And then, the next day, Clara came. They were to have tea in the hayfield. Miriam watched the evening drawing to gold and shadow. And all the time Paul was sporting with Clara. He made higher and higher heaps of hay that they were jumping over. Miriam did not care for the game, and stood aside. Edgar and Geoffrey and Maurice and Clara and Paul jumped. Paul won, because he was light. Clara’s blood was roused. She could run like an Amazon. Paul loved the determined way she rushed at the haycock and leaped, landed on the other side, her breasts shaken, her thick hair come undone.
“You touched!” he cried. “You touched!”
“No!” she flashed, turning to Edgar. “I didn’t touch, did I? Wasn’t I clear?”
“I couldn’t say,” laughed Edgar.
None of them could say.
“But you touched,” said Paul. “You’re beaten.”
“I did not touch!” she cried.
“As plain as anything,” said Paul.
“Box his ears for me!” she cried to Edgar.
“Nay,” Edgar laughed. “I daren’t. You must do it yourself.”
“And nothing can alter the fact that you touched,” laughed Paul.
She was furious with him. Her little triumph before these lads and men was gone. She had forgotten herself in the game. Now he was to humble her.
“I think you are despicable!” she said.
And again he laughed, in a way that tortured Miriam.
“And I knew you couldn’t jump that heap,” he teased.
She turned her back on him. Yet everybody could see that the only person she listened to, or was conscious of, was he, and he of her. It pleased the men to see this battle between them. But Miriam was tortured.
Paul could choose the lesser in place of the higher, she saw. He could be unfaithful to himself, unfaithful to the real, deep Paul Morel. There was a danger of his becoming frivolous, of his running after his satisfaction like any Arthur, or like his father. It made Miriam bitter to think that he should throw away his soul for this flippant traffic of triviality with Clara. She walked in bitterness and silence, while the other two rallied each other, and Paul sported.
And afterwards, he would not own it, but he was rather ashamed of himself, and prostrated himself before Miriam. Then again he rebelled.
“It’s not religious to be religious,” he said. “I reckon a crow is religious when it sails across the sky. But it only does it because it feels itself carried to where it’s going, not because it thinks it is being eternal.”
But Miriam knew that one should be religious in everything, have God, whatever God might be, present in everything.
“I don’t believe God knows such a lot about Himself,” he cried. “God doesn’t know things, He is things. And I’m sure He’s not soulful.”
And then it seemed to her that Paul was arguing God on to his own side, because he wanted his own way and his own pleasure. There was a long battle between him and her. He was utterly unfaithful to her even in her own presence; then he was ashamed, then repentant; then he hated her, and went off again. Those were the ever-recurring conditions.
She fretted him to the bottom of his soul. There she remained—sad, pensive, a worshipper. And he caused her sorrow. Half the time he grieved for her, half the time he hated her. She was his conscience ; and he felt, somehow, he had got a conscience that was too much for him. He could not leave her, because in one way she did hold the best of him. He could not stay with her because she did not take the rest of him, which was three-quarters. So he chafed himself into rawness over her.
When she was twenty-one he wrote her a letter which could only have been written to her.
“May I speak of our old, worn love, this last time. It, too, is changing, is it not? Say, has not the body of that love died, and left you its invulnerable soul? You see, I can give you a spirit love, I have given it you this long, long time; but not embodied passion. See, you are a nun. I have given you what I would give a holy nun—as a mystic monk to a mystic nun. Surely you esteem it best. Yet you regret—no, have regretted—the other. In all our relations no body enters. I do not talk to you through the senses—rather through the spirit. That is why we cannot love in the common sense. Ours is not an everyday affection. As yet we are mortal, and to live side by side with one another would be dreadful, for somehow with you I cannot long be trivial, and, you know, to be always beyond this mortal state would be to lose it. If people marry, they must live together as affectionate humans, who may be commonplace with each other without feeling awkward—not as two souls. So I feel it.
“Ought I to send this letter?—I doubt it. But there—it is best to understand. Au revoir.”
Miriam read this letter twice, after which she sealed it up. A year later she broke the seal to show her mother the letter.
“You are a nun—you are a nun.” The words went into her heart again and again. Nothing he ever had said had gone into her so deeply, fixedly, like a mortal wound.
She answered him two days after the party.
“‘Our intimacy would have been all-beautiful but for one little mistake,’ ” she quoted. “Was the mistake mine?”
Almost immediately he replied to her from Nottingham, sending her at the same time a little “Omar Khayyám.”11
“I am glad you answered; you are so calm and natural you put me to shame. What a ranter I am! We are often out of sympathy. But in fundamentals we may always be together I think.
“I must thank you for your sympathy with my painting and drawing. Many a sketch is dedicated to you. I do look forward to your criticisms, which, to my shame and glory, are always grand appreciations. It is a lovely joke, that. Au revoir.”
