ERNEST (looking up, with a frown of irritation): Eight pounds one and six, and stoppages.
MOTHER: And he gives me a frowsty twenty-eight . . . and I’ve got his club to pay, and you a pair of boots. . . . Twenty-eight! . . . I wonder if he thinks the house is kept on nothing. . . . I’ll take good care he gets nothing extra, I will, too. . . . I knew it, though — I knew he’d been running up a nice score at the Tunns’ — that’s what it is. There’s rent, six-and-six, and clubs seven shillings, besides insurance and gas and everything else. I wonder how he thinks it’s done — I wonder if he thinks we live on air?
ERNEST (looking up with pain and irritation): Oh, Mater, don’t bother! What’s the good? If you worry for ever it won’t make it any more.
MOTHER (softened, conquering her distress): Oh, yes, it’s all very well for you, but if I didn’t worry what would become of us I should like to know?
GERTIE COOMBER runs in. She is wearing a large blue felt hat and a Norfolk costume; she is carrying a round basket. From the parlour comes the sound of Grieg’s Anitra’s Tanz, and then Ase’s Tod, played well, with real sympathy.
GERTIE (with a little shy apprehension): Who’s in the parlour?
MOTHER: It’s only Mr Barker. (Smiling slightly.) He wanted to show Nellie how well he could play “The Maiden’s Prayer”.
GERTIE suddenly covers her mouth and laughs.
GERTIE (still laughing): He, he! I’ll bet it was a thump! Pomp! Pomp! (Makes a piano-thumping gesture.) Did you hear it, Ernest?
ERNEST (not looking up): Infernal shindy.
GERTIE puts up her shoulders and giggles, looking askance at the student who, she knows, is getting tired of interruptions.
MOTHER: Yes, I wish he’d go — (almost whispering) — and his wife is expecting to go to bed any minute.
GERTIE puts her lower lip between her teeth and looks serious. The music stops. BARKER and NELLIE are heard talking, then the FATHER. There is a click of boots on the tiled passage and they enter.
NELLIE: What did you think of Mr Barker, Mother? — don’t you think it’s good? I think it’s wonderful — don’t you, Ernest?
ERNEST (grunting): Um — it is.
GERTIE COOMBER suddenly hides behind her friend and laughs.
MOTHER (to BARKER): Yes, I’m sure you get on wonderfully — wonderfully — considering.
BARKER: Yes, ah’s non done so bad, I think.
FATHER: Tha ‘asna, Joe, tha ‘asna, indeed!
MOTHER: Don’t forget the bag, Mr Barker — I know you’ll want it.
BARKER: Oh, thank yer. Well, I mun goo. Tha’rt comin’ down, George?
FATHER: Yes, I’m comin’ down, Joe. I’ll just get my top-coat on, an’ then — (He struggles awkwardly into his overcoat.)
BARKER resumes his grey muffler.
BARKER: Well, good night, everybody; good night, Ernest — an’ thank yer, Missis.
MOTHER: I hope things will be — (She nods significantly.) — alright.
BARKER: Ah, thank yer, I hope it will. I expect so: there’s no reason why it shouldn’t. Good night.
ALL: Good night, Mr Barker.
The FATHER and BARKER go out. Immediately NELLIE flings her arms round GERTIE’S neck.
NELLIE: Save me, Gert, save me! I thought I was done for that time. . . . I gave myself up! The poor piano! Mother, it’ll want tuning now, if it never did before.
MOTHER (with slight asperity, half-amused): It may want at it, then.
GERTIE (laughing): You’re done, Nellie, you’re done brown! If it’s like dropping a saucepan-lid — no — you’ve got to put up with it!
NELLIE: I don’t care. It couldn’t be much worse than it is, rotten old thing. (She pulls off her pinafore and hangs it over the back of a chair, then goes to the mirror, once more to arrange her hair.)
GERTIE: Oh, come on, Nellie, Cornell’s will be crammed.
NELLIE: Don’t worry, my dear. What are you going to fetch? Anything nice?
GERTIE: No, I’m not — only bacon and cheese; they send you any stuff: cat and candles — any muck!
The MOTHER takes the little stool and sits down on it on the hearthrug, lacing up her boots.
MOTHER: I suppose you’re not going out, Ernest?
ERNEST: No.
MOTHER: Oh — so you can look after the bread. There are two brown loaves at the top; they’ll be about half an hour; the white one’s nearly done. Put the other in as soon as they come out. Don’t go and forget them, now.
ERNEST: No.
MOTHER: He says “No!” (She shakes her head at him with indulgent, proud affection.)
NELLIE (as if casually, yet at once putting tension into the atmosphere): Is Mag coming down?
He does not answer immediately.
MOTHER: I should think not, a night like this, and all the mud there is.
ERNEST: She said she’d come and do some French. Why?
NELLIE (with a half-smile, off-handedly): Nothing.
MOTHER: You’d never think she’d trapse through all this mud. . . .
