Sons and Lovers

by Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс

“What’s that?”

  Mrs. Morel knew Barker wouldn’t do anything very silly.

  “I’m come be-out th’ market-bag.”

  “You can have mine.”

  “Nay, you’ll be wantin’ that yourself.”

  “I shan’t. I take a string bag always.”

  She saw the determined little collier buying in the week’s groceries and meat on the Friday nights, and she admired him. “Barker’s little, but he’s ten times the man you are,” she said to her husband.

  Just then Wesson entered. He was thin, rather frail-looking, with a boyish ingenuousness and a slightly foolish smile, despite his seven children. But his wife was a passionate woman.

  “I see you’ve kested me,” he said, smiling rather vapidly.

  “Yes,” replied Barker.

  The newcomer took off his cap and his big woollen muffler. His nose was pointed and red.

  “I’m afraid you’re cold, Mr. Wesson,” said Mrs. Morel.

  “It’s a bit nippy,” he replied.

  “Then come to the fire.”

  “Nay, I s’ll do where I am.”

  Both colliers sat away back. They could not be induced to come on to the hearth. The hearth is sacred to the family.

  “Go thy ways i’ th’ arm-chair,” cried Morel cheerily.

  “Nay, thank yer; I’m very nicely here.”

  “Yes, come, of course,” insisted Mrs. Morel.

  He rose and went awkwardly. He sat in Morel’s arm-chair awkwardly. It was too great a familiarity. But the fire made him blissfully happy.

  “And how’s that chest of yours?” demanded Mrs. Morel.

  He smiled again, with his blue eyes rather sunny.

  “Oh, it’s very middlin’,” he said.

  “Wi’ a rattle in it like a kettle-drum,” said Barker shortly.

  “T-t-t-t!” went Mrs. Morel rapidly with her tongue. “Did you have that flannel singlet made?”

  “Not yet,” he smiled.

  “Then, why didn’t you?” she cried.

  “It’ll come,” he smiled.

  “Ah, an’ Doomsday!” exclaimed Barker.

  Barker and Morel were both impatient of Wesson. But, then, they were both as hard as nails, physically.

  When Morel was nearly ready he pushed the bag of money to Paul.

  “Count it, boy,” he asked humbly.

  Paul impatiently turned from his books and pencil, tipped the bag upside down on the table. There was a five-pound bag of silver, sovereigns and loose money. He counted quickly, referred to the checks—the written papers giving amount of coal—put the money in order. Then Barker glanced at the checks.

  Mrs. Morel went upstairs, and the three men came to table. Morel, as master of the house, sat in his arm-chair, with his back to the hot fire. The two butties had cooler seats. None of them counted the money.

  “What did we say Simpson’s was?” asked Morel; and the butties cavilleddv for a minute over the dayman’sdw earnings. Then the amount was put aside.

  “An’ Bill Naylor’s?”

  This money also was taken from the pack.

  Then, because Wesson lived in one of the company’s houses, and his rent had been deducted, Morel and Barker took four-and-six each. And because Morel’s coals had come, and the leadingdx was stopped, Barker and Wesson took four shillings each. Then it was plain sailing. Morel gave each of them a sovereign till there were no more sovereigns; each half a crown till there were no more half-crowns ; each a shilling till there were no more shillings. If there was anything at the end that wouldn’t split, Morel took it and stood drinks.

  Then the three men rose and went. Morel scuttled out of the house before his wife came down. She heard the door close, and descended. She looked hastily at the bread in the oven. Then, glancing on the table, she saw her money lying. Paul had been working all the time. But now he felt his mother counting the week’s money, and her wrath rising.

  “T t-t-t-t!” went her tongue.

  He frowned. He could not work when she was cross. She counted again.

  “A measly twenty-five shillings!” she exclaimed. “How much was the cheque?”

  “Ten pounds eleven,” said Paul irritably. He dreaded what was coming.

  “And he gives me a scrattlin’ twenty-five, an’ his club this week! But I know him. He thinks because you’re earning he needn’t keep the house any longer. No, all he has to do with his money is to guttle dy it. But I’ll show him!”

  “Oh, mother, don’t!” cried Paul.

