Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence

by D. H. Lawrence

  “No,” replied Paul.

  “Wasn’t she nice with you, then?”

  “Could you imagine her NICE with anybody?” asked the young man.

  Edgar laughed. Together they unloaded the coal in the yard. Paul was rather self-conscious, because he knew Clara could see if she looked out of the window. She didn’t look.

  On Saturday afternoons the horses were brushed down and groomed. Paul and Edgar worked together, sneezing with the dust that came from the pelts of Jimmy and Flower.

  “Do you know a new song to teach me?” said Edgar.

  He continued to work all the time. The back of his neck was sun-red when he bent down, and his fingers that held the brush were thick. Paul watched him sometimes.

  “‘Mary Morrison’?” suggested the younger.

  Edgar agreed. He had a good tenor voice, and he loved to learn all the songs his friend could teach him, so that he could sing whilst he was carting. Paul had a very indifferent baritone voice, but a good ear. However, he sang softly, for fear of Clara. Edgar repeated the line in a clear tenor. At times they both broke off to sneeze, and first one, then the other, abused his horse.

  Miriam was impatient of men. It took so little to amuse them — even Paul. She thought it anomalous in him that he could be so thoroughly absorbed in a triviality.

  It was tea-time when they had finished.

  “What song was that?” asked Miriam.

  Edgar told her. The conversation turned to singing.

  “We have such jolly times,” Miriam said to Clara.

  Mrs. Dawes ate her meal in a slow, dignified way. Whenever the men were present she grew distant.

  “Do you like singing?” Miriam asked her.

  “If it is good,” she said.

  Paul, of course, coloured.

  “You mean if it is high-class and trained?” he said.

  “I think a voice needs training before the singing is anything,” she said.

  “You might as well insist on having people’s voices trained before you allowed them to talk,” he replied. “Really, people sing for their own pleasure, as a rule.”

  “And it may be for other people’s discomfort.”

  “Then the other people should have flaps to their ears,” he replied.

  The boys laughed. There was a silence. He flushed deeply, and ate in silence.

  After tea, when all the men had gone but Paul, Mrs. Leivers said to Clara:

  “And you find life happier now?”

  “Infinitely.”

  “And you are satisfied?”

  “So long as I can be free and independent.”

  “And you don’t MISS anything in your life?” asked Mrs. Leivers gently.

  “I’ve put all that behind me.”

  Paul had been feeling uncomfortable during this discourse. He got up.

  “You’ll find you’re always tumbling over the things you’ve put behind you,” he said. Then he took his departure to the cowsheds. He felt he had been witty, and his manly pride was high. He whistled as he went down the brick track.

  Miriam came for him a little later to know if he would go with Clara and her for a walk. They set off down to Strelley Mill Farm. As they were going beside the brook, on the Willey Water side, looking through the brake at the edge of the wood, where pink campions glowed under a few sunbeams, they saw, beyond the tree-trunks and the thin hazel bushes, a man leading a great bay horse through the gullies. The big red beast seemed to dance romantically through that dimness of green hazel drift, away there where the air was shadowy, as if it were in the past, among the fading bluebells that might have bloomed for Deidre or Iseult.

  The three stood charmed.

  “What a treat to be a knight,” he said, “and to have a pavilion here.”

  “And to have us shut up safely?” replied Clara.

  “Yes,” he answered, “singing with your maids at your broidery. I would carry your banner of white and green and heliotrope. I would have ‘W.S.P.U.’ emblazoned on my shield, beneath a woman rampant.”

  “I have no doubt,” said Clara, “that you would much rather fight for a woman than let her fight for herself.”

  “I would. When she fights for herself she seems like a dog before a looking-glass, gone into a mad fury with its own shadow.”

  “And YOU are the looking-glass?” she asked, with a curl of the lip.

  “Or the shadow,” he replied.

  “I am afraid,” she said, “that you are too clever.”

  “Well, I leave it to you to be GOOD,” he retorted, laughing. “Be good, sweet maid, and just let ME be clever.”