NELLIE: Don’t bother. She’d come if she had to have water-wings to flop through.
GERTIE begins to giggle at the idea. The MOTHER sniffs.
ERNEST (satirically): Just as you’d flounder to your Eddie.
GERTIE lifts her hands with a little sharp gesture as if to say, “Now the fun’s begun!”
NELLIE (turning suddenly, afire with scorn): Oh, should I? You’d catch me running after anybody!
MOTHER (rising): There, that’ll do. Why don’t you go up town, if you’re going?
NELLIE LAMBERT haughtily marches off and puts on a dark coat and a blue hat.
NELLIE: Is it raining, Gert?
GERTIE: No, it’s quite fine.
NELLIE: I’ll bet it’s fine!
GERTIE: Well, you asked me. It is fine; it’s not raining.
The MOTHER re-enters from the passage, bringing a bonnet and a black coat.
NELLIE: Want me to bring anything, Mater?
MOTHER: I shall leave the meat for you.
NELLIE: Alright. Come on, Gert.
They go out.
MOTHER (She dreads that her son is angry with her and, affecting carelessness, puts the question to him, to find out): Should we be getting a few Christmas-tree things for little Margaret? I expect Emma and Joe will be here for Christmas: it seems nothing but right, and it’s only six weeks now.
ERNEST (coldly): Alright.
He gets up and takes another book from the shelf without looking at her. She stands a moment suspended in the act of putting a pin through her bonnet.
MOTHER: Well, I think we ought to make a bit of Christmas for the little thing, don’t you?
ERNEST: Ay. You gave our things to the lads, didn’t you? (He still does not look up from his books.)
MOTHER (with a sound of failure in her voice): Yes. And they’ve kept them better than ever I thought they would. They’ve only broken your blue bird — the one you bought when you were quite little.
There is a noise of footsteps and a knock at the door. The MOTHER answers.
(Trying to be affable, but diffident, her gorge having risen a little.) Oh, is it you, Maggie? Come in. How ever have you got down, a night like this? Didn’t you get over the ankles in mud?
She re-enters, followed by a ruddy girl of twenty, a full-bosomed, heavily-built girl, of medium stature and handsome appearance, ruddy and black. She is wearing a crimson tam-o’-shanter and a long grey coat. She keeps her head lowered, and glancing only once splendidly at ERNEST, replies with a strange, humble defiance:
MAGGIE: No — oh, it’s not so bad: besides, I came all round by the road.
MOTHER: I should think you’re tired, after school.
MAGGIE: No; it’s a relief to walk in the open; and I rather like a black night; you can wrap yourself up in it. Is Nellie out?
MOTHER (stiffly): Yes; she’s gone up town.
MAGGIE (non-significantly): Ah, I thought I passed her. I wasn’t sure
. She wouldn’t notice me; it is dark over the fields.
MOTHER: Yes, it is. I’m sure I’m awful at recognizing people.
MAGGIE: Yes — and so am I, generally. But it’s no good bothering. If they like to take offence, they have to. . . . I can’t help it.
The MOTHER sniffs slightly. She goes into the passage and returns with a string net bag. She is ready to go out.
MOTHER (still distantly): Won’t you take your things off? (Looks at the bread once more before going.)
MAGGIE: Ah, thanks, I will.
She takes on her hat and coat and hangs them in the passage. She is wearing a dark blue cloth “pinafore-dress”, and beneath the blue straps and shoulder pieces a blouse of fine woollen stuff with a small intricate pattern of brown and red. She is flushed and handsome; her features are large, her eyes dark, and her hair falls in loose profusion of black tendrils about her face. The coil at the back is coming undone; it is short and not heavy. She glances supremely at ERNEST, feeling him watching her.
MOTHER (at the oven): You hear, Ernest? This white cake will be done in about five minutes, and the brown loaves in about twenty.
ERNEST: Alright, my dear.
This time it is she who will not look at him.
MAGGIE (laughing a low, short laugh): My hair! — is it a sight? I have to keep my coat collar up, or it would drop right down — what bit of it there is.
She stands away from the mirror, pinning it up; but she cannot refrain from just one glance at herself.
ERNEST LAMBERT watches her, and then turns to his MOTHER, who is pulling on a pair of shabby black gloves. MRS LAMBERT, however, keeps her eyes consciously averted; she is offended, and is a woman of fierce pride.
MOTHER: Well, I expect I shall see you again, Maggie.
MAGGIE (with a faint, grave triumph): It depends what time you come back. I shan’t have to be late.
MOTHER: Oh, you’ll be here when I get back.
MAGGIE (submissive, but with minute irony): Very well.
MOTHER: And don’t forget that bread, Ernest.
She picks her bag off the table and goes out, without having looked at either of them.
ERNEST (affectionately): No, Little, I won’t.
There is a pause for a moment. MAGGIE PEARSON sits in the arm-chair opposite him, who is on the sofa, and looks straight at him. He raises his head after a moment and smiles at her.
MAGGIE: Did you expect me?
