CHAPTER XIII

　　Clara was, indeed, passionately in love with him, and he with her,as far as passion went. In the daytime he forgot her a good deal. She was working in the same building, but he was not aware of it. He was busy, and her existence was of no matter to him. But all thetime she was in her Spiral room she had a sense that he was upstairs,a physical sense of his person in the same building. Every secondshe expected him to come through the door, and when he came itwas a shock to her. But he was often short and offhand with her. He gave her his directions in an official manner, keeping her at bay. With what wits she had left she listened to him. She dared notmisunderstand or fail to remember, but it was a cruelty to her. She wanted to touch his chest. She knew exactly how his breast wasshapen under the waistcoat, and she wanted to touch it. It maddenedher to hear his mechanical voice giving orders about the work. She wanted to break through the sham of it, smash the trivial coatingof business which covered him with hardness, get at the man again;but she was afraid, and before she could feel one touch of his warmth hewas gone, and she ached again.

　　He knew that she was dreary every evening she did not see him,so he gave her a good deal of his time. The days were oftena misery to her, but the evenings and the nights were usuallya bliss to them both. Then they were silent. For hours theysat together, or walked together in the dark, and talked onlya few, almost meaningless words. But he had her hand in his,and her bosom left its warmth in his chest, making him feel whole.

　　One evening they were walking down by the canal,and something was troubling him. She knew she had not got him. All the time he whistled softly and persistently to himself. She listened, feeling she could learn more from his whistling thanfrom his speech. It was a sad dissatisfied tune--a tune that madeher feel he would not stay with her. She walked on in silence. When they came to the swing bridge he sat down on the great pole,looking at the stars in the water. He was a long way from her. She had been thinking.

　　"Will you always stay at Jordan's?" she asked.

　　"No," he answered without reflecting. "No; I s'll leaveNottingham and go abroad--soon."

　　"Go abroad! What for?"

　　"I dunno! I feel restless."

　　"But what shall you do?"

　　"I shall have to get some steady designing work, and some sortof sale for my pictures first," he said. "I am gradually makingmy way. I know I am."

　　"And when do you think you'll go?"

　　"I don't know. I shall hardly go for long, while there'smy mother."

　　"You couldn't leave her?"

　　"Not for long."

　　She looked at the stars in the black water. They lay verywhite and staring. It was an agony to know he would leave her,but it was almost an agony to have him near her.

　　"And if you made a nice lot of money, what would you do?"she asked.

　　"Go somewhere in a pretty house near London with my mother."

　　"I see."

　　There was a long pause.

　　"I could still come and see you," he said. "I don't know. Don't ask me what I should do; I don't know."

　　There was a silence. The stars shuddered and broke uponthe water. There came a breath of wind. He went suddenly to her,and put his hand on her shoulder.

　　"Don't ask me anything about the future," he said miserably. "I don't know anything. Be with me now, will you, no matter whatit is?"

　　And she took him in her arms. After all, she was a married woman,and she had no right even to what he gave her. He needed her badly. She had him in her arms, and he was miserable. With her warmth shefolded him over, consoled him, loved him. She would let the momentstand for itself.

　　After a moment he lifted his head as if he wanted to speak.

　　"Clara," he said, struggling.

　　She caught him passionately to her, pressed his head down on herbreast with her hand. She could not bear the suffering in his voice. She was afraid in her soul. He might have anything of her--anything;but she did not want to KNOW. She felt she could not bear it. She wanted him to be soothed upon her--soothed. She stood clasping himand caressing him, and he was something unknown to her--somethingalmost uncanny. She wanted to soothe him into forgetfulness.

　　And soon the struggle went down in his soul, and he forgot. But then Clara was not there for him, only a woman, warm, something heloved and almost worshipped, there in the dark. But it was not Clara,and she submitted to him. The naked hunger and inevitabilityof his loving her, something strong and blind and ruthlessin its primitiveness, made the hour almost terrible to her. She knew how stark and alone he was, and she felt it was greatthat he came to her; and she took him simply because his need wasbigger either than her or him, and her soul was still within her. She did this for him in his need, even if he left her, for sheloved him.

