
 
CHAPTER IX

DEFEAT OF MIRIAM I
PAUL was dissatisfied with himself and with everything. The deepest of his love belonged to his mother. When he felt hehad hurt her, or wounded his love for her, he could not bear it. Now it was spring, and there was battle between him and Miriam. This year he had a good deal against her. She was vaguely awareof it. The old feeling that she was to be a sacrifice to this love,which she had had when she prayed, was mingled in all her emotions. She did not at the bottom believe she ever would have him. She didnot believe in herself primarily: doubted whether she could everbe what he would demand of her. Certainly she never saw herselfliving happily through a lifetime with him. She saw tragedy, sorrow,and sacrifice ahead. And in sacrifice shewas proud, in renunciation she was strong, for she did not trustherself to support everyday life. She was prepared for the bigthings and the deep things, like tragedy. It was the sufficiencyof the small day-life she could not trust.
The Easter holidays began happily. Paul was his own frank self. Yet she felt it would go wrong. On the Sunday afternoon she stoodat her bedroom window, looking across at the oak-trees of the wood,in whose branches a twilight was tangled, below the bright skyof the afternoon. Grey-green rosettes of honeysuckle leaveshung before the window, some already, she fancied, showing bud. It was spring, which she loved and dreaded.
Hearing the clack of the gate she stood in suspense. It was a bright grey day. Paul came into the yard with his bicycle,which glittered as he walked. Usually he rang his bell and laughedtowards the house. To-day he walked with shut lips and cold,cruel bearing, that had something of a slouch and a sneer in it. She knew him well by now, and could tell from that keen-looking,aloof young body of his what was happening inside him. There wasa cold correctness in the way he put his bicycle in its place,that made her heart sink.
She came downstairs nervously. She was wearing a new net blousethat she thought became her. It had a high collar with a tiny ruff,reminding her of Mary, Queen of Scots, and making her, she thought,look wonderfully a woman, and dignified. At twenty she wasfull-breasted and luxuriously formed. Her face was still like a softrich mask, unchangeable. But her eyes, once lifted, were wonderful. She was afraid of him. He would notice her new blouse.
He, being in a hard, ironical mood, was entertaining the familyto a description of a service given in the Primitive Methodist Chapel,conducted by one of the well-known preachers of the sect. He sat at the head of the table, his mobile face, with the eyesthat could be so beautiful, shining with tenderness or dancingwith laughter, now taking on one expression and then another,in imitation of various people he was mocking. His mockeryalways hurt her; it was too near the reality. He was too cleverand cruel. She felt that when his eyes were like this, hard withmocking hate, he would spare neither himself nor anybody else. But Mrs. Leivers was wiping her eyes with laughter, and Mr. Leivers,just awake from his Sunday nap, was rubbing his head in amusement. The three brothers sat with ruffled, sleepy appearance in theirshirt-sleeves, giving a guffaw from time to time. The wholefamily loved a "take-off" more than anything.
He took no notice of Miriam. Later, she saw him remarkher new blouse, saw that the artist approved, but it won fromhim not a spark of warmth. She was nervous, could hardly reachthe teacups from the shelves.
When the men went out to milk, she ventured to addresshim personally.
"You were late," she said.
"Was I?" he answered.
There was silence for a while.
"Was it rough riding?" she asked.
"I didn't notice it." She continued quickly to lay the table. When she had finished---
"Tea won't be for a few minutes. Will you come and lookat the daffodils?" she said.
He rose without answering. They went out into the back garden underthe budding damson-trees. The hills and the sky were clean and cold. Everything looked washed, rather hard. Miriam glanced at Paul. He was pale and impassive. It seemed cruel to her that his eyesand brows, which she loved, could look so hurting.
"Has the wind made you tired?" she asked. She detectedan underneath feeling of weariness about him.
"No, I think not," he answered.
"It must be rough on the road--the wood moans so."
"You can see by the clouds it's a south-west wind; that helpsme here."
"You see, I don't cycle, so I don't understand," she murmured.
"Is there need to cycle to know that!" he said.
