CLARA went with her
husband to Sheffield, and Paul
scarcely saw her again. Walter Morel seemed to have let all the trouble go over him, and there he was, crawling about on the mud of it, just the same. There was
scarcely any
bond between father and son, save that each felt he must not let the other go in any actual want. As there was no one to keep on the home, and as they could neither of them bear the
emptiness of the house, Paul took lodgings in Nottingham, and Morel went to live with a friendly family in Bestwood.
Everything seemed to have gone
smash for the young man. He could not paint. The picture he finished on the day of his mother's death-one that
satisfied him-was the last thing he did. At work there was no Clara. When he came home he could not take up his brushes again. There was nothing left.
So he was always in the town at one place or another, drinking, knocking about with the men he knew. It really wearied him. He talked to barmaids, to almost any woman, but there was that dark, strained look in his eyes, as if he were hunting something.
Everything seemed so
different, so unreal. There seemed no
reason why people should go along the street, and houses
pile up in the daylight. There seemed no
reason why these things should
occupy the space, instead of leaving it
empty. His friends talked to him: he heard the sounds, and he answered. But why there should be the noise of
speech he could not
understand.
He was most himself when he was alone, or working hard and
mechanically at the
factory. In the
latter case there was pure forgetfulness, when he
lapsed from
consciousness. But it had to come to an end. It hurt him so, that things had
lost their
reality. The first snowdrops came. He saw the
tiny drop-pearls among the grey. They would have given him the liveliest
emotion at one time. Now they were there, but they did not seem to
mean anything. In a few moments they would
cease to
occupy that place, and just the space would be, where they had been. Tall,
brilliant tram-cars ran along the street at night. It seemed almost a
wonder they should trouble to
rustle backwards and forwards. "Why trouble to go tilting down to Trent Bridges?" he asked of the big trams. It seemed they just as well
might NOT be as be.
The realest thing was the thick darkness at night. That seemed to him whole and comprehensible and restful. He could leave himself to it. Suddenly a piece of paper started near his feet and blew along down the pavement. He stood still,
rigid, with clenched fists, a
flame of
agony going over him. And he saw again the sick-room, his mother, her eyes. Unconsciously he had been with her, in her company. The
swift hop of the paper reminded him she was gone. But he had been with her. He wanted everything to stand still, so that he could be with her again.
The days passed, the weeks. But everything seemed to have fused, gone into a conglomerated
mass. He could not tell one day from another, one week from another, hardly one place from another. Nothing was
distinct or
distinguishable. Often he
lost himself for an hour at a time, could not
remember what he had done.
One evening he came home late to his lodging. The fire was burning low; everybody was in bed. He threw on some more coal, glanced at the
table, and decided he wanted no supper. Then he sat down in the arm-chair. It was perfectly still. He did not know anything, yet he saw the
dim smoke wavering up the
chimney. Presently two mice came out, cautiously, nibbling the
fallen crumbs. He watched them as it were from a long way off. The church clock struck two. Far away he could hear the
sharp clinking of the trucks on the railway. No, it was not they that were far away. They were there in their places. But where was he himself?
The time passed. The two mice, careering
wildly, scampered cheekily over his slippers. He had not moved a
muscle. He did not want to move. He was not thinking of anything. It was easier so. There was no
wrench of knowing anything. Then, from time to time, some other
consciousness, working
mechanically, flashed into
sharp phrases.
"What am I doing?"
And out of the semi-intoxicated
trance came the answer:
"Destroying myself."
Then a
dull, live feeling, gone in an
instant, told him that it was wrong. After a while,
suddenly came the question:
"Why wrong?"
Again there was no answer, but a
stroke of hot stubbornness inside his chest resisted his own
annihilation.
There was a
sound of a heavy cart clanking down the road. Suddenly the
electric light went out; there was a bruising
thud in the penny-in-the-slot
meter. He did not
stir, but sat gazing in front of him. Only the mice had scuttled, and the fire glowed red in the dark room.
Then, quite
mechanically and more distinctly, the
conversation began again inside him.