  But Clara wearied of his flippancy. Suddenly, looking at her, he saw that the upward lifting of her face was misery and not scorn. His heart grew tender for everybody. He turned and was gentle with Miriam, whom he had neglected till then.

  At the wood’s edge they met Limb, a thin, swarthy man of forty, tenant of Strelley Mill, which he ran as a cattle-raising farm. He held the halter of the powerful stallion indifferently, as if he were tired. The three stood to let him pass over the stepping-stones of the first brook. Paul admired that so large an animal should walk on such springy toes, with an endless excess of vigour. Limb pulled up before them.

  “Tell your father, Miss Leivers,” he said, in a peculiar piping voice, “that his young beas’es ‘as broke that bottom fence three days an’ runnin’.”

  “Which?” asked Miriam, tremulous.

  The great horse breathed heavily, shifting round its red flanks, and looking suspiciously with its wonderful big eyes upwards from under its lowered head and falling mane.

  “Come along a bit,” replied Limb, “an’ I’ll show you.”

  The man and the stallion went forward. It danced sideways, shaking its white fetlocks and looking frightened, as it felt itself in the brook.

  “No hanky-pankyin’,” said the man affectionately to the beast.

  It went up the bank in little leaps, then splashed finely through the second brook. Clara, walking with a kind of sulky abandon, watched it half-fascinated, half-contemptuous. Limb stopped and pointed to the fence under some willows.

  “There, you see where they got through,” he said. “My man’s druv ‘em back three times.”

  “Yes,” answered Miriam, colouring as if she were at fault.

  “Are you comin’ in?” asked the man.

  “No, thanks; but we should like to go by the pond.”

  “Well, just as you’ve a mind,” he said.

  The horse gave little whinneys of pleasure at being so near home.

  “He is glad to be back,” said Clara, who was interested in the creature.

  “Yes — ’e’s been a tidy step to-day.”

  They went through the gate, and saw approaching them from the big farmhouse a smallish, dark, excitable-looking woman of about thirty-five. Her hair was touched with grey, her dark eyes looked wild. She walked with her hands behind her back. Her brother went forward. As it saw her, the big bay stallion whinneyed again. She came up excitedly.

  “Are you home again, my boy!” she said tenderly to the horse, not to the man. The great beast shifted round to her, ducking his head. She smuggled into his mouth the wrinkled yellow apple she had been hiding behind her back, then she kissed him near the eyes. He gave a big sigh of pleasure. She held his head in her arms against her breast.

  “Isn’t he splendid!” said Miriam to her.

  Miss Limb looked up. Her dark eyes glanced straight at Paul.

  “Oh, good-evening, Miss Leivers,” she said. “It’s ages since you’ve been down.”

  Miriam introduced her friends.

  “Your horse IS a fine fellow!” said Clara.

  “Isn’t he!” Again she kissed him. “As loving as any man!”

  “More loving than most men, I should think,” replied Clara.

  “He’s a nice boy!” cried the woman, again embracing the horse.

  Clara, fascinated by the big beast, went up to stroke his neck.


  “He’s quite gentle,” said Miss Limb. “Don’t you think big fellows are?”

  “He’s a beauty!” replied Clara.

  She wanted to look in his eyes. She wanted him to look at her.

  “It’s a pity he can’t talk,” she said.

  “Oh, but he can — all but,” replied the other woman.

  Then her brother moved on with the horse.

  “Are you coming in? DO come in, Mr. — I didn’t catch it.”

  “Morel,” said Miriam. “No, we won’t come in, but we should like to go by the mill-pond.”

  “Yes — yes, do. Do you fish, Mr. Morel?”

  “No,” said Paul.

  “Because if you do you might come and fish any time,” said Miss Limb. “We scarcely see a soul from week’s end to week’s end. I should be thankful.”

  “What fish are there in the pond?” he asked.

  They went through the front garden, over the sluice, and up the steep bank to the pond, which lay in shadow, with its two wooded islets. Paul walked with Miss Limb.

  “I shouldn’t mind swimming here,” he said.

