CHAPTER IX

　　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 brightand enthusiastic as ever, but as he sat opposite her in therailway carriage, she seemed to look frail. He had a momentarysensation as if she were slipping away from him. Then hewanted 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 lookingfor 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 thecathedral quietly. She seemed again to be beyond him. Something inthe eternal repose of the uplifted cathedral, blue and nobleagainst 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 sameeternal look, as if she knew fate at last. He beat against itwith all the strength of his soul.

　　"Look, mother, how big she is above the town! Think, there are streetsand streets below her! She looks bigger than the city altogether."

　　"So she does!" exclaimed his mother, breaking brightinto life again. But he had seen her sitting, looking steadyout of the window at the cathedral, her face and eyes fixed,reflecting the relentlessness of life. And the crow's-feet nearher eyes, and her mouth shut so hard, made him feel he would go mad.

　　They ate a meal that she considered wildly extravagant.

　　"Don't imagine I like it," she said, as she ate her cutlet. "I DON'T like it, I really don't! Just THINK of your money wasted!"

　　"You never mind my money," he said. "You forget I'm a fellowtaking his girl for an outing."

　　And he bought her some blue violets.

　　"Stop it at once, sir!" she commanded. "How can I do it?"

　　"You've got nothing to do. Stand still!"

　　And in the middle of High Street he stuck the flowers in her coat.

　　"An old thing like me!" she said, sniffing.

　　"You see," he said, "I want people to think we're awful swells. So look ikey."

　　"I'll jowl your head," she laughed.

　　"Strut!" he commanded. "Be a fantail pigeon."

　　It took him an hour to get her through the street. She stoodabove Glory Hole, she stood before Stone Bow, she stood everywhere,and exclaimed.

　　A man came up, took off his hat, and bowed to her.

　　"Can I show you the town, madam?"

　　"No, thank you," she answered. "I've got my son."

　　Then Paul was cross with her for not answering with more dignity.

　　"You go away with you!" she exclaimed. "Ha! that'sthe Jew's House. Now, do you remember that lecture, Paul--?"

　　But she could scarcely climb the cathedral hill. He did not notice. Then suddenly he found her unable to speak. He took her into a little public-house, where she rested.

　　"It's nothing," she said. "My heart is only a bit old;one must expect it."

　　He did not answer, but looked at her. Again his heart wascrushed in a hot grip. He wanted to cry, he wanted to smash thingsin fury.

　　They set off again, pace by pace, so slowly. And everystep seemed like a weight on his chest. He felt as if his heartwould burst. At last they came to the top. She stood enchanted,looking at the castle gate, looking at the cathedral front. She had quite forgotten herself.

　　"Now THIS is better than I thought it could be!" she cried.

　　But he hated it. Everywhere he followed her, brooding. They sat together in the cathedral. They attended a little servicein the choir. She was timid.

　　"I suppose it is open to anybody?" she asked him.

　　"Yes," he replied. "Do you think they'd have the damned cheekto send us away."

　　"Well, I'm sure," she exclaimed, "they would if they heardyour language."

　　Her face seemed to shine again with joy and peace duringthe service. And all the time he was wanting to rage and smashthings and cry.

　　Afterwards, when they were leaning over the wall, looking atthe town below, he blurted suddenly:

　　"Why can't a man have a YOUNG mother? What is she old for?"

　　"Well," his mother laughed, "she can scarcely help it."

　　"And why wasn't I the oldest son? Look--they say the youngones have the advantage--but look, THEY had the young mother.You should have had me for your eldest son."

　　"I didn't arrange it," she remonstrated. "Come to consider,you're as much to blame as me."

　　He turned on her, white, his eyes furious.

　　"What are you old for!" he said, mad with his impotence. "WHY can't you walk? WHY can't you come with me to places?"

　　"At one time," she replied, "I could have run up that hilla good deal better than you."

　　"What's the good of that to ME?" he cried, hitting his fiston the wall. Then he became plaintive. "It's too bad of youto be ill. Little, it is--"

　　"Ill!" she cried. "I'm a bit old, and you'll have to put upwith it, that's all."

　　They were quiet. But it was as much as they could bear. They gotjolly again over tea. As they sat by Brayford, watching the boats,he told her about Clara. His mother asked him innumerable questions.

