D. H. Lawrence - Premium Collection. D. H. LawrenceЧитать онлайн книгу.
“And what do you think of it all?” she asked him.
“I think he's a fool,” he said.
But he was very uncomfortable, nevertheless.
“Have you ever considered where it will end?” his mother said.
“No,” he answered; “things work out of themselves.”
“They do, in a way one doesn't like, as a rule,” said his mother.
“And then one has to put up with them,” he said.
“You'll find you're not as good at 'putting up' as you imagine,” she said.
He went on working rapidly at his design.
“Do you ever ask HER opinion?” she said at length.
“What of?”
“Of you, and the whole thing.”
“I don't care what her opinion of me is. She's fearfully in love with me, but it's not very deep.”
“But quite as deep as your feeling for her.”
He looked up at his mother curiously.
“Yes,” he said. “You know, mother, I think there must be something the matter with me, that I CAN'T love. When she's there, as a rule, I DO love her. Sometimes, when I see her just as THE WOMAN, I love her, mother; but then, when she talks and criticises, I often don't listen to her.”
“Yet she's as much sense as Miriam.”
“Perhaps; and I love her better than Miriam. But WHY don't they hold me?”
The last question was almost a lamentation. His mother turned away her face, sat looking across the room, very quiet, grave, with something of renunciation.
“But you wouldn't want to marry Clara?” she said.
“No; at first perhaps I would. But why—why don't I want to marry her or anybody? I feel sometimes as if I wronged my women, mother.”
“How wronged them, my son?”
“I don't know.”
He went on painting rather despairingly; he had touched the quick of the trouble.
“And as for wanting to marry,” said his mother, “there's plenty of time yet.”
“But no, mother. I even love Clara, and I did Miriam; but to GIVE myself to them in marriage I couldn't. I couldn't belong to them. They seem to want ME, and I can't ever give it them.”
“You haven't met the right woman.”
“And I never shall meet the right woman while you live,” he said.
She was very quiet. Now she began to feel again tired, as if she were done.
“We'll see, my son,” she answered.
The feeling that things were going in a circle made him mad.
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 the time 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 second she expected him to come through the door, and when he came it was 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 not misunderstand or fail to remember, but it was a cruelty to her. She wanted to touch his chest. She knew exactly how his breast was shapen under the waistcoat, and she wanted to touch it. It maddened her to hear his mechanical voice giving orders about the work. She wanted to break through the sham of it, smash the trivial coating of 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 he was 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 often a misery to her, but the evenings and the nights were usually a bliss to them both. Then they were silent. For hours they sat together, or walked together in the dark, and talked only a 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 than from his speech. It was a sad dissatisfied tune—a tune that made her 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 leave Nottingham 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 sort of sale for my pictures first,” he said. “I am gradually making my 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's my mother.”
“You couldn't leave her?”
“Not for long.”
She looked at the stars in the black water. They lay very white 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 upon the 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 what it 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 she folded him over, consoled him, loved him. She would let the moment stand 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 her breast 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 him and caressing him, and he was something unknown to her—something almost 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 he loved and almost worshipped, there in the dark. But it was not Clara, and she submitted to him. The naked hunger and inevitability of his loving her, something strong and blind and ruthless in its primitiveness, made the hour almost terrible to her. She knew how stark and alone he was, and she felt it was great that he came to her; and she took him simply because his need was bigger either than her or him, and her soul was still within her. She did this