She thought his sarcasms were unnecessary. They went forwardin silence. Round the wild, tussocky lawn at the back of the housewas a thorn hedge, under which daffodils were craning forward fromamong their sheaves of grey-green blades. The cheeks of the flowerswere greenish with cold. But still some had burst, and their goldruffled and glowed. Miriam went on her knees before one cluster,took a wild-looking daffodil between her hands, turned up itsface of gold to her, and bowed down, caressing it with her mouthand cheeks and brow. He stood aside, with his hands in his pockets,watching her. One after another she turned up to him the facesof the yellow, bursten flowers appealingly, fondling them lavishlyall the while.
"Aren't they magnificent?" she murmured.
"Magnificent! It's a bit thick--they're pretty!"
She bowed again to her flowers at his censure of her praise. He watched her crouching, sipping the flowers with fervid kisses.
"Why must you always be fondling things?" he said irritably.
"But I love to touch them," she replied, hurt.
"Can you never like things without clutching them as if youwanted to pull the heart out of them? Why don't you have a bitmore restraint, or reserve, or something?"
She looked up at him full of pain, then continued slowlyto stroke her lips against a ruffled flower. Their scent, as shesmelled it, was so much kinder than he; it almost made her cry.
"You wheedle the soul out of things," he said. "I wouldnever wheedle--at any rate, I'd go straight."
He scarcely knew what he was saying. These things came fromhim mechanically. She looked at him. His body seemed one weapon,firm and hard against her.
"You're always begging things to love you," he said, "as if youwere a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them---"
Rhythmically, Miriam was swaying and stroking the flower withher mouth, inhaling the scent which ever after made her shudderas it came to her nostrils.
"You don't want to love--your eternal and abnormal cravingis to be loved. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, absorb, as if you must fill yourself up with love,because you've got a shortage somewhere."
She was stunned by his cruelty, and did not hear. He had notthe faintest notion of what he was saying. It was as if his fretted,tortured soul, run hot by thwarted passion, jetted off these sayingslike sparks from electricity. She did not grasp anything he said. She only sat crouched beneath his cruelty and his hatred of her. She never realised in a flash. Over everything she broodedand brooded.
After tea he stayed with Edgar and the brothers, taking nonotice of Miriam. She, extremely unhappy on this looked-for holiday,waited for him. And at last he yielded and came to her. She was determined to track this mood of his to its origin. She counted it not much more than a mood.
"Shall we go through the wood a little way?" she asked him,knowing he never refused a direct request.
They went down to the warren. On the middle path theypassed a trap, a narrow horseshoe hedge of small fir-boughs,baited with the guts of a rabbit. Paul glanced at it frowning. She caught his eye.
"Isn't it dreadful?" she asked.
"I don't know! Is it worse than a weasel with its teeth in arabbit's throat? One weasel or many rabbits? One or the other must go!"
He was taking the bitterness of life badly. She was rathersorry for him.
"We will go back to the house," he said. "I don't wantto walk out."
They went past the lilac-tree, whose bronze leaf-buds werecoming unfastened. Just a fragment remained of the haystack,a monument squared and brown, like a pillar of stone. There wasa little bed of hay from the last cutting.
"Let us sit here a minute," said Miriam.
He sat down against his will, resting his back against the hardwall of hay. They faced the amphitheatre of round hills that glowedwith sunset, tiny white farms standing out, the meadows golden,the woods dark and yet luminous, tree-tops folded over tree-tops,distinct in the distance. The evening had cleared, and the eastwas tender with a magenta flush under which the land lay stilland rich.
"Isn't it beautiful?" she pleaded.
But he only scowled. He would rather have had it ugly just then.
At that moment a big bull-terrier came rushing up, open-mouthed,pranced his two paws on the youth's shoulders, licking his face. Paul drew back, laughing. Bill was a great relief to him. He pushed the dog aside, but it came leaping back.
"Get out," said the lad, "or I'll dot thee one."