　　All the while the peewits were screaming in the field. When he came to, he wondered what was near his eyes, curving andstrong with life in the dark, and what voice it was speaking. Then he realised it was the grass, and the peewit was calling. The warmth was Clara's breathing heaving. He lifted his head,and looked into her eyes. They were dark and shining and strange,life wild at the source staring into his life, stranger to him,yet meeting him; and he put his face down on her throat, afraid. What was she? A strong, strange, wild life, that breathed with hisin the darkness through this hour. It was all so much bigger thanthemselves that he was hushed. They had met, and included in theirmeeting the thrust of the manifold grass stems, the cry of the peewit,the wheel of the stars.

　　When they stood up they saw other lovers stealing down theopposite hedge. It seemed natural they were there; the nightcontained them.

　　And after such an evening they both were very still, having knownthe immensity of passion. They felt small, half-afraid, childishand wondering, like Adam and Eve when they lost their innocenceand realised the magnificence of the power which drovethem out of Paradise and across the great night and the great dayof humanity. It was for each of them an initiation and a satisfaction.To know their own nothingness, to know the tremendous living floodwhich carried them always, gave them rest within themselves. If so great a magnificent power could overwhelm them, identify themaltogether with itself, so that they knew they were only grains inthe tremendous heave that lifted every grass blade its little height,and every tree, and living thing, then why fret about themselves? They could let themselves be carried by life, and they felt a sortof peace each in the other. There was a verification which they hadhad together. Nothing could nullify it, nothing could take it away;it was almost their belief in life.

　　But Clara was not satisfied. Something great was there,she knew; something great enveloped her. But it did not keep her. In the morning it was not the same. They had KNOWN, but shecould not keep the moment. She wanted it again; she wantedsomething permanent. She had not realised fully. She thoughtit was he whom she wanted. He was not safe to her. This thathad been between them might never be again; he might leave her. She had not got him; she was not satisfied. She had been there,but she had not gripped the--the something--she knew not what--which shewas mad to have.

　　In the morning he had considerable peace, and was happyin himself. It seemed almost as if he had known the baptism offire in passion, and it left him at rest. But it was not Clara. It was something that happened because of her, but it was not her. They were scarcely any nearer each other. It was as if they had beenblind agents of a great force.

　　When she saw him that day at the factory her heart melted likea drop of fire. It was his body, his brows. The drop of fire grewmore intense in her breast; she must hold him. But he, very quiet,very subdued this morning, went on giving his instruction. She followedhim into the dark, ugly basement, and lifted her arms to him. He kissed her, and the intensity of passion began to burn him again. Somebody was at the door. He ran upstairs; she returned to her room,moving as if in a trance.

　　After that the fire slowly went down. He felt more and more thathis experience had been impersonal, and not Clara. He loved her. There was a big tenderness, as after a strong emotion theyhad known together; but it was not she who could keep his soul steady. He had wanted her to be something she could not be.

　　And she was mad with desire of him. She could not seehim without touching him. In the factory, as he talked to herabout Spiral hose, she ran her hand secretly along his side. She followed him out into the basement for a quick kiss; her eyes,always mute and yearning, full of unrestrained passion, she keptfixed on his. He was afraid of her, lest she should too flagrantlygive herself away before the other girls. She invariably waitedfor him at dinnertime for him to embrace her before she went. He felt as if she were helpless, almost a burden to him, and itirritated him.

　　"But what do you always want to be kissing and embracing for?"he said. "Surely there's a time for everything."

　　She looked up at him, and the hate came into her eyes.

　　"DO I always want to be kissing you?" she said.