"She's dead. What was it all for-her
struggle?"
That was his
despair wanting to go after her.
"You're alive."
"She's not."
"She is-in you."
Suddenly he felt
tired with the
burden of it.
"You've got to keep alive for her sake," said his will in him.
Something felt
sulky, as if it would not
rouse.
"You've got to
carry forward her living, and what she had done, go on with it."
But he did not want to. He wanted to give up.
"But you can go on with your painting," said the will in him. "Or else you can
beget children. They both
carry on her
effort."
"Painting is not living."
"Then live."
"Marry whom?" came the
sulky question.
"As best you can."
"Miriam?"
But he did not
trust that.
He rose
suddenly, went
straight to bed. When he got inside his bedroom and closed the door, he stood with clenched fist.
"Mater, my dear-" he began, with the whole
force of his
soul. Then he stopped. He would not say it. He would not
admit that he wanted to die, to have done. He would not own that life had beaten him, or that death had beaten him. Going
straight to bed, he slept at once, abandoning himself to the sleep.
So the weeks went on. Always alone, his
soul oscillated, first on the side of death, then on the side of life,
doggedly. The real
agony was that he had nowhere to go, nothing to do, nothing to say, and WAS nothing himself. Sometimes he ran down the streets as if he were
mad: sometimes he was
mad; things weren't there, things were there. It made him
pant. Sometimes he stood before the
bar of the
public-house where he called for a drink. Everything
suddenly stood back away from him. He saw the face of the barmaid, the gobbling drinkers, his own glass on the slopped,
mahogany board, in the
distance. There was something between him and them. He could not get into touch. He did not want them; he did not want his drink. Turning
abruptly, he went out. On the
threshold he stood and looked at the lighted street. But he was not of it or in it. Something separated him. Everything went on there below those lamps, shut away from him. He could not get at them. He felt he couldn't touch the lamp-posts, not if he reached. Where could he go? There was nowhere to go, neither back into the inn, or
forward anywhere. He felt stifled. There was nowhere for him. The
stress grew inside him; he felt he should
smash.
"I mustn't," he said; and, turning
blindly, he went in and drank. Sometimes the drink did him good; sometimes it made him worse. He ran down the road. For ever
restless, he went here, there, everywhere. He
determined to work. But when he had made six strokes, he loathed the pencil violently, got up, and went away, hurried off to a club where he could play cards or
billiards, to a place where he could
flirt with a barmaid who was no more to him than the brass pump-handle she drew.
He was very
thin and
lantern-jawed. He dared not meet his own eyes in the mirror; he never looked at himself. He wanted to get away from himself, but there was nothing to get hold of. In
despair he
thought of Miriam. Perhaps-perhaps-?
Then, happening to go into the Unitarian Church one Sunday evening, when they stood up to sing the second
hymn he saw her before him. The light glistened on her lower lip as she sang. She looked as if she had got something, at any rate: some hope in heaven, if not in
earth. Her
comfort and her life seemed in the after-world. A warm, strong feeling for her came up. She seemed to
yearn, as she sang, for the
mystery and
comfort. He put his hope in her. He longed for the
sermon to be over, to speak to her.
The
throng carried her out just before him. He could nearly touch her. She did not know he was there. He saw the brown,
humble nape of her neck under its black curls. He would leave himself to her. She was better and bigger than he. He would
depend on her.
She went wandering, in her
blind way,
through the little throngs of people outside the church. She always looked so
lost and out of place among people. He went
forward and put his hand on her arm. She started violently. Her great brown eyes dilated in fear, then went questioning at the
sight of him. He shrank slightly from her.
"I didn't know-" she faltered.
"Nor I," he said.
He looked away. His sudden, flaring hope sank again.
"What are you doing in town?" he asked.
"I'm staying at Cousin Anne's."
"Ha! For long?"
"No; only
till to-morrow."
"Must you go
straight home?"
She looked at him, then hid her face under her hat-brim.
"No," she said-"no; it's not
necessary."