But the dog was not to be pushed away. So Paul had a littlebattle with the creature, pitching poor Bill away from him, who,however, only floundered tumultuously back again, wild with joy. The two fought together, the man laughing grudgingly, the doggrinning all over. Miriam watched them. There was something patheticabout the man. He wanted so badly to love, to be tender. The rough way he bowled the dog over was really loving. Bill got up,panting with happiness, his brown eyes rolling in his white face,and lumbered back again. He adored Paul. The lad frowned.
"Bill, I've had enough o' thee," he said.
But the dog only stood with two heavy paws, that quiveredwith love, upon his thigh, and flickered a red tongue at him. He drew back.
"No," he said--"no--I've had enough."
And in a minute the dog trotted off happily, to vary the fun.
He remained staring miserably across at the hills, whose stillbeauty he begrudged. He wanted to go and cycle with Edgar. Yet he had not the courage to leave Miriam.
"Why are you sad?" she asked humbly.
"I'm not sad; why should I be," he answered. "I'm only normal."
She wondered why he always claimed to be normal when hewas disagreeable.
"But what is the matter?" she pleaded, coaxing him soothingly.
"Nothing!"
"Nay!" she murmured.
He picked up a stick and began to stab the earth with it.
"You'd far better not talk," he said.
"But I wish to know---" she replied.
He laughed resentfully.
"You always do," he said.
"It's not fair to me," she murmured.
He thrust, thrust, thrust at the ground with the pointed stick,digging up little clods of earth as if he were in a fever of irritation. She gently and firmly laid her band on his wrist.
"Don't!" she said. "Put it away."
He flung the stick into the currant-bushes, and leaned back. Now he was bottled up.
"What is it?" she pleaded softly.
He lay perfectly still, only his eyes alive, and they fullof torment.
"You know," he said at length, rather wearily--"you know--we'dbetter break off."
It was what she dreaded. Swiftly everything seemed to darkenbefore her eyes.
"Why!" she murmured. "What has happened?"
"Nothing has happened. We only realise where we are. It's no good---"
She waited in silence, sadly, patiently. It was no good beingimpatient with him. At any rate, he would tell her now what ailed him.
"We agreed on friendship," he went on in a dull, monotonous voice. "How often HAVE we agreed for friendship! And yet--it neitherstops there, nor gets anywhere else."
He was silent again. She brooded. What did he mean? He was so wearying. There was something he would not yield. Yet she must be patient with him.
"I can only give friendship--it's all I'm capable of--it'sa flaw in my make-up. The thing overbalances to one side--I hatea toppling balance. Let us have done."
There was warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant sheloved him more than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had not in herself that which he wanted. It was thedeepest motive of her soul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep shedared neither realise nor acknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely subtle shame, it kept her always back. If it were so,she would do without him. She would never let herself want him. She would merely see.
"But what has happened?" she said.
"Nothing--it's all in myself--it only comes out just now. We're always like this towards Easter-time."
He grovelled so helplessly, she pitied him. At least shenever floundered in such a pitiable way. After all, it was hewho was chiefly humiliated.
"What do you want?" she asked him.
"Why--I mustn't come often--that's all. Why should I monopoliseyou when I'm not--- You see, I'm deficient in something with regardto you---"
He was telling her he did not love her, and so ought to leave hera chance with another man. How foolish and blind and shamefully clumsyhe was! What were other men to her! What were men to her at all! But he, ah! she loved his soul. Was HE deficient in something? Perhaps he was.
"But I don't understand," she said huskily. "Yesterday---"
The night was turning jangled and hateful to him as thetwilight faded. And she bowed under her suffering.
"I know," he cried, "you never will! You'll never believe thatI can't--can't physically, any more than I can fly up like a skylark---"
"What?" she murmured. Now she dreaded.
"Love you."
He hated her bitterly at that moment because he made her suffer. Love her! She knew he loved her. He really belonged to her. This about not loving her, physically, bodily, was a mere perversityon his part, because he knew she loved him. He was stupid likea child. He belonged to her. His soul wanted her. She guessedsomebody had been influencing him. She felt upon him the hardness,the foreignness of another influence.