　　"Always, even if I come to ask you about the work. I don'twant anything to do with love when I'm at work. Work's work---"

　　"And what is love?" she asked. "Has it to have special hours?"

　　"Yes; out of work hours."

　　"And you'll regulate it according to Mr. Jordan's closing time?"

　　"Yes; and according to the freedom from business of any sort."

　　"It is only to exist in spare time?"

　　"That's all, and not always then--not the kissing sort of love."

　　"And that's all you think of it?"

　　"It's quite enough."

　　"I'm glad you think so."

　　And she was cold to him for some time--she hated him; and whileshe was cold and contemptuous, he was uneasy till she had forgivenhim again. But when they started afresh they were not any nearer. He kept her because he never satisfied her.

　　In the spring they went together to the seaside. They had roomsat a little cottage near Theddlethorpe, and lived as man and wife. Mrs. Radford sometimes went with them.

　　It was known in Nottingham that Paul Morel and Mrs. Daweswere going together, but as nothing was very obvious, and Claraalways a solitary person, and he seemed so simple and innocent,it did not make much difference.

　　He loved the Lincolnshire coast, and she loved the sea. In the early morning they often went out together to bathe. The grey of the dawn, the far, desolate reaches of the fenland smitten with winter, the sea-meadows rank with herbage, were stark enough to rejoice his soul. As they stepped on to the highroad from their plank bridge, and looked round at the endless monotony of levels, the land a little darker than the sky, the sea sounding small beyond the sandhills, his heart filled strong with the sweeping relentlessness of life. She loved him then. He was solitary and strong, and his eyes had a beautiful light.

　　They shuddered with cold; then he raced her down the road tothe green turf bridge. She could run well. Her colour soon came,her throat was bare, her eyes shone. He loved her for being soluxuriously heavy, and yet so quick. Himself was light; she wentwith a beautiful rush. They grew warm, and walked hand in hand.

　　A flush came into the sky, the wan moon, half-way downthe west, sank into insignificance. On the shadowy land thingsbegan to take life, plants with great leaves became distinct. They came through a pass in the big, cold sandhills on to the beach. The long waste of foreshore lay moaning under the dawn and the sea;the ocean was a flat dark strip with a white edge. Over the gloomysea the sky grew red. Quickly the fire spread among the cloudsand scattered them. Crimson burned to orange, orange to dull gold,and in a golden glitter the sun came up, dribbling fierily over thewaves in little splashes, as if someone had gone along and the lighthad spilled from her pail as she walked.

　　The breakers ran down the shore in long, hoarse strokes. Tiny seagulls, like specks of spray, wheeled above the line of surf. Their crying seemed larger than they. Far away the coast reached out,and melted into the morning, the tussocky sandhills seemed to sinkto a level with the beach. Mablethorpe was tiny on their right. They had alone the space of all this level shore, the sea, and theupcoming sun, the faint noise of the waters, the sharp crying ofthe gulls.

　　They had a warm hollow in the sandhills where the wind didnot come. He stood looking out to sea.

　　"It's very fine," he said.

　　"Now don't get sentimental," she said.

　　It irritated her to see him standing gazing at the sea, like asolitary and poetic person. He laughed. She quickly undressed.

　　"There are some fine waves this morning," she said triumphantly.

　　She was a better swimmer than he; he stood idly watching her.

　　"Aren't you coming?" she said.

　　"In a minute," he answered.

　　She was white and velvet skinned, with heavy shoulders. A little wind, coming from the sea, blew across her body and ruffledher hair.

　　The morning was of a lovely limpid gold colour. Veils of shadowseemed to be drifting away on the north and the south. Clara stoodshrinking slightly from the touch of the wind, twisting her hair. The sea-grass rose behind the white stripped woman. She glancedat the sea, then looked at him. He was watching her with dark eyeswhich she loved and could not understand. She hugged her breastsbetween her arms, cringing, laughing:

　　"Oo, it will be so cold!" she said.