This was the end of the first phase of Paul’s love affair. He was now about twenty-three years old, and, though still virgin, the sex instinct that Miriam had over-refined for so long now grew particularly strong. Often, as he talked to Clara Dawes, came that thickening and quickening of his blood, that peculiar concentration in the breast, as if something were alive there, a new self or a new centre of consciousness, warning him that sooner or later he would have to ask one woman or another. But he belonged to Miriam.12 Of that she was so fixedly sure that he allowed her right.
10
Clara
WHEN HE was twenty-three years old, Paul sent in a landscape to the winter exhibition at Nottingham Castle. Miss Jordan had taken a good deal of interest in him, and invited him to her house, where he met other artists. He was beginning to grow ambitious.
One morning the postman came just as he was washing in the scullery. Suddenly he heard a wild noise from his mother. Rushing into the kitchen, he found her standing on the hearth-rug wildly waving a letter and crying “Hurrah!” as if she had gone mad. He was shocked and frightened.
“Why, mother!” he exclaimed.
She flew to him, flung her arms round him for a moment, then waved the letter, crying:
“Hurrah, my boy! I knew we should do it!”
He was afraid of her—the small, severe woman with greying hair suddenly bursting out in such frenzy: The postman came running back, afraid something had happened. They saw his tipped cap over the short curtains. Mrs. Morel rushed to the door.
“His picture’s got first prize, Fred,” she cried, “and is sold for twenty guineas.”
“My word, that’s something like!” said the young postman, whom they had known all his life.
“And Major Moreton has bought it!” she cried.
“It looks like meanin’ something, that does, Mrs. Morel,” said the postman, his blue eyes bright. He was glad to have brought such a lucky letter. Mrs. Morel went indoors and sat down, trembling. Paul was afraid lest she might have misread the letter, and might be disappointed after all. He scrutinised it once, twice. Yes, he became convinced it was true. Then he sat down, his heart beating with joy.
“Mother!” he exclaimed.
“Didn’t I say we should do it!” she said, pretending she was not crying.
He
took the kettle off the fire and mashedey the tea.
“You didn’t think, mother—” he began tentatively.
“No, my son—not so much—but I expected a good deal.”
“But not so much,” he said.
“No—no—but I knew we should do it.”
And then she recovered her composure, apparently at least. He sat with his shirt turned back, showing his young throat almost like a girl’s, and the towel in his hand, his hair sticking up wet.
“Twenty guineas, mother! That’s just what you wanted to buy Arthur out. Now you needn’t borrow any. It’ll just do.”
“Indeed, I shan’t take it all,” she said.
“But why?”
“Because I shan’t.”
“Well—you have twelve pounds, I’ll have nine.”
They cavilled about sharing the twenty guineas. She wanted to take only the five pounds she needed. He would not hear of it. So they got over the stress of emotion by quarrelling.
Morel came home at night from the pit, saying:
“They tell me Paul’s got first prize for his picture, and sold it to Lord Henry Bentley for fifty pound.”
“Oh, what stories people do tell!” she cried.
“Ha!” he answered. “I said I wor sure it wor a lie. But they said tha’d told Fred Hodgkisson.”
“As if I would tell him such stuff?”
“Ha!” assented the miner.
But he was disappointed nevertheless.
“It’s true he has got the first prize,” said Mrs. Morel.
The miner sat heavily in his chair.
“Has he, beguy!”ez he exclaimed.
He stared across the room fixedly.
“But as for fifty pounds—such nonsense!” She was silent awhile. “Major Moreton bought it for twenty guineas, that’s true.”
“Twenty guineas! Tha niver says!” exclaimed Morel.
“Yes, and it was worth it.”
“Ay!” he said. “I don’t misdoubt it. But twenty guineas for a bit of a paintin’ as he knocked off in an hour or two!”1
He was silent with conceit of his son. Mrs. Morel sniffed, as if it were nothing.
“And when does he handle th’ money?” asked the collier.
“That I couldn’t tell you. When the picture is sent home, I suppose.”
There was silence. Morel stared at the sugar-basin instead of eating his dinner. His black arm, with the hand all gnarled with work lay on the table. His wife pretended not to see him rub the back of his hand across his eyes, nor the smear in the coal-dust on his black face.
“Yes, an’ that other lad ‘ud ’a done as much if they hadna ha’ killed ’im,” he said quietly.
The thought of William went through Mrs. Morel like a cold blade. It left her feeling she was tired, and wanted rest.
Paul was invited to dinner at Mr. Jordan’s. Afterwards he said:
“Mother, I want an evening suit.”
“Yes, I was afraid you would,” she said. She was glad. There was a moment or two of silence. “There’s that one of William’s,” she continued, “that I know cost four pounds ten and which he’d only worn three times.”
“Should you like me to wear it, mother?” he asked.
“Yes. I think it would fit you—at least the coat. The trousers would want shortening.”
He went upstairs and put on the coat and vest. Coming down, he looked strange in a flannel collar and a flannel shirt-front, with an evening coat and vest. It was rather large.
“The tailor can make it right,” she said, smoothing her hand over his shoulder. “It’s beautiful stuff I never could find in my heart to let your father wear the trousers, and very glad I am now.”
