The Complete Novels. D. H. LawrenceЧитать онлайн книгу.
the blonde hair grew low and fluffy. There was a fine down, almost invisible, upon the skin of her face and arms, and when once he had perceived it, he saw it always.
When he was at his work, painting in the afternoon, she would come and stand near to him, perfectly motionless. Then he felt her, though she neither spoke nor touched him. Although she stood a yard away he felt as if he were in contact with her. Then he could paint no more. He flung down the brushes, and turned to talk to her.
Sometimes she praised his work; sometimes she was critical and cold.
“You are affected in that piece,” she would say; and, as there was an element of truth in her condemnation, his blood boiled with anger.
Again: “What of this?” he would ask enthusiastically.
“H'm!” She made a small doubtful sound. “It doesn't interest me much.”
“Because you don't understand it,” he retorted.
“Then why ask me about it?”
“Because I thought you would understand.”
She would shrug her shoulders in scorn of his work. She maddened him. He was furious. Then he abused her, and went into passionate exposition of his stuff. This amused and stimulated her. But she never owned that she had been wrong.
During the ten years that she had belonged to the women's movement she had acquired a fair amount of education, and, having had some of Miriam's passion to be instructed, had taught herself French, and could read in that language with a struggle. She considered herself as a woman apart, and particularly apart, from her class. The girls in the Spiral department were all of good homes. It was a small, special industry, and had a certain distinction. There was an air of refinement in both rooms. But Clara was aloof also from her fellow-workers.
None of these things, however, did she reveal to Paul. She was not the one to give herself away. There was a sense of mystery about her. She was so reserved, he felt she had much to reserve. Her history was open on the surface, but its inner meaning was hidden from everybody. It was exciting. And then sometimes he caught her looking at him from under her brows with an almost furtive, sullen scrutiny, which made him move quickly. Often she met his eyes. But then her own were, as it were, covered over, revealing nothing. She gave him a little, lenient smile. She was to him extraordinarily provocative, because of the knowledge she seemed to possess, and gathered fruit of experience he could not attain.
One day he picked up a copy of Lettres de mon Moulin from her work-bench.
“You read French, do you?” he cried.
Clara glanced round negligently. She was making an elastic stocking of heliotrope silk, turning the Spiral machine with slow, balanced regularity, occasionally bending down to see her work or to adjust the needles; then her magnificent neck, with its down and fine pencils of hair, shone white against the lavender, lustrous silk. She turned a few more rounds, and stopped.
“What did you say?” she asked, smiling sweetly.
Paul's eyes glittered at her insolent indifference to him.
“I did not know you read French,” he said, very polite.
“Did you not?” she replied, with a faint, sarcastic smile.
“Rotten swank!” he said, but scarcely loud enough to be heard.
He shut his mouth angrily as he watched her. She seemed to scorn the work she mechanically produced; yet the hose she made were as nearly perfect as possible.
“You don't like Spiral work,” he said.
“Oh, well, all work is work,” she answered, as if she knew all about it.
He marvelled at her coldness. He had to do everything hotly. She must be something special.
“What would you prefer to do?” he asked.
She laughed at him indulgently, as she said:
“There is so little likelihood of my ever being given a choice, that I haven't wasted time considering.”
“Pah!” he said, contemptuous on his side now. “You only say that because you're too proud to own up what you want and can't get.”
“You know me very well,” she replied coldly.
“I know you think you're terrific great shakes, and that you live under the eternal insult of working in a factory.”
He was very angry and very rude. She merely turned away from him in disdain. He walked whistling down the room, flirted and laughed with Hilda.
Later on he said to himself:
“What was I so impudent to Clara for?” He was rather annoyed with himself, at the same time glad. “Serve her right; she stinks with silent pride,” he said to himself angrily.
In the afternoon he came down. There was a certain weight on his heart which he wanted to remove. He thought to do it by offering her chocolates.
“Have one?” he said. “I bought a handful to sweeten me up.”
To his great relief, she accepted. He sat on the work-bench beside her machine, twisting a piece of silk round his finger. She loved him for his quick, unexpected movements, like a young animal. His feet swung as he pondered. The sweets lay strewn on the bench. She bent over her machine, grinding rhythmically, then stooping to see the stocking that hung beneath, pulled down by the weight. He watched the handsome crouching of her back, and the apron-strings curling on the floor.
“There is always about you,” he said, “a sort of waiting. Whatever I see you doing, you're not really there: you are waiting—like Penelope when she did her weaving.” He could not help a spurt of wickedness. “I'll call you Penelope,” he said.
“Would it make any difference?” she said, carefully removing one of her needles.
“That doesn't matter, so long as it pleases me. Here, I say, you seem to forget I'm your boss. It just occurs to me.”
“And what does that mean?” she asked coolly.
“It means I've got a right to boss you.”
“Is there anything you want to complain about?”
“Oh, I say, you needn't be nasty,” he said angrily.
“I don't know what you want,” she said, continuing her task.
“I want you to treat me nicely and respectfully.”
“Call you 'sir', perhaps?” she asked quietly.
“Yes, call me 'sir'. I should love it.”
“Then I wish you would go upstairs, sir.”
His mouth closed, and a frown came on his face. He jumped suddenly down.
“You're too blessed superior for anything,” he said.
And he went away to the other girls. He felt he was being angrier than he had any need to be. In fact, he doubted slightly that he was showing off. But if he were, then he would. Clara heard him laughing, in a way she hated, with the girls down the next room.
When at evening he went through the department after the girls had gone, he saw his chocolates lying untouched in front of Clara's machine. He left them. In the morning they were still there, and Clara was at work. Later on Minnie, a little brunette they called Pussy, called to him:
“Hey, haven't you got a chocolate for anybody?”
“Sorry, Pussy,” he replied. “I meant to have offered them; then I went and forgot 'em.”
“I think you did,” she answered.
“I'll bring you some this afternoon. You don't want them after they've been lying about, do you?”
“Oh, I'm not particular,” smiled Pussy.
“Oh no,”