　　He bent forward and kissed her, held her suddenly close,and kissed her again. She stood waiting. He looked into her eyes,then away at the pale sands.

　　"Go, then!" he said quietly.

　　She flung her arms round his neck, drew him against her,kissed him passionately, and went, saying:

　　"But you'll come in?"

　　"In a minute."

　　She went plodding heavily over the sand that was soft as velvet. He, on the sandhills, watched the great pale coast envelop her. She grew smaller, lost proportion, seemed only like a large whitebird toiling forward.

　　"Not much more than a big white pebble on the beach, not muchmore than a clot of foam being blown and rolled over the sand,"he said to himself.

　　She seemed to move very slowly across the vast sounding shore. As he watched, he lost her. She was dazzled out of sight bythe sunshine. Again he saw her, the merest white speck movingagainst the white, muttering sea-edge.

　　"Look how little she is!" he said to himself. "She's lost likea grain of sand in the beach--just a concentrated speck blown along,a tiny white foam-bubble, almost nothing among the morning. Why does she absorb me?"

　　The morning was altogether uninterrupted: she was gone inthe water. Far and wide the beach, the sandhills with their blue marrain,the shining water, glowed together in immense, unbroken solitude.

　　"What is she, after all?" he said to himself. "Here's theseacoast morning, big and permanent and beautiful; there is she,fretting, always unsatisfied, and temporary as a bubble of foam. What does she mean to me, after all? She represents something,like a bubble of foam represents the sea. But what is she? It's not her I care for."

　　Then, startled by his own unconscious thoughts, that seemedto speak so distinctly that all the morning could hear, he undressedand ran quickly down the sands. She was watching for him. Her armflashed up to him, she heaved on a wave, subsided, her shouldersin a pool of liquid silver. He jumped through the breakers,and in a moment her hand was on his shoulder.

　　He was a poor swimmer, and could not stay long in the water. She played round him in triumph, sporting with her superiority,which he begrudged her. The sunshine stood deep and fine on the water. They laughed in the sea for a minute or two, then raced each other backto the sandhills.

　　When they were drying themselves, panting heavily,he watched her laughing, breathless face, her bright shoulders,her breasts that swayed and made him frightened as she rubbed them,and he thought again:

　　"But she is magnificent, and even bigger than the morningand the sea. Is she---? Is she---"

　　She, seeing his dark eyes fixed on her, broke off from herdrying with a laugh.

　　"What are you looking at?" she said.

　　"You," he answered, laughing.

　　Her eyes met his, and in a moment he was kissingher white "goose-fleshed" shoulder, and thinking:

　　"What is she? What is she?"

　　She loved him in the morning. There was something detached,hard, and elemental about his kisses then, as if he were onlyconscious of his own will, not in the least of her and her wanting him.

　　Later in the day he went out sketching.

　　"You," he said to her, "go with your mother to Sutton. I am so dull."

　　She stood and looked at him. He knew she wanted to comewith him, but he preferred to be alone. She made him feel imprisonedwhen she was there, as if he could not get a free deep breath,as if there were something on top of him. She felt his desireto be free of her.

　　In the evening he came back to her. They walked down the shorein the darkness, then sat for a while in the shelter of the sandhills.

　　"It seems," she said, as they stared over the darkness of the sea,where no light was to be seen--"it seemed as if you only loved meat night--as if you didn't love me in the daytime."

　　He ran the cold sand through his fingers, feeling guiltyunder the accusation.

　　"The night is free to you," he replied. "In the daytime Iwant to be by myself."

　　"But why?" she said. "Why, even now, when we are on thisshort holiday?"

　　"I don't know. Love-making stifles me in the daytime."

　　"But it needn't be always love-making," she said.

　　"It always is," he answered, "when you and I are together."

　　She sat feeling very bitter.

　　"Do you ever want to marry me?" he asked curiously.

　　"Do you me?" she replied.