  “Don’t what, I should like to know?” she exclaimed.

  “Don’t carry on again. I can’t work.”

  She went very quiet.

  “Yes, it’s all very well,” she said; “but how do you think I’m going to manage?”

  “Well, it won’t make it any better to whittledz about it.”

  “I should like to know what you’d do if you had it to put up with.”

  “It won’t be long. You can have my money. Let him go to hell.”

  He went back to his work, and she tied her bonnet-strings grimly. When she was fretted he could not bear it. But now he began to insist on her recognizing him.

  “The two loaves at the top,” she said, “will be done in twenty minutes. Don’t forget them.”

  “All right,” he answered; and she went to market.

  He remained alone working. But his usual intense concentration became unsettled. He listened for the yard-gate. At a quarter-past seven came a low knock, and Miriam entered.

  “All alone?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  As if at home, she took off her tam-o’-shanter and her long coat, hanging them up. It gave him a thrill. This might be their own house, his and hers. Then she came back and peered over his work.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Still design, for decorating stuffs, and for embroidery.”

  She bent short-sightedly over the drawings.

  It irritated him that she peered so into everything that was his, searching him out. He went into the parlour and returned with a bundle of brownish linen. Carefully unfolding it, he spread it on the floor. It proved to be a curtain or portiere,ea beautifully stencilled with a design on roses.

  “Ah, how beautiful!” she cried.

  The spread cloth, with its wonderful reddish roses and dark green stems, all so simple, and somehow so wicked-looking, lay at her feet. She went on her knees before it, her dark curls dropping. He saw her crouched voluptuously before his work, and his heart beat quickly. Suddenly she looked up at him.

  “Why does it seem cruel?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “There seems a feeling of cruelty about it,” she said.

  “It’s jolly good, whether or not,” he replied, folding up his work with a lover’s hands.

  She rose slowly, pondering.

  “And what will you do with it?” she asked.

  “Send it to Liberty’s.7 I did it for my mother, but I think she’d rather have the money.”

  “Yes,” said Miriam. He had spoken with a touch of bitterness, and Miriam sympathised. Money would have been nothing to her.

  He took the cloth back into the parlour. When he returned he threw to Miriam a smaller piece. It was a cushion-cover with the same design.

  “I did that for you,” he said.

  She fingered the work with trembling hands, and did not speak. He became embarrassed.

  “By Jove, the bread!” he cried.

  He took the top loaves out, tapped them vigorously. They were done. He put them on the hearth to cool. Then he went to the scullery, wetted his hands, scooped the last white dough out of the panchion, and dropped it in a baking-tin. Miriam was still bent over her painted cloth. He stood rubbing the bits of dough from his hands.

  “You do like it?” he asked.

  She looked up at him, with her dark eyes one flame of love. He laughed uncomfortably. Then he began to talk about the design. There was for him the most intense pleasure in
talking about his work to Miriam. All his passion, all his wild blood, went into this intercourse with her, when he talked and conceived his work. She brought forth to him his imaginations. She did not understand, any more than a woman understands when she conceives a child in her womb. But this was life for her and for him.

  While they were talking, a young woman of about twenty-two, small and pale, hollow-eyed, yet with a relentless look about her, entered the room. She was a friend at the Morels’.

  “Take your things off,” said Paul.

  “No, I’m not stopping.”

  She sat down in the arm-chair opposite Paul and Miriam, who were on the sofa. Miriam moved a little farther from him. The room was hot, with a scent of new bread. Brown, crisp loaves stood on the hearth.

  “I shouldn’t have expected to see you here to-night, Miriam Leivers,” said Beatrice wickedly.

  “Why not?” murmured Miriam huskily.

  “Why, let’s look at your shoes.”

  Miriam remained uncomfortably still.

  “If tha doesna tha durs’na,”eb laughed Beatrice.

  Miriam put her feet from under her dress. Her boots had that queer, irresolute, rather pathetic look about them, which showed how self-conscious and self-mistrustful she was. And they were covered with mud.

  “Glory! You’re a positive muck-heap,” exclaimed Beatrice. “Who cleans your boots?”