"What have they been saying at home?" she asked.
"It's not that," he answered.
And then she knew it was. She despised them for their commonness,his people. They did not know what things were really worth.
He and she talked very little more that night. After all heleft her to cycle with Edgar.
He had come back to his mother. Hers was the strongesttie in his life. When he thought round, Miriam shrank away. There was a vague, unreal feel about her. And nobody else mattered. There was one place in the world that stood solid and did not meltinto unreality: the place where his mother was. Everybody elsecould grow shadowy, almost non-existent to him, but she could not. It was as if the pivot and pole of his life, from which he couldnot escape, was his mother.
And in the same way she waited for him. In him was establishedher life now. After all, the life beyond offered very little toMrs. Morel. She saw that our chance for DOING is here, and doingcounted with her. Paul was going to prove that she had been right;he was going to make a man whom nothing should shift off his feet;he was going to alter the face of the earth in some way which mattered. Wherever he went she felt her soul went with him. Whatever he did shefelt her soul stood by him, ready, as it were, to hand him his tools. She could not bear it when he was with Miriam. William was dead. She would fight to keep Paul.
And he came back to her. And in his soul was a feeling of thesatisfaction of self-sacrifice because he was faithful to her. She loved him first; he loved her first. And yet it was not enough. His new young life, so strong and imperious, was urged towardssomething else. It made him mad with restlessness. She saw this,and wished bitterly that Miriam had been a woman who could take thisnew life of his, and leave her the roots. He fought against his motheralmost as he fought against Miriam.
It was a week before he went again to Willey Farm. Miriam had suffered a great deal, and was afraid to see him again. Was she now to endure the ignominy of his abandoning her? That would only be superficial and temporary. He would come back. She held the keys to his soul. But meanwhile, how he would tortureher with his battle against her. She shrank from it.
However, the Sunday after Easter he came to tea. Mrs. Leiverswas glad to see him. She gathered something was fretting him,that he found things hard. He seemed to drift to her for comfort. And she was good to him. She did him that great kindness of treatinghim almost with reverence.
He met her with the young children in the front garden.
"I'm glad you've come," said the mother, looking at himwith her great appealing brown eyes. "It is such a sunny day. I was just going down the fields for the first time this year."
He felt she would like him to come. That soothed him. They went,talking simply, he gentle and humble. He could have wept with gratitudethat she was deferential to him. He was feeling humiliated. 
At the bottom of the Mow Close they found a thrush's nest.
"Shall I show you the eggs?" he said.
"Do!" replied Mrs. Leivers. "They seem SUCH a sign of spring,and so hopeful."
He put aside the thorns, and took out the eggs, holding themin the palm of his hand.
"They are quite hot--I think we frightened her off them,"he said.
"Ay, poor thing!" said Mrs. Leivers.
Miriam could not help touching the eggs, and his hand which,it seemed to her, cradled them so well.
"Isn't it a strange warmth!" she murmured, to get near him.
"Blood heat," he answered.
She watched him putting them back, his body pressed againstthe hedge, his arm reaching slowly through the thorns, his handfolded carefully over the eggs. He was concentrated on the act. Seeing him so, she loved him; he seemed so simple and sufficientto himself. And she could not get to him.
After tea she stood hesitating at the bookshelf. He took"Tartarin de Tarascon". Again they sat on the bank of hay at the footof the stack. He read a couple of pages, but without any heart for it. Again the dog came racing up to repeat the fun of the other day. He shoved his muzzle in the man's chest. Paul fingered his earfor a moment. Then he pushed him away.
"Go away, Bill," he said. "I don't want you."
Bill slunk off, and Miriam wondered and dreadedwhat was coming. There was a silence about theyouth that made her still with apprehension. It was not his furies, but his quiet resolutions that she feared.
Turning his face a little to one side, so that she couldnot see him, he began, speaking slowly and painfully:
"Do you think--if I didn't come up so much--you might getto like somebody else--another man?"
So this was what he was still harping on.
"But I don't know any other men. Why do you ask?" she replied,in a low tone that should have been a reproach to him.