He turned away, and she went with him. They threaded
through the
throng of church people. The
organ was still sounding in St. Mary's. Dark figures came
through the lighted doors; people were coming down the steps. The large coloured windows glowed up in the night. The church was like a great
lantern suspended. They went down Hollow Stone, and he took the car for the Bridges.
"You will just have supper with me," he said: "then I'll bring you back."
"Very well," she replied, low and
husky.
They
scarcely spoke while they were on the car. The Trent ran dark and full under the bridge. Away towards Colwick all was black night. He lived down Holme Road, on the naked
edge of the town, facing across the river meadows towards Sneinton Hermitage and the
steep scrap of Colwick Wood. The floods were out. The silent water and the darkness
spread away on their left. Almost afraid, they hurried along by the houses.
Supper was laid. He swung the curtain over the window. There was a bowl of freesias and scarlet anemones on the
table. She
bent to them. Still touching them with her finger-tips, she looked up at him, saying:
"Aren't they beautiful?"
"Yes," he said. "What will you drink-coffee?"
"I should like it," she said.
"Then
excuse me a
moment."
He went out to the kitchen.
Miriam took off her things and looked round. It was a bare,
severe room. Her photo, Clara's, Annie's, were on the wall. She looked on the drawing-
board to see what he was doing. There were only a few meaningless lines. She looked to see what books he was reading. Evidently just an
ordinary novel. The letters in the rack she saw were from Annie, Arthur, and from some man or other she did not know. Everything he had touched, everything that was in the least
personal to him, she examined with lingering
absorption. He had been gone from her for so long, she wanted to rediscover him, his position, what he was now. But there was not much in the room to help her. It only made her feel rather sad, it was so hard and comfortless.
She was curiously examining a
sketch-book when he returned with the coffee.
"There's nothing new in it," he said, "and nothing very interesting."
He put down the tray, and went to look over her shoulder. She turned the pages slowly,
intent on examining everything.
"H'm!" he said, as she paused at a
sketch. "I'd forgotten that. It's not bad, is it?"
"No," she said. "I don't quite
understand it."
He took the book from her and went
through it. Again he made a
curious sound of
surprise and pleasure.
"There's some not bad stuff in there," he said.
"Not at all bad," she answered gravely.
He felt again her
interest in his work. Or was it for himself? Why was she always most
interested in him as he appeared in his work?
They sat down to supper.
"By the way," he said, "didn't I hear something about your earning your own living?"
"Yes," she replied, bowing her dark head over her cup. "And what of it?"
"I'm
merely going to the
farming college at Broughton for three months, and I shall
probably be kept on as a teacher there."
"I say-that sounds all
right for you! You always wanted to be
independent."
"Yes.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I only knew last week."
"But I heard a month ago," he said.
"Yes; but nothing was settled then."
"I should have
thought," he said, "you'd have told me you were trying."
She ate her food in the
deliberate,
constrained way, almost as if she recoiled a little from doing anything so publicly, that he knew so well.
"I
suppose you're glad," he said.
"Very glad."
"Yes-it will be something."
He was rather
disappointed.
"I think it will be a great deal," she said, almost haughtily, resentfully.
He laughed shortly.
"Why do you think it won't?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't think it won't be a great deal. Only you'll find earning your own living isn't everything."
"No," she said, swallowing with
difficulty; "I don't
suppose it is."
"I
suppose work CAN be nearly everything to a man," he said, "though it isn't to me. But a woman only works with a part of herself. The real and
vital part is covered up."
"But a man can give ALL himself to work?" she asked.
"Yes,
practically."
"And a woman only the unimportant part of herself?"
"That's it."
She looked up at him, and her eyes dilated with anger.
"Then," she said, "if it's true, it's a great
shame."
"It is. But I don't know everything," he answered.
After supper they drew up to the fire. He swung her a chair facing him, and they sat down. She was wearing a dress of dark claret colour, that suited her dark
complexion and her large features. Still, the curls were fine and free, but her face was much older, the brown throat much thinner. She seemed old to him, older than Clara. Her
bloom of youth had quickly gone. A sort of stiffness, almost of woodenness, had come upon her. She meditated a little while, then looked at him.
