be lying grey and stark- naked on earth in the sun outside I did not know; nor what the face was, nor whose.
Then there was more aloudness, and there was another one. I real
ized there could be more than one other one. More than one! More than one! I felt a new sudden something that made all of me move at once, in many directions, it seemsd, and I became once more aware of the extent of me, and an aloudness came trom my throat. And I remembered even that new something that was upon me. Many sensations galloping in all directions! But it was one dominant, drowning. It was water. Water! I even remembered water, or I knew I knew it. They were washing me. I even looked down and saw the whiteness: me, myself, white, a body.
And I remembered, that when all of me had moved to the touch of water, and I had made an aloudness in my throat, the men had laughed. Laughed! I remembered laughter.
So as they washed me, I came to myself. I even sat up. And I saw earth and rock, and a sky that I knew was afternoon. And I was stark-naked, and there were two men washing me, and they too v/ere stark-naked. But I was white, pure white, and thin, and they were ruddy, and not thin.
They lifted me, and I leaned on one, standing, while the other washed me. The one I leaned on was warm, and his life softly warmed me. The other one rubbed me gently. I was alive. I saw my white feet like two curious flowers, and I lifted them one after another, remembering walking.
The one held me, and the other put a woollen shirt or smock over me. It was pale grey and red. Then they fastened shoes on my feet. Then the free one went to the cave, peering, and he came back with things in his hands: buttons, some discoloured yet unwasted coins, a dull but not rusted pocket-knife, a waistcoat buckle, and a discoloured watch, whose very face was dark. Yet I knew these things were mine.
“Where are my clothes?” I said.
I felt eyes looking at me, two blue eyes, two brown eyes, full of strange life.
“My clothes!” I said.
They looked at one another, and made strange speech. Then the blue-eyed one said to me:
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 1076