　　"Then who does she live with?"

　　"With her mother, on Bluebell Hill."

　　"And have they enough to keep them?"

　　"I don't think so. I think they do lace work."

　　"And wherein lies her charm, my boy?"

　　"I don't know that she's charming, mother. But she's nice. And she seems straight, you know--not a bit deep, not a bit."

　　"But she's a good deal older than you."

　　"She's thirty, I'm going on twenty-three."

　　"You haven't told me what you like her for."

　　"Because I don't know--a sort of defiant way she's got--a sortof angry way."

　　Mrs. Morel considered. She would have been glad now for her sonto fall in love with some woman who would--she did not know what. But he fretted so, got so furious suddenly, and again was melancholic. She wished he knew some nice woman-- She did not know what she wished,but left it vague. At any rate, she was not hostile to the ideaof Clara.

　　Annie, too, was getting married. Leonard had gone away to workin Birmingham. One week-end when he was home she had said to him:

　　"You don't look very well, my lad."

　　"I dunno," he said. "I feel anyhow or nohow, ma."

　　He called her "ma" already in his boyish fashion.

　　"Are you sure they're good lodgings?" she asked.

　　"Yes--yes. Only--it's a winder when you have to pour your owntea out--an' nobody to grouse if you team it in your saucer and supit up. It somehow takes a' the taste out of it."

　　Mrs. Morel laughed.

　　"And so it knocks you up?" she said.

　　"I dunno. I want to get married," he blurted, twisting hisfingers and looking down at his boots. There was a silence.

　　"But," she exclaimed, "I thought you said you'd wait another year."

　　"Yes, I did say so," he replied stubbornly.

　　Again she considered.

　　"And you know," she said, "Annie's a bit of a spendthrift. She's saved no more than eleven pounds. And I know, lad, you haven'thad much chance."

　　He coloured up to the ears.

　　"I've got thirty-three quid," he said.

　　"It doesn't go far," she answered.

　　He said nothing, but twisted his fingers.

　　"And you know," she said, "I've nothing---"

　　"I didn't want, ma!" he cried, very red, suffering and remonstrating.

　　"No, my lad, I know. I was only wishing I had. And take awayfive pounds for the wedding and things--it leaves twenty-nine pounds. You won't do much on that."

　　He twisted still, impotent, stubborn, not looking up.

　　"But do you really want to get married?" she asked. "Do youfeel as if you ought?"

　　He gave her one straight look from his blue eyes.

　　"Yes," he said.

　　"Then," she replied, "we must all do the best we can for it, lad."

　　The next time he looked up there were tears in his eyes.

　　"I don't want Annie to feel handicapped," he said, struggling.

　　"My lad," she said, "you're steady--you've got a decent place. If a man had NEEDED me I'd have married him on his last week's wages. She may find it a bit hard to start humbly. Young girls ARE like that. They look forward to the fine home they think they'll have. But I had expensive furniture. It's not everything."

　　So the wedding took place almost immediately. Arthur came home,and was splendid in uniform. Annie looked nice in a dove-greydress that she could take for Sundays. Morel called her a foolfor getting married, and was cool with his son-in-law. Mrs. Morelhad white tips in her bonnet, and some white on her blouse,and was teased by both her sons for fancying herself so grand. Leonard was jolly and cordial, and felt a fearful fool. Paul couldnot quite see what Annie wanted to get married for. He was fond of her,and she of him. Still, he hoped rather lugubriously that it wouldturn out all right. Arthur was astonishingly handsome in his scarletand yellow, and he knew it well, but was secretly ashamed of the uniform. Annie cried her eyes up in the kitchen, on leaving her mother. Mrs. Morel cried a little, then patted her on the back and said:

　　"But don't cry, child, he'll be good to you."

　　Morel stamped and said she was a fool to go and tie herself up. Leonard looked white and overwrought. Mrs. Morel said to him:

　　"I s'll trust her to you, my lad, and hold you responsiblefor her."

　　"You can," he said, nearly dead with the ordeal. And itwas all over.

　　When Morel and Arthur were in bed, Paul sat talking, as heoften did, with his mother.

　　"You're not sorry she's married, mother, are you?" he asked.