  “Do,” she replied. “Come when you like. My brother will be awfully pleased to talk with you. He is so quiet, because there is no one to talk to. Do come and swim.”

  Clara came up.

  “It’s a fine depth,” she said, “and so clear.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Limb.

  “Do you swim?” said Paul. “Miss Limb was just saying we could come when we liked.”

  “Of course there’s the farm-hands,” said Miss Limb.

  They talked a few moments, then went on up the wild hill, leaving the lonely, haggard-eyed woman on the bank.

  The hillside was all ripe with sunshine. It was wild and tussocky, given over to rabbits. The three walked in silence. Then:

  “She makes me feel uncomfortable,” said Paul.

  “You mean Miss Limb?” asked Miriam. “Yes.”

  “What’s a matter with her? Is she going dotty with being too lonely?”

  “Yes,” said Miriam. “It’s not the right sort of life for her. I think it’s cruel to bury her there. I really ought to go and see her more. But — she upsets me.”

  “She makes me feel sorry for her — yes, and she bothers me,” he said.

  “I suppose,” blurted Clara suddenly, “she wants a man.”

  The other two were silent for a few moments.

  “But it’s the loneliness sends her cracked,” said Paul.

  Clara did not answer, but strode on uphill. She was walking with her hand hanging, her legs swinging as she kicked through the dead thistles and the tussocky grass, her arms hanging loose. Rather than walking, her handsome body seemed to be blundering up the hill. A hot wave went over Paul. He was curious about her. Perhaps life had been cruel to her. He forgot Miriam, who was walking beside him talking to him. She glanced at him, finding he did not answer her. His eyes were fixed ahead on Clara.

  “Do you still think she is disagreeable?” she asked.

  He did not notice that the question was sudden. It ran with his thoughts.

  “Something’s the matter with her,” he said.

  “Yes,” answered Miriam.

  They found at the top of the hill a hidden wild field, two sides of which were backed by the wood, the other sides by high loose hedges of hawthorn and elder bushes. Between these overgrown bushes were gaps that the cattle might have walked through had there been any cattle now. There the turf was smooth as velveteen, padded and holed by the rabbits. The field itself was coarse, and crowded with tall, big cowslips that had never been cut. Clusters of strong flowers rose everywhere above the coarse tussocks of bent. It was like a roadstead crowded with tan, fairy shipping.

  “Ah!” cried Miriam, and she looked at Paul, her dark eyes dilating. He smiled. Together they enjoyed the field of flowers. Clara, a little way off, was looking at the cowslips disconsolately. Paul and Miriam stayed close together, talking in subdued tones. He kneeled on one knee, quickly gathering the best blossoms, moving from tuft to tuft restlessly, talking softly all the time. Miriam plucked the flowers lovingly, lingering over them. He always seemed to her too quick and almost scientific. Yet his bunches had a natural beauty more than hers. He loved them, but as if they were his and he had a right to them. She had more reverence for them: they held something she had not.

  The flowers were very fresh and sweet. He wanted to drink them. As he gathered them, he ate the little yellow trumpets. Clara was still wandering about disconsolately. Going towards her, he said:

  “Why don’t you get some?”

  “I don’t believe in it. They look better growing.”

  “But you’d like some?”

  “They want to be left.”

  “I don’t believe they do.”

  “I don’t want the corpses of flowers about me,” she said.

  “That’s a stiff, artificial notion,” he said. “They don’t die any quicker in water than on their roots. And besides, they LOOK nice in a bowl — they look jolly. And you only call a thing a corpse because it looks corpse-like.”

  “Whether it is one or not?” she argued.

  “It isn’t one to me. A dead flower isn’t a corpse of a flower.”

  Clara now ignored him.

  “And even so — what right have you to pull them?” she asked.

  “Because I like them, and want them — and there’s plenty of them.”

  “And that is sufficient?”

  “Yes. Why not? I’m sure they’d smell nice in your room in Nottingham.”

  “And I should have the pleasure of watching them die.”

  “But then — it does not matter if they do die.”

