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SONS AND LOVERS
thing where there was nothing. And she had known. She
had known so much, and had told him so little. She had
known all the time. All the time this was at the bottom of her!
He sat silent in bitterness. At last the whole affair appeared in a cynical aspect to him. She had really played
with him, not he with her. She had hidden all her condemnation from him, had flattered him, and despised him. She
despised him now. He grew intellectual and cruel.
“You ought to marry a man who worships you,” he said;
“then you could do as you liked with him. Plenty of men will
worship you, if you get on the private side of their natures. You
ought to marry one such. They would never fight you off. “
“Thank you!” she said. “But don’t advise me to marry
someone else any more. You’ve done it before.”
“Very well, he said; “I will say no more.
He sat still, feeling as if he had had a blow, instead of
giving one. Their eight years of friendship and love, THE
eight years of his life, were nullified.
“When did you think of this? she asked. “I thought definitely on Thursday night. “I knew it was coming, she said.
That pleased him bitterly. “Oh, very well! If she knew then it
doesn’t come as a surprise to her, “ he thought.
“And have you said anything to Clara? she asked. “No; but I
shall tell her now.”
There was a silence.
“Do you remember the things you said this time last
year, in my grandmother’s house – nay last month even?”
“Yes, he said; “I do! And I meant them! I can’t help that it’s
failed.
“It has failed because you want something else. “
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“It would have failed whether or not. YOU never believed
in me. “ She laughed strangely.
He sat in silence. He was full of a feeling that she had
deceived him. She had despised him when he thought she
worshipped him. She had let him say wrong things, and
had not contradicted him. She had let him fight alone. But
it stuck in his throat that she had despised him whilst he
thought she worshipped him. She should have told him
when she found fault with him. She had not played fair. He
hated her. All these years she had treated him as if he were
a hero, and thought of him secretly as an infant, a foolish
child. Then why had she left the foolish child to his folly?
His heart was hard against her.
She sat full of bitterness. She had known – oh, well
she had known! All the time he was away from her she had
summed him up, seen his littleness, his meanness, and his
folly. Even she had guarded her soul against him. She was not
overthrown, not prostrated, not even much hurt. She had
known. Only why, as he sat there, had he still this strange
dominance over her? His very movements fascinated her
as if she were hypnotised by him. Yet he was despicable,
false, inconsistent, and mean. Why this bondage for her?
Why was it the movement of his arm stirred her as nothing else in the world could? Why was she fastened to him?
Why, even now, if he looked at her and commanded her,
would she have to obey? She would obey him in his trifling
commands. But once he was obeyed, then she had him in her
power, she knew, to lead him where she would. She was sure
of herself. Only, this new influence! Ah, he was not a man! He
was a baby that cries for the newest toy. And all the attach-
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ment of his soul would not keep him. Very well, he would
have to go. But he would come back when he had tired of his
new sensation.
He hacked at the earth till she was fretted to death. She
rose. He sat flinging lumps of earth in the stream.
“We will go and have tea here?” he asked. “Yes, “ she answered.
They chattered over irrelevant subjects during tea. He
held forth on the love of ornament – the cottage parlour
moved him thereto – and its connection with aesthetics. She
was cold and quiet. As they walked home, she asked:
“And we shall not see each other? “ “No – or rarely, he
answered.
“Nor write?” she asked, almost sarcastically.
“As you will, he answered. “We’re not strangers – never
should be, whatever happened. I will write to you now and
again. You please yourself.
“I see!” she answered cuttingly.
But he was at that stage at which nothing else hurts. He had
made a great cleavage in his life. He had had a great shock when
she had told him their love had been always a conflict. Nothing
more mattered. If it never had been much, there was no need to
make a fuss that it was ended.
He left her at the lane – end. As she went home, solitary,
in her new frock, having her people to face at the other end,
he stood still with shame and pain in the highroad, thinking
of the suffering he caused her.
In the reaction towards restoring his self – esteem, he went
into the Willow Tree for a drink. There were four girls who had
been out for the day, drinking a modest glass of port. They had
some chocolates on the table. Paul sat near with his whisky. He
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
noticed the girls whispering and nudging. Presently one, a bonny
dark hussy, leaned to him and said:
“Have a chocolate?