  “I clean them myself.”

  “Then you wanted a job,” said Beatrice. “It would ha’ taken a lot of men to ha’ brought me down here to-night. But love laughs at sludge, doesn’t it, ’Postle my duck?”

  “Inter alia,” he said.

  “Oh, Lord! are you going to spout foreign languages? What does it mean, Miriam?”

  There was a fine sarcasm in the last question, but Miriam did not see it.

  “‘Among other things,’ I believe,” she said humbly.

  Beatrice put her tongue between her teeth and laughed wickedly.

  “‘Among other things,’ ‘Postle?” she repeated. “Do you mean love laughs at mothers, and fathers, and sisters, and brothers, and men friends, and lady friends, and even at the b’loved himself?”

  She affected a great innocence.

  “In fact, it’s one big smile,” he replied.

  “Up its sleeve, ’Postle Morel—you believe me,” she said; and she went off into another burst of wicked, silent laughter.

  Miriam sat silent, withdrawn into herself Every one of Paul’s friends delighted in taking sides against her, and he left her in the lurch—seemed almost to have a sort of revenge upon her then.

  “Are you still at school?” asked Miriam of Beatrice.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve not had your notice, then?”

  “I expect it at Easter.”

  “Isn’t it an awful shame, to turn you off merely because you didn’t pass the exam.?”

  “I don’t know,” said Beatrice coldly.

  “Agatha says you’re as good as any teacher anywhere. It seems to me ridiculous. I wonder why you didn’t pass.”

  “Short of brains, eh, ’Postle?” said Beatrice briefly.

  “Only brains to bite with,” replied Paul, laughing.

  “Nuisance!” she cried; and, springing from her seat, she rushed and boxed his ears. She had beautiful small hands. He held her wrists while she wrestled with him. At last she broke free, and seized two handfuls of his thick, dark brown hair, which she shook.

  “Beat!” he said, as he pulled his hair straight with his fingers. “I hate you!”

  She laughed with glee.

  “Mind!” she said. “I want to sit next to you.”

  “I’d as liefec be neighbours with a vixen,” he said, nevertheless making place for her between him and Miriam.

  “Did it ruffle his pretty hair, then!” she cried; and, with her hair-comb, she combed him straight. “And his nice little moustache!” she exclaimed. She tilted his head back and combed his young moustache. “It’s a wicked moustache, ’Postle,” she said. “It’s a red for danger. Have you got any of those cigarettes?”

  He pulled his cigarette-case from his pocket. Beatrice looked inside it.

  “And fancy me having Connie’s last cig.,” said Beatrice, putting the thing between her teeth. He held a lit match to her, and she puffed daintily.

  “Thanks so much, darling,” she said mockingly.

  It gave her a wicked delight.

  “Don’t you think he does it nicely, Miriam?” she asked.

  “Oh, very!” said Miriam.

  He took a cigarette for himself.

  “Light, old boy?” said Beatrice, tilting her cigarette at him.

  He bent forward to her to light his cigarette at hers. She was winking at him as he did so. Miriam saw his eyes trembling with mischief, and his full, almost sensual, mouth quivering. He was not himself, and she could not bear it. As he was now, she had no connection with him; she might as well not have existed. She saw the cigarette dancing on his full red lips. She hated his thick hair for being tumbled loose on his forehead.

  “Sweet boy!” said Beatrice, tipping up his chin and giving him a little kiss on the cheek.

  “I s’ll kiss thee back, Beat,” he said.

  “Tha wunna!” she giggled, jumping up and going away. “Isn’t he shameless, Miriam?”

  “Quite,” said Miriam. “By the way, aren’t you forgetting the bread?”

  “By Jove!” he cried, flinging open the oven door.

  Out puffed the bluish smoke and a smell of burned bread.

  “Oh, golly!” cried Beatrice, coming to his side. He crouched before the oven, she peered over his shoulder. “This is what comes of the oblivion of love, my boy.”

  Paul was ruefully removing the loaves. One was burnt black on the hot side; another was hard as a brick.

  “Poor mater!” said Paul.

  “You want to grate it,” said Beatrice. “Fetch me the nutmeggrater.”