　　"I'm not sorry she's married--but--it seems strange that sheshould go from me. It even seems to me hard that she can preferto go with her Leonard. That's how mothers are--I know it's silly."

　　"And shall you be miserable about her?"

　　"When I think of my own wedding day," his mother answered,"I can only hope her life will be different."

　　"But you can trust him to be good to her?"

　　"Yes, yes. They say he's not good enough for her. But I sayif a man is GENUINE, as he is, and a girl is fond of him--then--itshould be all right. He's as good as she."

　　"So you don't mind?"

　　"I would NEVER have let a daughter of mine marry a man I didn'tFEEL to be genuine through and through. And yet, there's a gapnow she's gone."

　　They were both miserable, and wanted her back again. It seemed to Paul his mother looked lonely, in her new black silkblouse with its bit of white trimming.

　　"At any rate, mother, I s'll never marry," he said.

　　"Ay, they all say that, my lad. You've not met the one yet. Only wait a year or two."

　　"But I shan't marry, mother. I shall live with you, and we'llhave a servant."

　　"Ay, my lad, it's easy to talk. We'll see when the time comes."

　　"What time? I'm nearly twenty-three."

　　"Yes, you're not one that would marry young. But inthree years' time---"

　　"I shall be with you just the same."

　　"We'll see, my boy, we'll see."

　　"But you don't want me to marry?"

　　"I shouldn't like to think of you going through your lifewithout anybody to care for you and do--no."

　　"And you think I ought to marry?"

　　"Sooner or later every man ought."

　　"But you'd rather it were later."

　　"It would be hard--and very hard. It's as they say:

　　 "'A son's my son till he takes him a wife, But my daughter's my daughter the whole of her life.'"

　　"And you think I'd let a wife take me from you?"

　　"Well, you wouldn't ask her to marry your mother as well as you,"Mrs. Morel smiled.

　　"She could do what she liked; she wouldn't have to interfere."

　　"She wouldn't--till she'd got you--and then you'd see."

　　"I never will see. I'll never marry while I've got you--I won't."

　　"But I shouldn't like to leave you with nobody, my boy,"she cried.

　　"You're not going to leave me. What are you? Fifty-three! I'llgive you till seventy-five. There you are, I'm fat and forty-four.Then I'll marry a staid body. See!"

　　His mother sat and laughed.

　　"Go to bed," she said--"go to bed."

　　"And we'll have a pretty house, you and me, and a servant,and it'll be just all right. I s'll perhaps be rich with my painting."

　　"Will you go to bed!"

　　"And then you s'll have a pony-carriage. See yourself--a littleQueen Victoria trotting round."

　　"I tell you to go to bed," she laughed.

　　He kissed her and went. His plans for the future were alwaysthe same.

　　Mrs. Morel sat brooding--about her daughter, about Paul,about Arthur. She fretted at losing Annie. The family was veryclosely bound. And she felt she MUST live now, to be with herchildren. Life was so rich for her. Paul wanted her, and so did Arthur. Arthur never knew how deeply he loved her. He was a creatureof the moment. Never yet had he been forced to realise himself. The army had disciplined his body, but not his soul. He was inperfect health and very handsome. His dark, vigorous hair sat closeto his smallish head. There was something childish about his nose,something almost girlish about his dark blue eyes. But he had the funred mouth of a man under his brown moustache, and his jaw was strong. It was his father's mouth; it was the nose and eyes of her own mother'speople--good-looking, weak-principled folk. Mrs. Morel was anxiousabout him. Once he had really run the rig he was safe. But how farwould he go?

　　The army had not really done him any good. He resentedbitterly the authority of the officers. He hated having to obeyas if he were an animal. But he had too much sense to kick. So he turned his attention to getting the best out of it. He could sing, he was a boon-companion. Often he got into scrapes,but they were the manly scrapes that are easily condoned. So he madea good time out of it, whilst his self-respect was in suppression. He trusted to his good looks and handsome figure, his refinement,his decent education to get him most of what he wanted, and hewas not disappointed. Yet he was restless. Something seemedto gnaw him inside. He was never still, he was never alone. With his mother he was rather humble. Paul he admired and lovedand despised slightly. And Paul admired and loved and despisedhim slightly.

