儿子与情人 Sons And Lovers 03

CHAPTER II
THE BIRTH OF PAUL, AND ANOTHER BATTLE
After such a scene as the last, Walter Morel was for some days abashed and ashamed, but he soon regained his old bullying indifference. Yet there was a slight shrinking, a diminishing in his assurance. Physically even, he shrank, and his fine full presence waned. He never grew in the least stout, so that, as he sank from his erect, assertive bearing, his physique seemed to contract along with his pride and moral strength.


But now he realised how hard it was for his wife to drag about at her work, and, his sympathy quickened by penitence, hastened forward with his help. He came straight home from the pit, and stayed in at evening till Friday, and then he could not remain at home. But he was back again by ten o’clock, almost quite sober.


He always made his own breakfast. Being a man who rose early and had plenty of time he did not, as some miners do, drag his wife out of bed at six o’clock. At five, sometimes earlier, he woke, got straight out of bed, and went downstairs. When she could not sleep, his wife lay waiting for this time, as for a period of peace. The only real rest seemed to be when he was out of the house.


He went downstairs in his shirt and then struggled into his pit-trousers, which were left on the hearth to warm all night. There was always a fire, because Mrs. Morel raked. And the first sound in the house was the bang, bang of the poker against the raker, as Morel smashed the remainder of the coal to make the kettle, which was filled and left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and knife and fork, all he wanted except just the food, was laid ready on the table on a newspaper. Then he got his breakfast, made the tea, packed the bottom of the doors with rugs to shut out the draught, piled a big fire, and sat down to an hour of joy. He toasted his bacon on a fork and caught the drops of fat on his bread; then he put the rasher on his thick slice of bread, and cut off chunks with a clasp-knife, poured his tea into his saucer, and was happy. With his family about, meals were never so pleasant. He loathed a fork: it is a modern introduction which has still scarcely reached common people. What Morel preferred was a clasp-knife. Then, in solitude, he ate and drank, often sitting, in cold weather, on a little stool with his back to the warm chimney-piece, his food on the fender, his cup on the hearth. And then he read the last night’s newspaper—what of it he could—spelling it over laboriously. He preferred to keep the blinds down and the candle lit even when it was daylight; it was the habit of the mine.


At a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick slices of bread and butter, and put them in the white calico snap-bag. He filled his tin bottle with tea. Cold tea without milk or sugar was the drink he preferred for the pit. Then he pulled off his shirt, and put on his pit-singlet, a vest of thick flannel cut low round the neck, and with short sleeves like a chemise.


Then he went upstairs to his wife with a cup of tea because she was ill, and because it occurred to him.


“I’ve brought thee a cup o’ tea, lass,” he said.


“Well, you needn’t, for you know I don’t like it,” she replied.


“Drink it up; it’ll pop thee off to sleep again.”


She accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take it and sip it.


“I’ll back my life there’s no sugar in,” she said.


“Yi—there’s one big un,” he replied, injured.


“It’s a wonder,” she said, sipping again.


She had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved her to grumble at him in this manner. He looked at her again, and went, without any sort of leave-taking. He never took more than two slices of bread and butter to eat in the pit, so an apple or an orange was a treat to him. He always liked it when she put one out for him. He tied a scarf round his neck, put on his great, heavy boots, his coat, with the big pocket, that carried his snap-bag and his bottle of tea, and went forth into the fresh morning air, closing, without locking, the door behind him. He loved the early morning, and the walk across the fields. So he appeared at the pit-top, often with a stalk from the hedge between his teeth, which he chewed all day to keep his mouth moist, down the mine, feeling quite as happy as when he was in the field.


Later, when the time for the baby grew nearer, he would bustle round in his slovenly fashion, poking out the ashes, rubbing the fireplace, sweeping the house before he went to work. Then, feeling very self-righteous, he went upstairs.


“Now I’m cleaned up for thee: tha’s no ’casions ter stir a peg all day, but sit and read thy books.”


Which made her laugh, in spite of her indignation.


“And the dinner cooks itself?” she answered.


“Eh, I know nowt about th’ dinner.”


“You’d know if there weren’t any.”


“Ay, ’appen so,” he answered, departing.


When she got downstairs, she would find the house tidy, but dirty. She could not rest until she had thoroughly cleaned; so she went down to the ash-pit with her dustpan. Mrs. Kirk, spying her, would contrive to have to go to her own coal-place at that minute. Then, across the wooden fence, she would call:


“So you keep wagging on, then?”


