Sons and Lovers, D. H. Lawrence [best fiction books to read TXT] 📗

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.

“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 coal,” he said. “That looks a lot like your being able to manage servants!”

“Well, 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. Morel, 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 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 workroom. 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 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.”

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 fingertips. 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