　　"Yes, yes; I should like us to have children," he answered slowly.

　　She sat with her head bent, fingering the sand.

　　"But you don't really want a divorce from Baxter, do you?"he said.

　　It was some minutes before she replied.

　　"No," she said, very deliberately; "I don't think I do."

　　"Why?"

　　"I don't know."

　　"Do you feel as if you belonged to him?"

　　"No; I don't think so."

　　"What, then?"

　　"I think he belongs to me," she replied.

　　He was silent for some minutes, listening to the wind blowingover the hoarse, dark sea.

　　"And you never really intended to belong to ME?" he said.

　　"Yes, I do belong to you," she answered.

　　"No," he said; "because you don't want to be divorced."

　　It was a knot they could not untie, so they left it, took whatthey could get, and what they could not attain they ignored.

　　"I consider you treated Baxter rottenly," he said another time.

　　He half-expected Clara to answer him, as his mother would: "You consider your own affairs, and don't know so much aboutother people's." But she took him seriously, almost to his own surprise.

　　"Why?" she said.

　　"I suppose you thought he was a lily of the valley, and soyou put him in an appropriate pot, and tended him according. You made up your mind he was a lily of the valley and it was nogood his being a cow-parsnip. You wouldn't have it."

　　"I certainly never imagined him a lily of the valley."

　　"You imagined him something he wasn't. That's just what a woman is. She thinks she knows what's good for a man, and she's going to seehe gets it; and no matter if he's starving, he may sit and whistlefor what he needs, while she's got him, and is giving him what'sgood for him."

　　"And what are you doing?" she asked.

　　"I'm thinking what tune I shall whistle," he laughed.

　　And instead of boxing his ears, she considered him in earnest.

　　"You think I want to give you what's good for you?" she asked.

　　"I hope so; but love should give a sense of freedom,not of prison. Miriam made me feel tied up like a donkey to a stake. I must feed on her patch, and nowhere else. It's sickening!"

　　"And would YOU let a WOMAN do as she likes?"

　　"Yes; I'll see that she likes to love me. If she doesn't--well,I don't hold her."

　　"If you were as wonderful as you say---," replied Clara.

　　"I should be the marvel I am," he laughed.

　　There was a silence in which they hated each other,though they laughed.

　　"Love's a dog in a manger," he said.

　　"And which of us is the dog?" she asked.

　　"Oh well, you, of course."

　　So there went on a battle between them. She knew she never fullyhad him. Some part, big and vital in him, she had no hold over;nor did she ever try to get it, or even to realise what it was. And he knew in some way that she held herself still as Mrs. Dawes. She did not love Dawes, never had loved him; but she believed heloved her, at least depended on her. She felt a certain suretyabout him that she never felt with Paul Morel. Her passionfor the young man had filled her soul, given her a certainsatisfaction, eased her of her self-mistrust, her doubt. Whatever else she was, she was inwardly assured. It was almostas if she had gained HERSELF, and stood now distinct and complete. She had received her confirmation; but she never believed that herlife belonged to Paul Morel, nor his to her. They would separatein the end, and the rest of her life would be an ache after him. But at any rate, she knew now, she was sure of herself. And thesame could almost be said of him. Together they had receivedthe baptism of life, each through the other; but now their missionswere separate. Where he wanted to go she could not come with him. They would have to part sooner or later. Even if they married,and were faithful to each other, still he would have to leave her,go on alone, and she would only have to attend to him when hecame home. But it was not possible. Each wanted a mate to go sideby side with.

　　Clara had gone to live with her mother upon Mapperley Plains. One evening, as Paul and she were walking along Woodborough Road,they met Dawes. Morel knew something about the bearing of theman approaching, but he was absorbed in his thinking at the moment,so that only his artist's eye watched the form of the stranger. Then he suddenly turned to Clara with a laugh, and put his hand onher shoulder, saying, laughing:

　　"But we walk side by side, and yet I'm in London arguingwith an imaginary Orpen; and where are you?"

