Sons and Lovers. D. H. Lawrence

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      “I think you’ll like it,” she said.

      “‘Doigts’ does mean ‘fingers,’ mother, and it was the writing. I couldn’t read the writing.”

      “Never mind, my boy. I’m sure he’ll be all right, and you won’t see much of him. Wasn’t that first young fellow nice? I’m sure you’ll like them.”

      “But wasn’t that Mr. Jordan common, mother? Does he own it all?”

      “I suppose he was a workman who has got on,” she said “You mustn’t mind people so much. They’re not being disagreeable to you—it’s their way. You always think people are meaning things for you. But they don’t.”

      It was very sunny. Over the big desolate space of the market-place the blue sky shimmered, and the granite cobbles of the paving glistened. Shops down the Long Row were deep in obscurity, and the shadow was full of colour. Just where the horse trams trundled across the market was a row of fruit stalls, with fruit blazing in the sun—apples and piles of reddish oranges, small greengage plums and bananas. There was a warm scent of fruit as mother and son passed. Gradually his feeling of ignominy and of rage sank.

      “Where should we go for dinner?” asked the mother.

      It was felt to be a reckless extravagance. Paul had only been in an eating-house once or twice in his life, and then only to have a cup of tea and a bun. Most of the people of Bestwood considered that tea and bread and butter, and perhaps potted beef, was all they could afford to eat in Nottingham. Real cooked dinner was considered great extravagance. Paul felt rather guilty.

      They found a place that looked quite cheap. But when Mrs. Morel scanned the bill of fare, her heart was heavy, things were so dear. So she ordered kidney pies and potatoes as the cheapest available dish.

      “We oughtn’t to have come here, mother,” said Paul.

      “Never mind,” she said. “We won’t come again.”

      She insisted on his having a small currant tart, because he liked sweets.

      “I don’t want it, mother,” he pleaded.

      “Yes,” she insisted; “you’ll have it.”

      And she looked round for the waitress. But the waitress was busy, and Mrs. Morel did not like to bother her then. So the mother and son waited for the girl’s pleasure, whilst she flirted among the men.

      “Brazen hussy!” said Mrs. Morel to Paul. “Look now, she’s taking that man his pudding, and he came long after us.”

      “It doesn’t matter, mother,” said Paul.

      Mrs. Morel was angry. But she was too poor, and her orders were too meagre, so that she had not the courage to insist on her rights just then. They waited and waited.

      “Should we go, mother?” he said.

      Then Mrs. Morel stood up. The girl was passing near.

      “Will you bring one currant tart?” said Mrs. Morel clearly.

      The girl looked round insolently.

      “Directly,” she said.

      “We have waited quite long enough,” said Mrs. Morel.

      In a moment the girl came back with the tart. Mrs. Morel asked coldly for the bill. Paul wanted to sink through the floor. He marvelled at his mother’s hardness. He knew that only years of battling had taught her to insist even so little on her rights. She shrank as much as he.

      “It’s the last time I go there for anything!” she declared, when they were outside the place, thankful to be clear.

      “We’ll go,” she said, “and look at Keep’s and Boot’s, and one or two places, shall we?”

      They had discussions over the pictures, and Mrs. Morel wanted to buy him a little sable brush that he hankered after. But this indulgence he refused. He stood in front of milliners’ shops and drapers’ shops almost bored, but content for her to be interested. They wandered on.

      “Now, just look at those black grapes!” she said. “They make your mouth water. I’ve wanted some of those for years, but I s’ll have to wait a bit before I get them.”

      Then she rejoiced in the florists, standing in the doorway sniffing.

      “Oh! oh! Isn’t it simply lovely!”

      Paul saw, in the darkness of the shop, an elegant young lady in black peering over the counter curiously.

      “They’re looking at you,” he said, trying to draw his mother away.

      “But what is it?” she exclaimed, refusing to be moved.

      “Stocks!” he answered, sniffing hastily. “Look, there’s a tubful.”

      “So there is—red and white. But really, I never knew stocks to smell like it!” And, to his great relief, she moved out of the doorway, but only to stand in front of the window.

      “Paul!” she cried to him, who was trying to get out of sight of the elegant young lady in black—the shop-girl.

      “Paul! Just look here!”

      He came reluctantly back.

      “Now, just look at that fuchsia!” she exclaimed, pointing.

      “H’m!” He made a curious, interested sound. “You’d think every second as the flowers was going to fall off, they hang so big an’ heavy.”

      “And such an abundance!” she cried.

      “And the way they drop downwards with their threads and knots!”

      “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Lovely!”

      “I wonder who’ll buy it!” he said.

      “I wonder!” she answered. “Not us.”

      “It would die in our parlour.”

      “Yes, beastly cold, sunless hole; it kills every bit of a plant you put in, and the kitchen chokes them to death.”

      They bought a few things, and set off towards the station. Looking up the canal, through the dark pass of the buildings, they saw the Castle on its bluff of brown, green-bushed rock, in a positive miracle of delicate sunshine.

      “Won’t it be nice for me to come out at dinner-times?” said Paul. “I can go all round here and see everything. I s’ll love it.”

      “You will,” assented his mother.

      He had spent a perfect afternoon with his mother. They arrived home in the mellow evening, happy, and glowing, and tired.

      In the morning he filled in the form for his season-ticket and took it to the station. When he got back, his mother was just beginning to wash the СКАЧАТЬ