  She arranged the bread in the oven. He brought the grater, and she grated the bread on to a newspaper on the table. He set the doors open to blow away the smell of burned bread. Beatrice grated away, puffing her cigarette, knocking the charcoal off the poor loaf.

  “My word, Miriam! you’re in for it this time,” said Beatrice.

  “I!” exclaimed Miriam in amazement.

  “You’d better be gone when his mother comes in. I know why King Alfred burned the cakes.8 Now I see it! ’Postle would fix up a tale about his work making him forget, if he thought it would wash. If that old woman had come in a bit sooner, she’d have boxed the brazen thing’s ears who made the oblivion, instead of poor Alfred’s.”

  She giggled as she scraped the loaf. Even Miriam laughed in spite of herself. Paul mended the fire ruefully.

  The garden gate was heard to bang.

  “Quick!” cried Beatrice, giving Paul the scraped loaf. “Wrap it up in a damp towel.”

  Paul disappeared into the scullery. Beatrice hastily blew her scrapings into the fire, and sat down innocently. Annie came bursting in. She was an abrupt, quite smart young woman. She blinked in the strong light.

  “Smell of burning!” she exclaimed.

  “It’s the cigarettes,” replied Beatrice demurely.

  “Where’s Paul?”

  Leonard had followed Annie. He had a long comic face and blue eyes, very sad.

  “I suppose he’s left you to settle it between you,” he said. He nodded sympathetically to Miriam, and became gently sarcastic to Beatrice.

  “No,” said Beatrice, “he’s gone off with number nine.”

  “I just met number five inquiring for him,” said Leonard.

  “Yes—we’re going to share him up like Solomon’s baby,” said Beatrice.9

  Annie laughed.

  “Oh, ay,” said Leonard. “And which bit should you have?”

  “I don’t know,” said Beatrice. “I’ll let all the others pick first.”

  “An’ you’d have the leavings, like?”
said Leonard, twisting up a comic face.

  Annie was looking in the oven. Miriam sat ignored. Paul entered.

  “This bread’s a fine sight, our Paul,” said Annie.

  “Then you should stop an’ look after it,” said Paul.

  “You mean you should do what you’re reckoning to do,” replied Annie.

  “He should, shouldn’t he!” cried Beatrice.

  “I s’d think he’d got plenty on hand,” said Leonard.

  “You had a nasty walk, didn’t you, Miriam?” said Annie.

  “Yes—but I’d been in all week——”

  “And you wanted a bit of a change, like,” insinuated Leonard kindly.

  “Well, you can’t be stuck in the house for ever,” Annie agreed. She was quite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat, and went out with Leonard and Annie. She would meet her own boy.

  “Don’t forget that bread, our Paul,” cried Annie. “Goodnight, Miriam. I don’t think it will rain.”

  When they had all gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf, unwrapped it, and surveyed it sadly.

  “It’s a mess!” he said.

  “But,” answered Miriam impatiently, “what is it, after all—twopence ha’penny”

  “Yes, but—it’s the mater’s precious baking, and she’ll take it to heart. However, it’s no good bothering.”

  He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a little distance between him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her for some moments considering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He felt guilty inside himself, and yet glad. For some inscrutable reason it served Miriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered what he was thinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was tumbled over his forehead. Why might she not push it back for him, and remove the marks of Beatrice’s comb? Why might she not press his body with her two hands. It looked so firm, and every whit living. And he would let other girls, why not her?

  Suddenly he started into life. It made her quiver almost with terror as he quickly pushed the hair off his forehead and came towards her.

  “Half-past eight!” he said. “We’d better buck up. Where’s your French?”

  Miriam shyly and rather bitterly produced her exercise-book. Every week she wrote for him a sort of diary of her inner life, in her own French. He had found this was the only way to get her to do compositions. And her diary was mostly a love-letter. He would read it now; she felt as if her soul’s history were going to be desecrated by him in his present mood. He sat beside her. She watched his hand, firm and warm, rigorously scoring her work. He was reading only the French, ignoring her soul that was there. But gradually his hand forgot its work. He read in silence, motionless. She quivered.