　　Mrs. Morel had had a few pounds left to her by her father,and she decided to buy her son out of the army. He was wild with joy. Now he was like a lad taking a holiday.

　　He had always been fond of Beatrice Wyld, and during his furloughhe picked up with her again. She was stronger and better in health. The two often went long walks together, Arthur taking her armin soldier's fashion, rather stiffly. And she came to play thepiano whilst he sang. Then Arthur would unhook his tunic collar. He grew flushed, his eyes were bright, he sang in a manly tenor. Afterwards they sat together on the sofa. He seemed to flaunthis body: she was aware of him so--the strong chest, the sides,the thighs in their close-fitting trousers.

　　He liked to lapse into the dialect when he talked to her. She would sometimes smoke with him. Occasionally shewould only take a few whiffs at his cigarette.

　　"Nay," he said to her one evening, when she reachedfor his cigarette. "Nay, tha doesna. I'll gi'e thee a smokekiss if ter's a mind."

　　"I wanted a whiff, no kiss at all," she answered.

　　"Well, an' tha s'lt ha'e a whiff," he said, "along wi' t' kiss."

　　"I want a draw at thy fag," she cried, snatching for thecigarette between his lips.

　　He was sitting with his shoulder touching her. She was smalland quick as lightning. He just escaped.

　　"I'll gi'e thee a smoke kiss," he said.

　　"Tha'rt a knivey nuisance, Arty Morel," she said, sitting back.

　　"Ha'e a smoke kiss?"

　　The soldier leaned forward to her, smiling. His face wasnear hers.

　　"Shonna!" she replied, turning away her head.

　　He took a draw at his cigarette, and pursed up his mouth,and put his lips close to her. His dark-brown cropped moustachestood out like a brush. She looked at the puckered crimson lips,then suddenly snatched the cigarette from his fingers and darted away. He, leaping after her, seized the comb from her back hair. She turned,threw the cigarette at him. He picked it up, put it in his mouth,and sat down.

　　"Nuisance!" she cried. "Give me my comb!"

　　She was afraid that her hair, specially done for him,would come down. She stood with her hands to her head. He hidthe comb between his knees.

　　"I've non got it," he said.

　　The cigarette trembled between his lips with laughter as he spoke.

　　"Liar!" she said.

　　"'S true as I'm here!" he laughed, showing his hands.

　　"You brazen imp!" she exclaimed, rushing and scuffling forthe comb, which he had under his knees. As she wrestled with him,pulling at his smooth, tight-covered knees, he laughed till helay back on the sofa shaking with laughter. The cigarette fellfrom his mouth almost singeing his throat. Under his delicate tanthe blood flushed up, and he laughed till his blue eyes were blinded,his throat swollen almost to choking. Then he sat up. Beatrice wasputting in her comb.

　　"Tha tickled me, Beat," he said thickly.

　　Like a flash her small white hand went out and smacked his face. He started up, glaring at her. They stared at each other. Slowly the flush mounted her cheek, she dropped her eyes, then her head. He sat down sulkily. She went into the scullery to adjust her hair. In private there she shed a few tears, she did not know what for.

　　When she returned she was pursed up close. But it was only a filmover her fire. He, with ruffled hair, was sulking upon the sofa. She sat down opposite, in the armchair, and neither spoke. The clock ticked in the silence like blows.

　　"You are a little cat, Beat," he said at length, half apologetically.

　　"Well, you shouldn't be brazen," she replied.

　　There was again a long silence. He whistled to himselflike a man much agitated but defiant. Suddenly she went acrossto him and kissed him.

　　"Did it, pore fing!" she mocked.

　　He lifted his face, smiling curiously.

　　"Kiss?" he invited her.

　　"Daren't I?" she asked.

　　"Go on!" he challenged, his mouth lifted to her.

　　Deliberately, and with a peculiar quivering smile thatseemed to overspread her whole body, she put her mouth on his. Immediately his arms folded round her. As soon as the long kiss wasfinished she drew back her head from him, put her delicate fingerson his neck, through the open collar. Then she closed her eyes,giving herself up again in a kiss.

　　She acted of her own free will. What she would do she did,and made nobody responsible.

