Sons and Lovers. Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс

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      Just then Morel came in. He had been very jolly in the Nelson, but coming home had grown irritable. He had not quite got over the feeling of irritability and pain, after having slept on the ground when he was so hot; and a bad conscience afflicted him as he neared the house. He did not know he was angry. But when the garden-gate resisted his attempts to open it, he kicked it and broke the latch. He entered just as Mrs. Morel was pouring the infusion of herbs out of the saucepan. Swaying slightly, he lurched against the table. The boiling liquor pitched. Mrs. Morel started back.

      “Good gracious,” she cried, “coming home in his drunkenness”

      “Comin’ home in his what?” he snarled, his hat over his eye.

      Suddenly her blood rose in a jet.

      “Say you’re not drunk!” she flashed.

      She had put down her saucepan, and was stirring the sugar ​into the beer. He dropped his two hands heavily on the table, and thrust his face forward at her.

      “ ‘Say you’re not drunk,’ ” he repeated. “Why, nobody but a nasty little bitch like you ’ud ’ave such a thought.”

      He thrust his face forward at her.

      “There’s money to bezzle with, if there’s money for nothing else.”

      “I’ve not spent a two-shillin’ bit this day,” he said.

      “You don’t get as drunk as a lord on nothing,” she replied. “And,” she cried, flashing into sudden fury, “if you’ve been sponging on your beloved Jerry, why, let him look after his children, for they need it.”

      “It’s a lie, it’s a lie. Shut your face, woman.”

      They were now at battle-pitch. Each forgot everything save the hatred of the other and the battle between them. She was fiery and furious as he. They went on till he called her a liar.

      “No,” she cried, starting up, scarce able to breathe. “Don’t call me that—you, the most despicable liar that ever walked in shoe-leather.” She forced the last words out of suffocated lungs”

      “You’re a liar!” he yelled, banging the table with his fist. “You’re a liar, you’re a liar.”

      She stiffened herself, with clenched fists.

      “The house is filthy with you,” she cried.

      “Then get out on it—it’s mine. Get out on it!” he shouted. “It’s me as brings th’ money whoam, not thee. It’s my house, not thine. Then ger out on’t—ger out on’t!”

      “And I would,” she cried, suddenly shaken into tears of impotence. “Ah, wouldn’t I, wou1dn’t I have gone long ago, but for those children. Ay, haven’t I repented not going years ago, when I’d only the one”—suddenly drying into rage. “Do you think it’s for you I stop—do you think I’d stop one minute for you?”

      “Go, then,” he shouted, beside himself. “Go!”

      “No!” she faced round. “No,” she cried loudly, “you shan’t have it all your own way; you shan’t do all you like. I’ve got those children to see to. My word,” she laughed, “I should look well to leave them to you.”

      “Go,” he cried thickly, lifting his fist. He was afraid of her. “Go!”

      “I should be only too glad. I should laugh, laugh, my lord, if I could get away from you,” she replied.

      He came up to her, his red face, with its bloodshot eyes, ​thrust forward, and gripped her arms. She cried in fear of him, struggled to be free. Coming slightly to himself, panting, he pushed her roughly to the outer door, and thrust her forth, slotting the bolt behind her with a bang. Then he went back into the kitchen, dropped into his armchair, his head, bursting full of blood, sinking between his knees. Thus he dipped gradually into a stupor, from exhaustion and intoxication.

      The moon was high and magnificent in the August night. Mrs. Morel, seared with passion, shivered to find herself out there in a great white light, that fell cold on her, and gave a shock to her inflamed soul. She stood for a few moments helplessly staring at the glistening great rhubarb leaves near the door. Then she got the air into her breast. She walked down the garden path, trembling in every limb, while the child boiled within her. For a while she could not control her consciousness; mechanically she went over the last scene, then over it again, certain phrases, certain moments coming each time like a brand red-hot down on her soul; and each time she enacted again the past hour, each time the brand came down at the same points, till the mark was burnt in, and the pain burnt out, and at last she came to herself. She must have been half an hour in this delirious condition. Then the presence of the night came again to her. She glanced round in fear. She had wandered to the side garden, where she was walking up and down the path beside the currant bushes under the long wall. The garden was a narrow strip, bounded from the road, that cut transversely between the blocks, by a thick thorn hedge.

      She hurried out of the side garden to the front, where she could stand as if in an immense gulf of white light, the moon streaming high in face of her, the moonlight standing up from the hills in front, and filling the valley where the Bottoms crouched, almost blindingly. There, panting and half weeping in reaction from the stress, she murmured to herself over and over again: “The nuisance! the nuisance!”

      She became aware of something about her. With an effort she roused herself to see what it was that penetrated her consciousness. The tall white lilies were reeling in the moonlight, and the air was charged with their perfume, as with a presence. Mrs. Morel gasped slightly in fear. She touched the big, pallid flowers on their petals, then shivered. They seemed to be stretching in the moonlight. She put her hand into one white bin: the gold scarcely showed on her fingers by ​moonlight. She bent down to look at the binful of yellow pollen; but it only appeared dusky. Then she drank a deep draught of the scent. It almost made her dizzy.

      Mrs. Morel leaned on the garden gate, looking out, and she lost herself awhile. She did not know what she thought. Except for a slight feeling of sickness, and her consciousness in the child, herself melted out like scent into the shiny, pale air. After a time the child, too, melted with her in the mixing-pot of moonlight, and she rested with the hills and lilies and houses, all swum together in a kind of swoon.

      When she came to herself she was tired for sleep. Languidly she looked about her; the clumps of white phlox seemed like bushes spread with linen; a moth ricochetted over them, and right across the garden. Following it with her eye roused her. A few whiffs of the raw, strong scent of phlox invigorated her. She passed along the path, hesitating at the white rose-bush. It smelled sweet and simple. She touched the white ruffles of the roses. Their fresh scent and cool, soft leaves reminded her of the morning-time and sunshine. She was very fond of them. But she was tired, and wanted to sleep. In the mysterious out-of-doors she felt forlorn.

      There was no noise anywhere. Evidently the children had not been wakened, or had gone to sleep again. A train, three miles away, roared across the valley. The night was very large, and very strange, stretching its hoary distances infinitely. And out of the silver-grey fog of darkness came sounds vague and hoarse: a corncrake not far off, sound of a train like a sigh, and distant shouts of men.

      Her quietened heart beginning to beat quickly again, СКАЧАТЬ