　　At that instant Dawes passed, almost touching Morel. The young man glanced, saw the dark brown eyes burning, full of hateand yet tired.

　　"Who was that?" he asked of Clara.

　　"It was Baxter," she replied.

　　Paul took his hand from her shoulder and glanced round;then he saw again distinctly the man's form as it approached him. Dawes still walked erect, with his fine shoulders flung back, and hisface lifted; but there was a furtive look in his eyes that gaveone the impression he was trying to get unnoticed past every personhe met, glancing suspiciously to see what they thought of him. And his hands seemed to be wanting to hide. He wore old clothes,the trousers were torn at the knee, and the handkerchief tied roundhis throat was dirty; but his cap was still defiantly over one eye. As she saw him, Clara felt guilty. There was a tiredness and despairon his face that made her hate him, because it hurt her.

　　"He looks shady," said Paul.

　　But the note of pity in his voice reproached her, and madeher feel hard.

　　"His true commonness comes out," she answered.

　　"Do you hate him?" he asked.

　　"You talk," she said, "about the cruelty of women; I wish youknew the cruelty of men in their brute force. They simply don'tknow that the woman exists."

　　"Don't I?" he said.

　　"No," she answered.

　　"Don't I know you exist?"

　　"About ME you know nothing," she said bitterly--"about ME!"

　　"No more than Baxter knew?" he asked.

　　"Perhaps not as much."

　　He felt puzzled, and helpless, and angry. There she walkedunknown to him, though they had been through such experience together.

　　"But you know ME pretty well," he said.

　　She did not answer.

　　"Did you know Baxter as well as you know me?" he asked.

　　"He wouldn't let me," she said.

　　"And I have let you know me?"

　　"It's what men WON'T let you do. They won't let you getreally near to them," she said.

　　"And haven't I let you?"

　　"Yes," she answered slowly; "but you've never come near to me. You can't come out of yourself, you can't. Baxter could do that betterthan you."

　　He walked on pondering. He was angry with her for preferingBaxter to him.

　　"You begin to value Baxter now you've not got him," he said.

　　"No; I can only see where he was different from you."

　　But he felt she had a grudge against him.

　　One evening, as they were coming home over the fields,she startled him by asking:

　　"Do you think it's worth it--the--the sex part?"

　　"The act of loving, itself?"

　　"Yes; is it worth anything to you?"

　　"But how can you separate it?" he said. "It's the culminationof everything. All our intimacy culminates then."

　　"Not for me," she said.

　　He was silent. A flash of hate for her came up. After all,she was dissatisfied with him, even there, where he thought theyfulfilled each other. But he believed her too implicitly.

　　"I feel," she continued slowly, "as if I hadn't got you,as if all of you weren't there, and as if it weren't ME you were taking---"

　　"Who, then?"

　　"Something just for yourself. It has been fine, so that Idaren't think of it. But is it ME you want, or is it IT?"

　　He again felt guilty. Did he leave Clara out of count,and take simply women? But he thought that was splitting a hair.

　　"When I had Baxter, actually had him, then I DID feel as if Ihad all of him," she said.

　　"And it was better?" he asked.

　　"Yes, yes; it was more whole. I don't say you haven't givenme more than he ever gave me."

　　"Or could give you."

　　"Yes, perhaps; but you've never given me yourself."

　　He knitted his brows angrily.

　　"If I start to make love to you," he said, "I just go likea leaf down the wind."

　　"And leave me out of count," she said.

　　"And then is it nothing to you?" he asked, almost rigidwith chagrin.

　　"It's something; and sometimes you have carried me away--rightaway--I know--and--I reverence you for it--but---"

　　"Don't 'but' me," he said, kissing her quickly, as a fire ranthrough him.

　　She submitted, and was silent.

© D. H. LAWRENCE

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