“Ay,” answered Mrs. Morel deprecatingly. “There’s nothing else for it.”


“Have you seen Hose?” called a very small woman from across the road. It was Mrs. Anthony, a black-haired, strange little body, who always wore a brown velvet dress, tight fitting.


“I haven’t,” said Mrs. Morel.


“Eh, I wish he’d come. I’ve got a copperful of clothes, an’ I’m sure I heered his bell.”


“Hark! He’s at the end.”


The two women looked down the alley. At the end of the Bottoms a man stood in a sort of old-fashioned trap, bending over bundles of cream-coloured stuff; while a cluster of women held up their arms to him, some with bundles. Mrs. Anthony herself had a heap of creamy, undyed stockings hanging over her arm.


“I’ve done ten dozen this week,” she said proudly to Mrs. Morel.


“T-t-t!” went the other. “I don’t know how you can find time.”


“Eh!” said Mrs. Anthony. “You can find time if you make time.”


“I don’t know how you do it,” said Mrs. Morel. “And how much shall you get for those many?”


“Tuppence-ha’penny a dozen,” replied the other.


“Well,” said Mrs. Morel. “I’d starve before I’d sit down and seam twenty-four stockings for twopence ha’penny.”


“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Anthony. “You can rip along with ’em.”


Hose was coming along, ringing his bell. Women were waiting at the yard-ends with their seamed stockings hanging over their arms. The man, a common fellow, made jokes with them, tried to swindle them, and bullied them. Mrs. Morel went up her yard disdainfully.


It was an understood thing that if one woman wanted her neighbour, she should put the poker in the fire and bang at the back of the fireplace, which, as the fires were back to back, would make a great noise in the adjoining house. One morning Mrs. Kirk, mixing a pudding, nearly started out of her skin as she heard the thud, thud, in her grate. With her hands all floury, she rushed to the fence.


“Did you knock, Mrs. Morel?”


“If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Kirk.”


Mrs. Kirk climbed on to her copper, got over the wall on to Mrs. Morel’s copper, and ran in to her neighbour.


“Eh, dear, how are you feeling?” she cried in concern.


“You might fetch Mrs. Bower,” said Mrs. Morel.


Mrs. Kirk went into the yard, lifted up her strong, shrill voice, and called:


“Ag-gie—Ag-gie!”


The sound was heard from one end of the Bottoms to the other. At last Aggie came running up, and was sent for Mrs. Bower, whilst Mrs. Kirk left her pudding and stayed with her neighbour.


Mrs. Morel went to bed. Mrs. Kirk had Annie and William for dinner. Mrs. Bower, fat and waddling, bossed the house.


“Hash some cold meat up for the master’s dinner, and make him an apple-charlotte pudding,” said Mrs. Morel.


“He may go without pudding this day,” said Mrs. Bower.


Morel was not as a rule one of the first to appear at the bottom of the pit, ready to come up. Some men were there before four o’clock, when the whistle blew loose-all; but Morel, whose stall, a poor one, was at this time about a mile and a half away from the bottom, worked usually till the first mate stopped, then he finished also. This day, however, the miner was sick of the work. At two o’clock he looked at his watch, by the light of the green candle—he was in a safe working—and again at half-past two. He was hewing at a piece of rock that was in the way for the next day’s work. As he sat on his heels, or kneeled, giving hard blows with his pick, “Uszza—uszza!” he went.


“Shall ter finish, Sorry?” cried Barker, his fellow butty.


“Finish? Niver while the world stands!” growled Morel.


And he went on striking. He was tired.


“It’s a heart-breaking job,” said Barker.


But Morel was too exasperated, at the end of his tether, to answer. Still he struck and hacked with all his might.


“Tha might as well leave it, Walter,” said Barker. “It’ll do to-morrow, without thee hackin’ thy guts out.”


“I’ll lay no b—— finger on this to-morrow, Isr’el!” cried Morel.


“Oh, well, if tha wunna, somebody else’ll ha’e to,” said Israel.


Then Morel continued to strike.


“Hey-up there—loose-a’!” cried the men, leaving the next stall.


Morel continued to strike.


“Tha’ll happen catch me up,” said Barker, departing.


When he had gone, Morel, left alone, felt savage. He had not finished his job. He had overworked himself into a frenzy. Rising, wet with sweat, he threw his tool down, pulled on his coat, blew out his candle, took his lamp, and went. Down the main road the lights of the other men went swinging. There was a hollow sound of many voices. It was a long, heavy tramp underground.