　　Paul felt life changing around him. The conditions of youthwere gone. Now it was a home of grown-up people. Annie wasa married woman, Arthur was following his own pleasure in a wayunknown to his folk. For so long they had all lived at home,and gone out to pass their time. But now, for Annie and Arthur,life lay outside their mother's house. They came home for holidayand for rest. So there was that strange, half-empty feeling aboutthe house, as if the birds had flown. Paul became more and moreunsettled. Annie and Arthur had gone. He was restless to follow.Yet home was for him beside his mother. And still there wassomething else, something outside, something he wanted.

　　He grew more and more restless. Miriam did not satisfy him. His old mad desire to be with her grew weaker. Sometimes he metClara in Nottingham, sometimes he went to meetings with her,sometimes he saw her at Willey Farm. But on these last occasionsthe situation became strained. There was a triangle of antagonismbetween Paul and Clara and Miriam. With Clara he took on a smart,worldly, mocking tone very antagonistic to Miriam. It did notmatter what went before. She might be intimate and sad with him. Then as soon as Clara appeared, it all vanished, and he played tothe newcomer.

　　Miriam had one beautiful evening with him in the hay. He had been on the horse-rake, and having finished, came to helpher to put the hay in cocks. Then he talked to her of his hopesand despairs, and his whole soul seemed to lie bare before her. She felt as if she watched the very quivering stuff of life in him. The moon came out: they walked home together: he seemed to havecome to her because he needed her so badly, and she listened to him,gave him all her love and her faith. It seemed to her he broughther the best of himself to keep, and that she would guard it allher life. Nay, the sky did not cherish the stars more surely andeternally than she would guard the good in the soul of Paul Morel. She went on home alone, feeling exalted, glad in her faith.

　　And then, the next day, Clara came. They were to have teain the hayfield. Miriam watched the evening drawing to goldand 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 Geoffreyand Maurice and Clara and Paul jumped. Paul won, because hewas light. Clara's blood was roused. She could run like an Amazon. Paul loved the determined way she rushed at the hay-cock and leaped,landed on the other side, her breasts shaken, her thick haircome 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 theselads 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 thatthe 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 hisrunning after his satisfaction like any Arthur, or like his father. It made Miriam bitter to think that he should throw away his soulfor this flippant traffic of triviality with Clara. She walkedin bitterness and silence, while the other two rallied each other,and Paul sported.

　　And afterwards, he would not own it, but he was ratherashamed of himself, and prostrated himself before Miriam. Then again he rebelled.

　　"It's not religious to be religious," he said. "I reckona crow is religious when it sails across the sky. But it onlydoes 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 hisown side, because he wanted his own way and his own pleasure. There was a long battle between him and her. He was utterlyunfaithful to her even in her own presence; then he was ashamed,then repentant; then he hated her, and went off again. Those werethe ever-recurring conditions.

　　She fretted him to the bottom of his soul. There sheremained--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 consciencethat was too much for him. He could not leave her, because in oneway she did hold the best of him. He could not stay with herbecause 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 couldonly 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 youa spirit love, I have given it you this long, long time; but notembodied passion. See, you are a nun. I have given you what Iwould give a holy nun--as a mystic monk to a mystic nun. Surely youesteem it best. Yet you regret--no, have regretted--the other. In all our relations no body enters. I do not talk to you throughthe senses--rather through the spirit. That is why we cannot lovein the common sense. Ours is not an everyday affection. As yet weare 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--notas two souls. So I feel it.

　　"Ought I to send this letter?--I doubt it. But there--itis 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 heartagain and again. Nothing he ever had said had gone into herso deeply, fixedly, like a mortal wound.

　　She answered him two days after the party.

　　"'Our intimacy would have been all-beautiful but for onelittle mistake,'" she quoted. "Was the mistake mine?"

　　Almost immediately he replied to her from Nottingham,sending her at the same time a little "Omar Khayyam."

　　"I am glad you answered; you are so calm and natural you putme 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 nowgrew particularly strong. Often, as he talked to Clara Dawes,came that thickening and quickening of his blood, that peculiarconcentration in the breast, as if something were alive there,a new self or a new centre of consciousness, warning him thatsooner or later he would have to ask one woman or another. But hebelonged to Miriam. Of that she was so fixedly sure that he allowedher right.

© D. H. LAWRENCE

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