ERNEST (nodding): I knew you’d come. You know, when you feel as certain as if you couldn’t possibly be mistaken. But I did swear when I came out of Coll. and found it raining.
MAGGIE: So did I. Well, not swear, but I was mad. Hasn’t it been a horrid week?
ERNEST: Hasn’t it? — and I’ve been so sick of things.
MAGGIE: Of what?
ERNEST: Oh, of fooling about at College — and everything.
MAGGIE (grimly): You’d be sicker of school.
ERNEST: I don’t know. At any rate I should be doing something real, whereas, as it is — oh, Coll.’s all foolery and flummery.
MAGGIE: I wish I had a chance of going. I feel as if they’d been pulling things away from me all week — like a baby that has had everything taken from it.
ERNEST (laughing): Well, if school pulls all your playthings and pretty things away from you, College does worse: it makes them all silly and idiotic, and you hate them — and — what then — !
MAGGIE (seriously): Why? How?
ERNEST: Oh, I don’t know. You have to fool about so much, and listen when you’re not interested, and see old professors like old dogs walking round as large as life with ancient bones they’ve buried and scratched up again a hundred times; and they’re just as proud as ever. It’s such a farce! And when you see that farce, you see all the rest: all the waddling tribe of old dogs with their fossil bones — parsons and professors and councillors — wagging their tails and putting their paws on the bones and barking their important old barks — and all the puppies yelping loud applause.
MAGGIE (accepting him with earnestness): Ay! But are they all alike?
ERNEST: Pretty well. It makes you a bit sick. I used to think men in great places were great —
MAGGIE (fervently): I know you did.
ERNEST: — and then to find they’re no better than yourself — not a bit —
MAGGIE: Well, I don’t see why they should be.
ERNEST (ignoring her): — it takes the wind out of your sails. What’s the good of anything if that’s a farce?
MAGGIE: What?
ERNEST: The folks at the top. By Jove, if you once lose your illusion of “great men”, you’re pretty well disillusioned of everything — religion and everything.
MAGGIE sits absorbedly, sadly biting her forefinger: an act which irritates him.
(Suddenly): What time did Mother go out?
MAGGIE (starting): I don’t know — I never noticed the time.
ERNEST (rising and going to the oven, picking up the oven-cloth from the hearth): At any rate I should think it’s five minutes.
He goes to the oven door, and takes from the lower shelf a “cake” loaf, baked in a dripping-pan, and, turning it over, taps it with his knuckles.
ERNEST: I should think it’s done. I’ll give it five minutes to soak.
He puts the bread in the oven shelf, turns the brown loaves, and shuts the oven door. Then he rises and takes a little notebook from the shelf.
Guess what I’ve been doing.
MAGGIE (rising, dilating, reaching towards him): I don’t know. What?
ERNEST (smiling): Verses.
MAGGIE (putting out her hand to him, supplicating): Give them to me!
ERNEST (still smiling): They’re such piffle.
MAGGIE (betwixt supplication and command): Give them to me.
He hands her the little volume, and goes out to the scullery. She sits down and reads with absorption. He returns in a moment, his hands dripping with clear water, and, pulling forward the panchion from the corner, takes out the last piece of white dough, scrapes the little pieces together, and begins to work the mass into a flattish ball, passing it from hand to hand. Then he drops the dough into the dripping-pan, and leaves it standing on the hearth. When he rises and looks at her, she looks up at him swiftly, with wide, brown, glowing eyes, her lips parted. He stands a moment smiling down at her.
ERNEST: Well, do you like them?
MAGGIE (nodding several times, does not reply for a second): Yes, I do.
ERNEST: They’re not up to much, though.
MAGGIE (softly): Why not?
ERNEST (slightly crestfallen at her readiness to accept him again): Well, are they?
MAGGIE (nodding again): Yes, they are! What makes you say they’re not? I think they’re splendid.
ERNEST (smiling, gratified, but not thinking the same himself): Which do you like best?
MAGGIE (softly and thoughtfully): I don’t know. I think this is so lovely, this about the almond tree.
ERNEST (smiling): And you under it.
She laughs up at him a moment, splendidly.
But that’s not the best.
MAGGIE (looking at him expectantly): No?
ERNEST: That one, “A Life History”, is the best.
MAGGIE (wondering): Yes?
ERNEST (smiling): It is. It means more. Look how full of significance it is, when you think of it. The profs. would make a great long essay out of the idea. Then the rhythm is finer: it’s more complicated.
MAGGIE (seizing the word to vindicate herself when no vindication is required): Yes, it is more complicated: it is more complicated in every way. You see, I didn’t understand it at first. It is best. Yes, it is. (She reads it again.)
He takes the loaf from the oven and puts the fresh one in.
ERNEST: What have you been doing?
MAGGIE (faltering, smiling): I? Only — only some French.
ERNEST: What, your diary?
MAGGIE (laughing, confused): Ah — but I don’t th
ink I want you to see it.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 734