"Why," he blurted, "because they say I've no right to come uplike this--without we mean to marry---"
Miriam was indignant at anybody's forcing the issues between them. She had been furious with her own father for suggesting to Paul,laughingly, that he knew why he came so much.
"Who says?" she asked, wondering if her people had anythingto do with it. They had not.
"Mother--and the others. They say at this rate everybody willconsider me engaged, and I ought to consider myself so, because it'snot fair to you. And I've tried to find out--and I don't think Ilove you as a man ought to love his wife. What do you think about it?"
Miriam bowed her head moodily. She was angry at havingthis struggle. People should leave him and her alone.
"I don't know," she murmured.
"Do you think we love each other enough to marry?"he asked definitely. It made her tremble.
"No," she answered truthfully. "I don't think so--we'retoo young."
"I thought perhaps," he went on miserably, "that you, with yourintensity in things, might have given me more--than I could ever makeup to you. And even now--if you think it better--we'll be engaged."
Now Miriam wanted to cry. And she was angry, too. He wasalways such a child for people to do as they liked with.
"No, I don't think so," she said firmly.
He pondered a minute.
"You see," he said, "with me--I don't think one person wouldever monopolize me--be everything to me--I think never."
This she did not consider.
"No," she murmured. Then, after a pause, she looked at him,and her dark eyes flashed.
"This is your mother," she said. "I know she never liked me."
"No, no, it isn't," he said hastily. "It was for your sakeshe spoke this time. She only said, if I was going on, I oughtto consider myself engaged." There was a silence. "And if I askyou to come down any time, you won't stop away, will you?"
She did not answer. By this time she was very angry.
"Well, what shall we do?" she said shortly. "I suppose I'dbetter drop French. I was just beginning to get on with it. But I suppose I can go on alone."
"I don't see that we need," he said. "I can give youa French lesson, surely."
"Well--and there are Sunday nights. I shan't stop comingto chapel, because I enjoy it, and it's all the social life I get. But you've no need to come home with me. I can go alone."
"All right," he answered, rather taken aback. "But if I ask Edgar,he'll always come with us, and then they can say nothing."
There was silence. After all, then, she would not lose much. For all their talk down at his home there would not be much difference. She wished they would mind their own business.
"And you won't think about it, and let it trouble you, will you?"he asked.
"Oh no," replied Miriam, without looking at him.
He was silent. She thought him unstable. He had no fixityof purpose, no anchor of righteousness that held him.
"Because," he continued, "a man gets across his bicycle--andgoes to work--and does all sorts of things. But a woman broods."
"No, I shan't bother," said Miriam. And she meant it.
It had gone rather chilly. They went indoors.
"How white Paul looks!" Mrs. Leivers exclaimed. "Miriam, youshouldn't have let him sit out of doors. Do you think you'vetaken cold, Paul?"
"Oh, no!" he laughed.
But he felt done up. It wore him out, the conflict in himself. Miriam pitied him now. But quite early, before nine o'clock, he roseto go.
"You're not going home, are you?" asked Mrs. Leivers anxiously.
"Yes," he replied. "I said I'd be early." He was very awkward.
"But this IS early," said Mrs. Leivers.
Miriam sat in the rocking-chair, and did not speak. He hesitated, expecting her to rise and go with him to the barnas usual for his bicycle. She remained as she was. He was at a loss.
"Well--good-night, all!" he faltered.
She spoke her good-night along with all the others. But as he went past the window he looked in. She saw him pale,his brows knit slightly in a way that had become constant with him,his eyes dark with pain.
She rose and went to the doorway to wave good-bye to him as hepassed through the gate. He rode slowly under the pine-trees,feeling a cur and a miserable wretch. His bicycle went tilting downthe hills at random. He thought it would be a relief to break one's neck.
Two days later he sent her up a book and a little note,urging her to read and be busy.
