Sons and Lovers (Barnes & Noble Classics - D. H. Lawrence [102]
Paul kept accounts. He and his mother ran the show. The total expenses—lodging, food, everything—was sixteen shillings a week per person. He and Leonard went bathing in the morning. Morel was wandering abroad quite early.
“You, Paul,” his mother called from the bedroom, “eat a piece of bread-and-butter.”
“All right,” he answered.
And when he got back he saw his mother presiding in state at the breakfast-table. The woman of the house was young. Her husband was blind, and she did laundry work. So Mrs. Morel always washed the pots in the kitchen and made the beds.
“But you said you’d have a real holiday,” said Paul, “and now you work.”
“Work!” she exclaimed. “What are you talking about!”
He loved to go with her across the fields to the village and the sea. She was afraid of the plank bridge, and he abused her for being a baby. On the whole he stuck to her as if he were her man.
Miriam did not get much of him, except, perhaps, when all the others went to the “Coons.”25 Coons were insufferably stupid to Miriam, so he thought they were to himself also, and he preached priggishly to Annie about the fatuity of listening to them. Yet he, too, knew all their songs, and sang them along the roads roisterously. And if he found himself listening, the stupidity pleased him very much. Yet to Annie he said:
“Such rot! there isn’t a grain of intelligence in it. Nobody with more gumption than a grasshopper could go and sit and listen.” And to Miriam he said, with much scorn of Annie and the others: “I suppose they’re at the ‘Coons.’ ”
It was queer to see Miriam singing coon songs. She had a straight chin that went in a perpendicular line from the lower lip to the turn. She always reminded Paul of some sad Botticelli angel when she sang,26 even when it was:
“Come down lover’s lane
For a walk with me, talk with me.” df
Only when he sketched, or at evening when the others were at the “Coons,” she had him to herself He talked to her endlessly about his love of horizontals: how they, the great levels of sky and land in Lincolnshire, meant to him the eternality of the will, just as the bowed Norman arches27 of the church, repeating themselves, meant the dogged leaping forward of the persistent human soul, on and on, nobody knows where; in contradiction to the perpendicular lines and to the Gothic arch, which, he said, leapt up at heaven and touched the ecstasy and lost itself in the divine.28 Himself, he said, was Norman, Miriam was Gothic. She bowed in consent even to that.
One evening he and she went up the great sweeping shore of sand towards Theddlethorpe. The long breakers plunged and ran in a hiss of foam along the coast. It was a warm evening. There was not a figure but themselves on the far reaches of sand, no noise but the sound of the sea. Paul loved to see it clanging at the land. He loved to feel himself between the noise of it and the silence of the sandy shore. Miriam was with him. Everything grew very intense. It was quite dark when they turned again. The way home was through a gap in the sandhills, and then along a raised grass road between two dykes. The country was black and still. From behind the sandhills came the whisper of the sea. Paul and Miriam walked in silence. Suddenly he started. The whole of his blood seemed to burst into flame, and he could scarcely breathe. An enormous orange moon was staring at them from the rim of the sandhills. He stood still, looking at it.
“Ah!” cried Miriam, when she saw it.
He remained perfectly still, staring at the immense and ruddy moon, the only thing in the far-reaching darkness of the level. His heart beat heavily, the muscles of his arms contracted.
“What is it?” murmured Miriam, waiting for him.
He turned and looked at her. She stood beside him, for ever in shadow. Her face, covered