He sat at the bottom of the pit, where the great drops of water fell plash. Many colliers were waiting their turns to go up, talking noisily. Morel gave his answers short and disagreeable.


“It’s rainin’, Sorry,” said old Giles, who had had the news from the top.


Morel found one comfort. He had his old umbrella, which he loved, in the lamp cabin. At last he took his stand on the chair, and was at the top in a moment. Then he handed in his lamp and got his umbrella, which he had bought at an auction for one-and-six. He stood on the edge of the pit-bank for a moment, looking out over the fields; grey rain was falling. The trucks stood full of wet, bright coal. Water ran down the sides of the waggons, over the white “C.W. and Co.” Colliers, walking indifferent to the rain, were streaming down the line and up the field, a grey, dismal host. Morel put up his umbrella, and took pleasure from the peppering of the drops thereon.


All along the road to Bestwood the miners tramped, wet and grey and dirty, but their red mouths talking with animation. Morel also walked with a gang, but he said nothing. He frowned peevishly as he went. Many men passed into the Prince of Wales or into Ellen’s. Morel, feeling sufficiently disagreeable to resist temptation, trudged along under the dripping trees that overhung the park wall, and down the mud of Greenhill Lane.


Mrs. Morel lay in bed, listening to the rain, and the feet of the colliers from Minton, their voices, and the bang, bang of the gates as they went through the stile up the field.


“There’s some herb beer behind the pantry door,” she said. “Th’ master’ll want a drink, if he doesn’t stop.”


But he was late, so she concluded he had called for a drink, since it was raining. What did he care about the child or her?


She was very ill when her children were born.


“What is it?” she asked, feeling sick to death.


“A boy.”


And she took consolation in that. The thought of being the mother of men was warming to her heart. She looked at the child. It had blue eyes, and a lot of fair hair, and was bonny. Her love came up hot, in spite of everything. She had it in bed with her.


Morel, thinking nothing, dragged his way up the garden path, wearily and angrily. He closed his umbrella, and stood it in the sink; then he sluthered his heavy boots into the kitchen. Mrs. Bower appeared in the inner doorway.


“Well,” she said, “she’s about as bad as she can be. It’s a boy childt.”


The miner grunted, put his empty snap-bag and his tin bottle on the dresser, went back into the scullery and hung up his coat, then came and dropped into his chair.


“Han yer got a drink?” he asked.


The woman went into the pantry. There was heard the pop of a cork. She set the mug, with a little, disgusted rap, on the table before Morel. He drank, gasped, wiped his big moustache on the end of his scarf, drank, gasped, and lay back in his chair. The woman would not speak to him again. She set his dinner before him, and went upstairs.


“Was that the master?” asked Mrs. Morel.


“I’ve gave him his dinner,” replied Mrs. Bower.


After he had sat with his arms on the table—he resented the fact that Mrs. Bower put no cloth on for him, and gave him a little plate, instead of a full-sized dinner-plate—he began to eat. The fact that his wife was ill, that he had another boy, was nothing to him at that moment. He was too tired; he wanted his dinner; he wanted to sit with his arms lying on the board; he did not like having Mrs. Bower about. The fire was too small to please him.


After he had finished his meal, he sat for twenty minutes; then he stoked up a big fire. Then, in his stockinged feet, he went reluctantly upstairs. It was a struggle to face his wife at this moment, and he was tired. His face was black, and smeared with sweat. His singlet had dried again, soaking the dirt in. He had a dirty woollen scarf round his throat. So he stood at the foot of the bed.


“Well, how are ter, then?” he asked.


“I s’ll be all right,” she answered.


“H’m!”


He stood at a loss what to say next. He was tired, and this bother was rather a nuisance to him, and he didn’t quite know where he was.


“A lad, tha says,” he stammered.


She turned down the sheet and showed the child.


“Bless him!” he murmured. Which made her laugh, because he blessed by rote—pretending paternal emotion, which he did not feel just then.


“Go now,” she said.


“I will, my lass,” he answered, turning away.


Dismissed, he wanted to kiss her, but he dared not. She half wanted him to kiss her, but could not bring herself to give any sign. She only breathed freely when he was gone out of the room again, leaving behind him a faint smell of pit-dirt.


Mrs. Morel had a visit every day from the Congregational clergyman. Mr. Heaton was young, and very poor. His wife had died at the birth of his first baby, so he remained alone in the manse. He was a Bachelor of Arts of Cambridge, very shy, and no preacher. Mrs. Morel was fond of him, and he depended on her. For hours he talked to her, when she was well. He became the god-parent of the child.