"And how are things with you?" she asked.
"About all
right," he answered.
She looked at him, waiting.
"Nay," she said, very low.
Her brown,
nervous hands were clasped over her knee. They had still the
lack of
confidence or
repose, the almost
hysterical look. He winced as he saw them. Then he laughed mirthlessly. She put her fingers between her lips. His
slim, black, tortured body lay quite still in the chair. She
suddenly took her finger from her mouth and looked at him.
"And you have broken off with Clara?"
"Yes."
His body lay like an
abandoned thing, strewn in the chair.
"You know," she said, "I think we ought to be married."
He opened his eyes for the first time since many months, and attended to her with
respect.
"Why?" he said.
"See," she said, "how you
waste yourself! You
might be ill, you
might die, and I never know-be no more then than if I had never known you."
"And if we married?" he asked.
"At any rate, I could
prevent you wasting yourself and being a
prey to other women-like-like Clara."
"A
prey?" he
repeated, smiling.
She bowed her head in
silence. He lay feeling his
despair come up again.
"I'm not sure," he said slowly, "that
marriage would be much good."
"I only think of you," she replied.
"I know you do. But-you love me so much, you want to put me in your pocket. And I should die there smothered."
She
bent her head, put her fingers between her lips, while the bitterness surged up in her
heart.
"And what will you do otherwise?" she asked.
"I don't know-go on, I
suppose. Perhaps I shall soon go
abroad."
The despairing doggedness in his
tone made her go on her knees on the rug before the fire, very near to him. There she crouched as if she were crushed by something, and could not
raise her head. His hands lay quite
inert on the arms of his chair. She was
aware of them. She felt that now he lay at her
mercy. If she could rise, take him, put her arms round him, and say, "You are
mine," then he would leave himself to her. But
dare she? She could easily
sacrifice herself. But
dare she
assert herself? She was
aware of his dark-clothed,
slender body, that seemed one
stroke of life, sprawled in the chair close to her. But no; she dared not put her arms round it, take it up, and say, "It is
mine, this body. Leave it to me." And she wanted to. It called to all her woman's
instinct. But she crouched, and dared not. She was afraid he would not let her. She was afraid it was too much. It lay there, his body,
abandoned. She knew she ought to take it up and
claim it, and
claim every
right to it. But-could she do it? Her
impotence before him, before the strong
demand of some unknown thing in him, was her
extremity. Her hands fluttered; she half-lifted her head. Her eyes, shuddering,
appealing, gone, almost
distracted, pleaded to him
suddenly. His
heart caught with
pity. He took her hands, drew her to him, and comforted her.
"Will you have me, to marry me?" he said very low.
Oh, why did not he take her? Her very
soul belonged to him. Why would he not take what was his? She had borne so long the
cruelty of belonging to him and not being claimed by him. Now he was straining her again. It was too much for her. She drew back her head, held his face between her hands, and looked him in the eyes. No, he was hard. He wanted something else. She pleaded to him with all her love not to make it her
choice. She could not
cope with it, with him, she knew not with what. But it strained her
till she felt she would break.
"Do you want it?" she asked, very gravely.
"Not much," he replied, with pain.
She turned her face
aside; then, raising herself with
dignity, she took his head to her bosom, and rocked him softly. She was not to have him, then! So she could
comfort him. She put her fingers
through his hair. For her, the anguished sweetness of self-
sacrifice. For him, the hate and
misery of another
failure. He could not bear it-that breast which was warm and which cradled him without taking the
burden of him. So much he wanted to rest on her that the
feint of rest only tortured him. He drew away.
"And without
marriage we can do nothing?" he asked.
His mouth was lifted from his teeth with pain. She put her little finger between her lips.
"No," she said, low and like the
toll of a bell. "No, I think not."
It was the end then between them. She could not take him and
relieve him of the
responsibility of himself. She could only
sacrifice herself to him-
sacrifice herself every day, gladly. And that he did not want. He wanted her to hold him and say, with joy and
authority: "Stop all this restlessness and beating against death. You are
mine for a mate." She had not the
strength. Or was it a mate she wanted? or did she want a Christ in him?