The others laughed loudly at her impudence.
“All right, said Paul. “Give me a hard one – nut. I don’t
like creams.
“Here you are, then, said the girl; “here’s an almond for
you.
She held the sweet between her fingers. He opened his
mouth. She popped it in, and blushed.
“You ARE nice! he said.
“Well, she answered, “we thought you looked overcast,
and they dared me offer you a chocolate.
“I don’t mind if I have another – another sort, he said. And
presently they were all laughing together.
It was nine o’clock when he got home, falling dark. He
entered the house in silence. His mother, who had been waiting, rose anxiously.
“I told her, “ he said.
‘’I’m glad,” replied the mother, with great relief. He hung up
his cap wearily.
“I said we’d have done altogether, “ he said.
“That’s right, my son, “ said the mother. “It’s hard for her
now, but best in the long run. Iknow. You weren’t suited for
her.”
He laughed shakily as he sat down.
“I’ve had such a lark with some girls in a pub,” he said.
His mother looked at him. He had forgotten Miriam
now. He told her about the girls in the Willow Tree. Mrs.
Morel looked at him. It seemed unreal, his gaiety. At the back
of it was too much horror and misery.
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“Now have some supper,” she said very gently. Afterwards he said wistfully:
“She never thought she’d have me, mother, not from the
first, and so she’s not disappointed. “
‘’I’m afraid, “ said his mother, “she doesn’t give up
hopes of you yet.”
“No,” he said, “perhaps not.”
“You’ll find it’s better to have done, “ she said. “I don’t know,”
he said desperately.
“Well, leave her alone, “ replied his mother. So he left
her, and she was alone. Very few people cared for her, and
she for very few people. She remained alone with herself,
waiting.
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CHAPTER XII
Passion
HE was gradually making it possible to earn a livelihood
by his art. Liberty’s had taken several of his painted designs
on various stuffs, and he could sell designs for embroideries,
for altar – cloths, and similar things, in one or two places. It
was not very much he made at present, but he might extend
it. He had also made friends with the designer for a pottery
firm, and was gaining some knowledge of his new acquaintance’s art. The applied arts interested him very much. At
the same time he laboured slowly at his pictures. He loved
to paint large figures, full of light, but not merely made up of
lights and cast shadows, like the impressionists; rather definite
figures that had a certain luminous quality, like some of Michael Angelo’s people. And these he fitted into a landscape,
in what he thought true proportion. He worked a great deal
from memory, using everybody he knew. He believed firmly
in his work, that it was good and valuable. In spite of fits of
depression, shrinking, everything, he believed in his work.
He was twenty – four when he said his first confident
thing to his mother.
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SONS AND LOVERS
“Mother, “ he said, “I s’ll make a painter that they’ll attend
to. “
She sniffed in her quaint fashion. It was like a half –
pleased shrug of the shoulders.
“Very well, my boy, we’ll see,” she said.
“You shall see, my pigeon! You see if you’re not swanky one
of these days!”
‘’I’m quite content, my boy,” she smiled.
“But you’ll have to alter. Look at you with Minnie! “ Minnie was the small servant, a girl of fourteen.
“And what about Minnie?” asked Mrs. Morel, with dignity.
“I heard her this morning: ‘Eh, Mrs. Morel! I was going
to do that, ‘ when you went out in the rain for some coat “
he said. “That looks a lot like your being able to manage servants! “
“Welt it was only the child’s niceness,” said Mrs. Morel.
“And you apologising to her: ‘You can’t do two things at
once, can you?’”
“She WAS busy washing up, “ replied Mrs. Morel.
“And what did she say? ‘It could easy have waited a bit.
Now look how your feet paddle! ‘”
“Yes – brazen young baggage!” said Mrs. Moret smiling.
He looked at his mother, laughing. She was quite warm
and rosy again with love of him. It seemed as if all the sunshine were on her for a moment. He continued his work
gladly. She seemed so well when she was happy that he forgot her grey hair.