At this time he gave all his friendship to Edgar. He loved the family so much, he loved the farm so much; it wasthe dearest place on earth to him. His home was not so lovable. It was his mother. But then he would have been just as happy withhis mother anywhere. Whereas Willey Farm he loved passionately. He loved the little pokey kitchen, where men's boots tramped,and the dog slept with one eye open for fear of being trodden on;where the lamp hung over the table at night, and everything was so silent. He loved Miriam's long, low parlour, with its atmosphere of romance,its flowers, its books, its high rosewood piano. He loved the gardensand the buildings that stood with their scarlet roofs on the nakededges of the fields, crept towards the wood as if for cosiness,the wild country scooping down a valley and up the uncultured hills ofthe other side. Only to be there was an exhilaration and a joy to him. He loved Mrs. Leivers, with her unworldliness and her quaint cynicism;he loved Mr. Leivers, so warm and young and lovable; he loved Edgar,who lit up when he came, and the boys and the children andBill--even the sow Circe and the Indian game-cock called Tippoo. All this besides Miriam. He could not give it up.
So he went as often, but he was usually with Edgar. Only allthe family, including the father, joined in charades and gamesat evening. And later, Miriam drew them together, and they readMacbeth out of penny books, taking parts. It was great excitement. Miriam was glad, and Mrs. Leivers was glad, and Mr. Leivers enjoyed it. Then they all learned songs together from tonic sol-fa, singingin a circle round the fire. But now Paul was very rarely alonewith Miriam. She waited. When she and Edgar and he walked hometogether from chapel or from the literary society in Bestwood,she knew his talk, so passionate and so unorthodox nowadays,was for her. She did envy Edgar, however, his cycling with Paul,his Friday nights, his days working in the fields. For her Fridaynights and her French lessons were gone. She was nearly always alone,walking, pondering in the wood, reading, studying, dreaming, waiting. And he wrote to her frequently.
One Sunday evening they attained to their old rare harmony. Edgar had stayed to Communion--he wondered what it was like--withMrs. Morel. So Paul came on alone with Miriam to his home. He wasmore or less under her spell again. As usual, they were discussingthe sermon. He was setting now full sail towards Agnosticism,but such a religious Agnosticism that Miriam did not suffer so badly. They were at the Renan Vie de Jesus stage. Miriam was thethreshing-floor on which he threshed out all his beliefs. While hetrampled his ideas upon her soul, the truth came out for him. She alonewas his threshing-floor. She alone helped him towards realization. Almost impassive, she submitted to his argument and expounding.And somehow, because of her, he gradually realized where he was wrong.And what he realized, she realized. She felt he could not do without her.
They came to the silent house. He took the key out ofthe scullery window, and they entered. All the time he wenton with his discussion. He lit the gas, mended the fire,and brought her some cakes from the pantry. She sat on the sofa,quietly, with a plate on her knee. She wore a large white hatwith some pinkish flowers. It was a cheap hat, but he liked it. Her face beneath was still and pensive, golden-brown and ruddy. Always her ears were hid in her short curls. She watched him.
She liked him on Sundays. Then he wore a dark suit that showed thelithe movement of his body. There was a clean, clear-cut look about him. He went on with his thinking to her. Suddenly he reached for a Bible. Miriam liked the way he reached up--so sharp, straight to the mark. He turned the pages quickly, and read her a chapter of St. John. As he sat in the armchair reading, intent, his voice only thinking,she felt as if he were using her unconsciously as a man uses histools at some work he is bent on. She loved it. And the wistfulnessof his voice was like a reaching to something, and it was as if shewere what he reached with. She sat back on the sofa away from him,and yet feeling herself the very instrument his hand grasped. It gave her great pleasure.
Then he began to falter and to get self-conscious. And when hecame to the verse, "A woman, when she is in travail, hath sorrowbecause her hour is come", he missed it out. Miriam had felt himgrowing uncomfortable. She shrank when the well-known words didnot follow. He went on reading, but she did not hear. A griefand shame made her bend her head. Six months ago he would haveread it simply. Now there was a scotch in his running with her. Now she felt there was really something hostile between them,something of which they were ashamed.



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? D. H. LAWRENCE

 
  