And as she smoothed her hand over the silk collar she thought of her eldest son. But this son was living enough inside the clothes. She passed her hand down his back to feel him. He was alive and hers. The other was dead.
He went out to dinner several times in his evening suit that had been William’s. Each time his mother’s heart was firm with pride and joy. He was started now. The studs she and the children had bought for William were in his shirt-front; he wore one of William’s dress shirts. But he had an elegant figure. His face was rough, but warm-looking and rather pleasing. He did not look particularly a gentleman, but she thought he looked quite a man.
He told her everything that took place, everything that was said. It was as if she had been there. And he was dying to introduce her to these new friends who had dinner at seven-thirty in the evening.
“Go along with you!” she said. “What do they want to know me for?”
“They do!” he cried indignantly. “If they want to know me—and they say they do—then they want to know you, because you are quite as clever as I am.”
“Go along with you, child!” she laughed.
But she began to spare her hands. They, too, were work-gnarled now. The skin was shiny with so much hot water, the knuckles rather swollen. But she began to be careful to keep them out of soda. She regretted what they had been—so small and exquisite. And when Annie insisted on her having more stylish blouses to suit her age, she submitted. She even went so far as to allow a black velvet bow to be placed on her hair. Then she sniffed in her sarcastic manner, and was sure she looked a sight. But she looked a lady, Paul declared, as much as Mrs. Major Moreton, and far, far nicer. The family was coming on. Only Morel remained unchanged, or rather, lapsed slowly.
Paul and his mother now had long discussions about life. Religion was fading into the background. He had shovelled away all the beliefs that would hamper him, had cleared the ground, and come more or less to the bedrock of belief that one should feel inside oneself for right and wrong, and should have the patience to gradually realise one’s God. Now life interested him more.
“You know,” he said to his mother, “I don’t want to belong to the well-to-do middle class. I like my common people best. I belong to the common people.”
“But if anyone else said so, my son, wouldn’t you be in a tear.fa You know you consider yourself equal to any gentleman.”
“In myself,” he answered, “not in my class or my education or my manners. But in myself I am.”
“Very well, then. Then why talk about the common people?”
“Because—the difference between people isn’t in their class, but in themselves. Only from the middle classes one gets ideas, and from the common people—life itself, warmth. You feel their hates and loves.”
“It’s all very well, my boy. But, then, why don’t you go and talk to your father’s pals?”
“But they’re rather different.”
“Not at all. They’re the common people. After all, whom do you mix with now—among the common people? Those that exchange ideas like the middle classes. The rest don’t interest you.”
“But—there’s the life—”
“I don’t believe there’s a jot more life from Miriam than you could get from any educated girl—say Miss Moreton. It is you who are snobbish about class.”
She frankly wanted him to climb into the middle classes, a thing not very difficult, she knew. And she wanted him in the end to marry a lady.
Now she began to combat him in his restless fretting. He still kept up his connection with Miriam, could neither break free nor go the whole length of engagement. And this indecision seemed to bleed him of his energy. Moreover, his mother suspected him of an unrecognised leaning towards Clara, and, since the latter was a married woman, she wished he would fall in love with one of the girls in a better station of life. But he was stupid, and would refuse to love or even to admire a girl much, just because she was his social superior.
“My boy,” said his mother to him, “all your cleverness, your breaking away from old things, and taking life in your own hands, doesn’t seem to bring you much happiness.”
“What is happiness!” he cried. “It’s nothing to me! How am I to be happy?”
The plump question disturbed her.
> “That’s for you to judge, my lad. But if you could meet some good woman who would make you happy—and you began to think of settling your life—when you have the means—so that you could work without all this fretting—it would be much better for you.”
He frowned. His mother caught him on the raw of his wound of Miriam. He pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, his eyes full of pain and fire.
“You mean easy, mother,” he cried. “That’s a woman’s whole doctrine for life—ease of soul and physical comfort. And I do despise it.”
“Oh, do you!” replied his mother. “And do you call yours a divine discontent?”fb
“Yes. I don’t care about its divinity. But damn your happiness! So long as life’s full, it doesn’t matter whether it’s happy or not. I’m afraid your happiness would bore me.”
“You never give it a chance,” she said. Then suddenly all her passion of grief over him broke out. “But it does matter!” she cried. “And you ought to be happy, you ought to try to be happy, to live to be happy. How could I bear to think your life wouldn’t be a happy one!”
“Your own’s been bad enough, mater, but it hasn’t left you so much worse off than the folk who’ve been happier. I reckon you’ve done well. And I am the same. Aren’t I well enough off?”
“You’re not, my son. Battle—battle—and suffer. It’s about all you do, as far as I can see.”
“But why not, my dear? I tell you it’s the best―”
“It isn’t. And one ought to be happy, one ought.”
By this time Mrs. Morel was trembling violently. Struggles of this kind often took place between her and her son, when she seemed to fight for his very life against his own will to die. He took her in his arms. She was ill and pitiful.
“Never mind, Little,” he murmured. “So long as you don’t feel life’s paltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn’t matter, happiness or unhappiness.”
Sons and Lovers Page 33