Occasionally the minister stayed to tea with Mrs. Morel. Then she laid the cloth early, got out her best cups, with a little green rim, and hoped Morel would not come too soon; indeed, if he stayed for a pint, she would not mind this day. She had always two dinners to cook, because she believed children should have their chief meal at midday, whereas Morel needed his at five o’clock. So Mr. Heaton would hold the baby, whilst Mrs. Morel beat up a batter-pudding or peeled the potatoes, and he, watching her all the time, would discuss his next sermon. His ideas were quaint and fantastic. She brought him judiciously to earth. It was a discussion of the wedding at Cana.


“When He changed the water into wine at Cana,” he said, “that is a symbol that the ordinary life, even the blood, of the married husband and wife, which had before been uninspired, like water, became filled with the Spirit, and was as wine, because, when love enters, the whole spiritual constitution of a man changes, is filled with the Holy Ghost, and almost his form is altered.”


Mrs. Morel thought to herself:


“Yes, poor fellow, his young wife is dead; that is why he makes his love into the Holy Ghost.”


They were halfway down their first cup of tea when they heard the sluther of pit-boots.


“Good gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Morel, in spite of herself.


The minister looked rather scared. Morel entered. He was feeling rather savage. He nodded a “How d’yer do” to the clergyman, who rose to shake hands with him.


“Nay,” said Morel, showing his hand, “look thee at it! Tha niver wants ter shake hands wi’ a hand like that, does ter? There’s too much pick-haft and shovel-dirt on it.”


The minister flushed with confusion, and sat down again. Mrs. Morel rose, carried out the steaming saucepan. Morel took off his coat, dragged his armchair to table, and sat down heavily.


“Are you tired?” asked the clergyman.


“Tired? I ham that,” replied Morel. “You don’t know what it is to be tired, as I’m tired.”


“No,” replied the clergyman.


“Why, look yer ’ere,” said the miner, showing the shoulders of his singlet. “It’s a bit dry now, but it’s wet as a clout with sweat even yet. Feel it.”


“Goodness!” cried Mrs. Morel. “Mr. Heaton doesn’t want to feel your nasty singlet.”


The clergyman put out his hand gingerly.


“No, perhaps he doesn’t,” said Morel; “but it’s all come out of me, whether or not. An’ iv’ry day alike my singlet’s wringin’ wet. ’Aven’t you got a drink, Missis, for a man when he comes home barkled up from the pit?”


“You know you drank all the beer,” said Mrs. Morel, pouring out his tea.


“An’ was there no more to be got?” Turning to the clergyman—“A man gets that caked up wi’ th’ dust, you know,—that clogged up down a coal-mine, he needs a drink when he comes home.”


“I am sure he does,” said the clergyman.


“But it’s ten to one if there’s owt for him.”


“There’s water—and there’s tea,” said Mrs. Morel.


“Water! It’s not water as’ll clear his throat.”


He poured out a saucerful of tea, blew it, and sucked it up through his great black moustache, sighing afterwards. Then he poured out another saucerful, and stood his cup on the table.


“My cloth!” said Mrs. Morel, putting it on a plate.


“A man as comes home as I do ’s too tired to care about cloths,” said Morel.


“Pity!” exclaimed his wife, sarcastically.


The room was full of the smell of meat and vegetables and pit-clothes.


He leaned over to the minister, his great moustache thrust forward, his mouth very red in his black face.


“Mr. Heaton,” he said, “a man as has been down the black hole all day, dingin’ away at a coal-face, yi, a sight harder than that wall—”


“Needn’t make a moan of it,” put in Mrs. Morel.


She hated her husband because, whenever he had an audience, he whined and played for sympathy. William, sitting nursing the baby, hated him, with a boy’s hatred for false sentiment, and for the stupid treatment of his mother. Annie had never liked him; she merely avoided him.


When the minister had gone, Mrs. Morel looked at her cloth.


“A fine mess!” she said.


“Dos’t think I’m goin’ to sit wi’ my arms danglin’, cos tha’s got a parson for tea wi’ thee?” he bawled.


They were both angry, but she said nothing. The baby began to cry, and Mrs. Morel, picking up a saucepan from the hearth, accidentally knocked Annie on the head, whereupon the girl began to whine, and Morel to shout at her. In the midst of this pandemonium, William looked up at the big glazed text over the mantelpiece and read distinctly: