The Greatest Works of D. H. Lawrence. D. H. Lawrence

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СКАЧАТЬ surveyed his reflection in the mirror above the high mantlepiece; he looked at himself and smiled. I wondered that he found such satisfaction in his image, seeing that there was a gap in his chin, and an uncertain moth-eaten appearance in one cheek. Mrs Saxton still held this mirror an object of dignity; it was fairly large, and had a well-carven frame; but it left gaps and spots and scratches in one’s countenance, and even where it was brightest, it gave one’s reflection a far-away dim aspect. Notwithstanding, George smiled at himself as he combed his hair, and twisted his moustache.

      “You seem to make a good impression on yourself,” said I.

      “I was thinking I looked all right — sort of face to go courting with,” he replied, laughing: “You just arrange a patch of black to come and hide your faults — and you’re all right.”

      “I always used to think,” said Emily, “that the black spots had swallowed so many faces they were full up, and couldn’t take any more — and the rest was misty because there were so many faces lapped one over the other — reflected.”

      “You do see yourself a bit ghostish —” said he, “on a background of your ancestors. I always think when you stop in an old place like this you sort of keep company with your ancestors too much; I sometimes feel like a bit of the old building walking about; the old feelings of the old folks stick to you like the lichens on the walls; you sort of get hoary.”

      “That’s it — it’s true,” asserted the father, “people whose families have shifted about much don’t know how it feels. That’s why I’m going to Canada.”

      “And I’m going in a pub,” said George, “where it’s quite different — plenty of life.”

      “Life!” echoed Emily with contempt.

      “That’s the word, my wench,” replied her brother, lapsing into the dialect. “That’s what I’m after. We know such a lot, an’ we know nowt.”

      “You do —” said the father, turning to me, “you stay in one place, generation after generation, and you seem to get proud, an’ look on things outside as foolishness. There’s many a thing as any common man knows, as we haven’t a glimpse of. We keep on thinking and feeling the same, year after year, till we’ve only got one side; an’ I suppose they’ve done it before us.”

      “It’s ‘Good night an’ God bless you,’ to th’ owd place, granfeythers an’ grammothers,” laughed George as he ran upstairs —“an’ off we go on the gallivant,” he shouted from the landing.

      His father shook his head, saying:

      “I can’t make out how it is, he’s so different. I suppose it’s being in love —”

      We went into the barn to get the bicycles to cycle over to Greymede. George struck a match to look for his pump, and he noticed a great spider scuttle off into the corner of the wall, and sit peeping out at him like a hoary little ghoul.

      “How are you, old chap?” said George, nodding to him —“Thought he looked like an old grandfather of mine,” he said to me, laughing, as he pumped up the tyres of the old bicycle for me.

      It was Saturday night, so the bar parlour of the Ram Inn was fairly full.

      “Hello, George — come co’tin’?” was the cry, followed by a nod and a “Good evenin’,” to me, who was a stranger in the parlour.

      “It’s raïght for thaïgh,” said a fat young fellow with an unwilling white moustache, “— tha can co’te as much as ter likes ter ‘a’e, as well as th’ lass, an’ it cost thee nöwt —” at which the room laughed, taking pipes from mouths to do so. George sat down, looking round.

      “‘Owd on a bit,” said a black-whiskered man, “tha mun ‘a ‘e patience when to ‘t co’tin’ a lass. Ow’s puttin’ th’ öwd lady ter bed —‘ark thee — can t’ ‘ear — that wor th’ bed latts goin’ bang. Ow’ll be dern in a minnit now, gie ‘er time ter tuck th’ öwd lady up. Can’ ter ‘ear ‘er say ‘er prayers.”

      “Strike!” cried the fat young man, exploding:

      “Fancy th’ öwd lady sayin’ ‘er prayers! — it ‘ud be enough ter ma’e ‘er false teeth drop out.”

      The room laughed.

      They began to tell tales about the old landlady. She had practised bone-setting, in which she was very skilful. People come to her from long distances that she might divine their trouble and make right their limbs. She would accept no fee.

      Once she had gone up to Dr Fullwood to give him a piece of her mind, inasmuch as he had let a child go for three weeks with a broken collar-bone, whilst treating him for dislocation. The doctor had tried the high hand with her, since when, wherever he went, the miners placed their hands on their shoulders, and groaned: “Oh my collar-bone!”

      Here Meg came in. She gave a bright, quick, bird-like look at George, and flushed a brighter red.

      “I thought you wasn’t cummin’,” she said.

      “Dunna thee bother —‘e’d none stop away,” said the black-whiskered man.

      She brought us glasses of whisky, and moved about supplying the men, who chaffed with her honestly and good-naturedly. Then she went out, but we remained in our corner. The men talked on the most peculiar subjects: there was a bitter discussion as to whether London is or is not a seaport — the matter was thrashed out with heat; then an embryo artist set the room ablaze by declaring there were only three colours, red, yellow. and blue, and the rest were not colours, they were mixtures: this amounted almost to atheism and one man asked the artist to dare to declare that his brown breeches were not a colour, which the artist did, and almost had to fight for it; next they came to strength, and George won a bet of five shillings, by lifting a piano; then they settled down, and talked sex, sotto voce, one man giving startling accounts of Japanese and Chinese prostitutes in Liverpool. After this the talk split up: a farmer began to counsel George how to manage the farm attached to the inn, another bargained with him about horses, and argued about cattle, a tailor advised him thickly to speculate, and unfolded a fine secret by which a man might make money, if he had the go to do it — so on, till eleven o’clock. Then Bill came and called “time!” and the place was empty, and the room shivered as a little fresh air came in between the foul tobacco smoke, and the smell of drink, and foul breath.

      We were both affected by the whisky we had drunk. I was ashamed to find that when I put out my hand to take my glass, or to strike a match, I missed my mark, and fumbled; my hands seemed hardly to belong to me, and my feet were not much more sure. Yet I was acutely conscious of every change in myself and in him; it seemed as if I could make my body drunk, but could never intoxicate my mind, which roused itself and kept the sharpest guard. George was frankly half drunk: his eyelids sloped over his eyes and his speech was thick; when he put out his hand he knocked over his glass, and the stuff was spilled all over the table; he only laughed. I, too, felt a great prompting to giggle on every occasion, and I marvelled at myself.

      Meg came into the room when all the men had gone.

      “Come on, my duck,” he said, waving his arm with the generous flourish of a tipsy man. “Come an’ sit ’ere.”

      “Shan’t you come in th’ kitchen?” she asked, looking round on the tables where pots and glasses stood in little pools of liquor, and where spent СКАЧАТЬ