And that year she went with him to the Isle of Wight for
a holiday. It was too exciting for them both, and too beautiful. Mrs. Morel was full of joy and wonder. But he would
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
have her walk with him more than she was able. She had a
bad fainting bout. So grey her face was, so blue her mouth!
It was agony to him. He felt as if someone were pushing a
knife in his chest. Then she was better again, and he forgot.
But the anxiety remained inside him, like a wound that
did not close.
After leaving Miriam he went almost straight to Clara. On
the Monday following the day of the rupture he went down
to the work room. She looked up at him and smiled. They
had grown very intimate unawares. She saw a new brightness
about him.
“Well, Queen of Sheba!” he said, laughing. “But why? “ she
asked.
“I think it suits you. You’ve got a new frock on.” She
flushed, asking:
“And what of it? “
“Suits you – awfully! I could design you a dress. “ “How would
it be?
He stood in front of her, his eyes glittering as he expounded.
He kept her eyes fixed with his. Then suddenly he took hold of
her. She half started back. He drew the stuff of her blouse
tighter, smoothed it over her breast.
“More SO! he explained.
But they were both of them flaming with blushes, and
immediately he ran away. He had touched her. His whole
body was quivering with the sensation.
There was already a sort of secret understanding between
them. The next evening he went to the cinematograph with
her for a few minutes before train – time. As they sat, he
saw her hand lying near him. For some moments he dared
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not touch it. The pictures danced and dithered. Then he
took her hand in his. It was large and firm; it filled his grasp.
He held it fast. She neither moved nor made any sign. When
they came out his train was due. He hesitated.
“Good – night, she said. He darted away across the road.
The next day he came again, talking to her. She was
rather superior with him.
“Shall we go a walk on Monday? “ he asked. She turned
her face aside.
“Shall you tell Miriam?” she replied sarcastically. “I have
broken off with her, “ he said.
“When?”
“Last Sunday. “ “You quarrelled? “
“No! I had made up my mind. I told her quite definitely
I should consider myself free. “
Clara did not answer, and he returned to his work. She was
so quiet and so superb!
On the Saturday evening he asked her to come and drink
coffee with him in a restaurant, meeting him after work was
over. She came, looking very reserved and very distant. He
had three – quarters of an hour to train – time.
“We will walk a little while,” he said.
She agreed, and they went past the Castle into the Park.
He was afraid of her. She walked moodily at his side, with
a kind of resentful, reluctant, angry walk. He was afraid to
take her hand.
“Which way shall we go?” he asked as they walked in darkness. “I don’t mind.”
“Then we’ll go up the steps. “
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
He suddenly turned round. They had passed the Park
steps. She stood still in resentment at his suddenly abandoning her. He looked for her. She stood aloof. He caught her
suddenly in his arms, held her strained for a moment, kissed
her. Then he let her go.
“Come along, “ he said, penitent.
She followed him. He took her hand and kissed her finger – tips. They went in silence. When they came to the
light, he let go her hand. Neither spoke till they reached the
station. Then they looked each other in the eyes.
“Good – night,” she said.
And he went for his train. His body acted mechanically.
People talked to him. He heard faint echoes answering
them. He was in a delirium. He felt that he would go mad
if Monday did not come at once. On Monday he would
see her again. All himself was pitched there, ahead. Sunday
intervened. He could not bear it. He could not see her till
Monday. And Sunday intervened – hour after hour of
tension. He wanted to beat his head against the door of the carriage. But he sat still. He drank some whisky on the way home,
but it only made it worse. His mother must not be upset,
that was all. He dissembled, and got quickly to bed. There he
sat, dressed, with his chin on his knees, staring out of the window at the far hill, with its few lights. He neither thought
nor slept, but sat perfectly still, staring. And when at last he
was so cold that he came to himself, he found his watch had
stopped at half – past two. It was after three o’clock. He was
exhausted, but still there was the torment of knowing it was
only Sunday morning. He went to bed and slept. Then he cycled all day long, till he was fagged out. And he scarcely knew
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