He felt, in leaving her, he was defrauding her of life. But he knew that, in staying, stilling the inner,
desperate man, he was denying his own life. And he did not hope to give life to her by denying his own.
She sat very quiet. He lit a cigarette. The smoke went up from it, wavering. He was thinking of his mother, and had forgotten Miriam. She
suddenly looked at him. Her bitterness came surging up. Her
sacrifice, then, was
useless. He lay there
aloof,
careless about her. Suddenly she saw again his
lack of
religion, his
restless instability. He would
destroy himself like a
perverse child. Well, then, he would!
"I think I must go," she said softly.
By her
tone he knew she was despising him. He rose quietly.
"I'll come along with you," he answered.
She stood before the mirror pinning on her hat. How
bitter, how unutterably
bitter, it made her that he rejected her
sacrifice! Life ahead looked dead, as if the
glow were gone out. She bowed her face over the flowers-the freesias so sweet and spring-like, the scarlet anemones flaunting over the
table. It was like him to have those flowers.
He moved about the room with a
certain sureness of touch,
swift and
relentless and quiet. She knew she could not
cope with him. He would
escape like a
weasel out of her hands. Yet without him her life would trail on lifeless. Brooding, she touched the flowers.
"Have them!" he said; and he took them out of the
jar, dripping as they were, and went quickly into the kitchen. She waited for him, took the flowers, and they went out together, he talking, she feeling dead.
She was going from him now. In her
misery she leaned against him as they sat on the car. He was
unresponsive. Where would he go? What would be the end of him? She could not bear it, the
vacant feeling where he should be. He was so
foolish, so
wasteful, never at peace with himself. And now where would he go? And what did he care that he wasted her? He had no
religion; it was all for the
moment's
attraction that he cared, nothing else, nothing deeper. Well, she would wait and see how it turned out with him. When he had had enough he would give in and come to her.
He shook hands and left her at the door of her cousin's house. When he turned away he felt the last hold for him had gone. The town, as he sat upon the car, stretched away over the
bay of railway, a
level fume of lights. Beyond the town the country, little smouldering spots for more towns-the sea-the night-on and on! And he had no place in it! Whatever spot he stood on, there he stood alone. From his breast, from his mouth, sprang the endless space, and it was there behind him, everywhere. The people hurrying along the streets offered no
obstruction to the
void in which he found himself. They were small shadows whose footsteps and voices could be heard, but in each of them the same night, the same
silence. He got off the car. In the country all was dead still. Little stars shone high up; little stars
spread far away in the
flood-waters, a
firmament below. Everywhere the vastness and
terror of the
immense night which is roused and stirred for a
brief while by the day, but which returns, and will
remain at last
eternal, holding everything in its
silence and its living
gloom. There was no Time, only Space. Who could say his mother had lived and did not live? She had been in one place, and was in another; that was all. And his
soul could not leave her, wherever she was. Now she was gone
abroad into the night, and he was with her still. They were together. But yet there was his body, his chest, that leaned against the stile, his hands on the wooden
bar. They seemed something. Where was he?-one
tiny upright speck of flesh, less than an ear of wheat
lost in the field. He could not bear it. On every side the
immense dark
silence seemed pressing him, so
tiny a
spark, into
extinction, and yet, almost nothing, he could not be
extinct. Night, in which everything was
lost, went reaching out, beyond stars and sun. Stars and sun, a few bright grains, went spinning round for
terror, and holding each other in
embrace, there in a darkness that outpassed them all, and left them
tiny and daunted. So much, and himself,
infinitesimal, at the
core a nothingness, and yet not nothing.
"Mother!" he whispered-"mother!"
She was the only thing that held him up, himself, amid all this. And she was gone, intermingled herself. He wanted her to touch him, have him alongside with her.
But no, he would not give in. Turning
sharply, he walked towards the city's gold phosphorescence. His fists were shut, his mouth set fast. He would not take that
direction, to the darkness, to follow her. He walked towards the faintly humming, glowing town, quickly.