  Whereupon he left her, and went stooping over the clumps of tangled flowers which thickly sprinkled the field like pale, luminous foam-clots. Miriam had come close. Clara was kneeling, breathing some scent from the cowslips.

  “I think,” said Miriam, “if you treat them with reverence you don’t do them any harm. It is the spirit you pluck them in that matters.”

  “Yes,” he said. “But no, you get ‘em because you want ‘em, and that’s all.” He held out his bunch.

  Miriam was silent. He picked some more.

  “Look at these!” he continued; “sturdy and lusty like little trees and like boys with fat legs.”

  Clara’s hat lay on the grass not far off. She was kneeling, bending forward still to smell the flowers. Her neck gave him a sharp pang, such a beautiful thing, yet not proud of itself just now. Her breasts swung slightly in her blouse. The arching curve of her back was beautiful and strong; she wore no stays. Suddenly, without knowing, he was scattering a handful of cowslips over her hair and neck, saying:

  “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,

  If the Lord won’t have you the devil must.”

  The chill flowers fell on her neck. She looked up at him, with almost pitiful, scared grey eyes, wondering what he was doing. Flowers fell on her face, and she shut her eyes.

  Suddenly, standing there above her, he felt awkward.

  “I thought you wanted a funeral,” he said, ill at ease.

  Clara laughed strangely, and rose, picking the cowslips from her hair. She took up her hat and pinned it on. One flower had remained tangled in her hair. He saw, but would not tell her. He gathered up the flowers he had sprinkled over her.

  At the edge of the wood the bluebells had flowed over into the field and stood there like flood-water. But they were fading now. Clara strayed up to them. He wandered after her. The bluebells pleased him.

  “Look how they’ve come out of the wood!” he said.

  Then she turned with a flash of warmth and of gratitude.

  “Yes,” she smiled.

  His blood beat up.

  “It makes me think of the wild men of the woods, how terrified they would be when they got breast to breast with the open space.”

  “Do you think they were?” she asked.

 
“I wonder which was more frightened among old tribes — those bursting out of their darkness of woods upon all the space of light, or those from the open tiptoeing into the forests.”

  “I should think the second,” she answered.

  “Yes, you DO feel like one of the open space sort, trying to force yourself into the dark, don’t you?”

  “How should I know?” she answered queerly.

  The conversation ended there.

  The evening was deepening over the earth. Already the valley was full of shadow. One tiny square of light stood opposite at Crossleigh Bank Farm. Brightness was swimming on the tops of the hills. Miriam came up slowly, her face in her big, loose bunch of flowers, walking ankle-deep through the scattered froth of the cowslips. Beyond her the trees were coming into shape, all shadow.

  “Shall we go?” she asked.

  And the three turned away. They were all silent. Going down the path they could see the light of home right across, and on the ridge of the hill a thin dark outline with little lights, where the colliery village touched the sky.

  “It has been nice, hasn’t it?” he asked.

  Miriam murmured assent. Clara was silent.

  “Don’t you think so?” he persisted.

  But she walked with her head up, and still did not answer. He could tell by the way she moved, as if she didn’t care, that she suffered.

  At this time Paul took his mother to Lincoln. She was bright and enthusiastic as ever, but as he sat opposite her in the railway carriage, she seemed to look frail. He had a momentary sensation as if she were slipping away from him. Then he wanted to get hold of her, to fasten her, almost to chain her. He felt he must keep hold of her with his hand.

  They drew near to the city. Both were at the window looking for the cathedral.

  “There she is, mother!” he cried.

  They saw the great cathedral lying couchant above the plain.

  “Ah!” she exclaimed. “So she is!”

  He looked at his mother. Her blue eyes were watching the cathedral quietly. She seemed again to be beyond him. Something in the eternal repose of the uplifted cathedral, blue and noble against the sky, was reflected in her, something of the fatality. What was, WAS. With all his young will he could not alter it. He saw her face, the skin still fresh and pink and downy, but crow’s-feet near her eyes, her eyelids steady, sinking a little, her mouth always closed with disillusion; and there was on her the same eternal look, as if she knew fate at last. He beat against it with all the strength of his soul.