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Sons and Lovers

PART II: 11. The Test On Miriam
WITH the spring came again the old madness and battle. Now he knew he would
have to go to Miriam. But what was his reluctance? He told himself it was only a
sort of overstrong virginity in her and him which neither could break through. He
might have married her; but his circumstances at home made it difficult, and,
moreover, he did not want to marry. Marriage was for life, and because they had
become close companions, he and she, he did not see that it should inevitably
follow they should be man and wife. He did not feel that he wanted marriage with
Miriam. He wished he did. He would have given his head to have felt a joyous
desire to marry her and to have her. Then why couldn't he bring it off? There was
some obstacle; and what was the obstacle? It lay in the physical bondage. He
shrank from the physical contact. But why? With her he felt bound up inside
himself. He could not go out to her. Something struggled in him, but he could not
get to her. Why? She loved him. Clara said she even wanted him; then why
couldn't he go to her, make love to her, kiss her? Why, when she put her arm in
his, timidly, as they walked, did he feel he would burst forth in brutality and
recoil? He owed himself to her; he wanted to belong to her. Perhaps the recoil
and the shrinking from her was love in its first fierce modesty. He had no
aversion for her. No, it was the opposite; it was a strong desire battling with a still
stronger shyness and virginity. It seemed as if virginity were a positive force,
which fought and won in both of them. And with her he felt it so hard to
overcome; yet he was nearest to her, and with her alone could he deliberately
break through. And he owed himself to her. Then, if they could get things right,
they could marry; but he would not marry unless he could feel strong in the joy of
it---never. He could not have faced his mother. It seemed to him that to sacrifice
himself in a marriage he did not want would be degrading, and would undo all his
life, make it a nullity. He would try what he could do.
And he had a great tenderness for Miriam. Always, she was sad, dreaming her
religion; and he was nearly a religion to her. He could not bear to fail her. It would
all come right if they tried.
He looked round. A good many of the nicest men he knew were like himself,
bound in by their own virginity, which they could not break out of. They were so
sensitive to their women that they would go without them for ever rather than do
them a hurt, an injustice. Being the sons of mothers whose husbands had
blundered rather brutally through their feminine sanctities, they were themselves
too diffident and shy. They could easier deny themselves than incur any reproach
from a woman; for a woman was like their mother, and they were full of the sense
of their mother. They preferred themselves to suffer the misery of celibacy, rather
than risk the other person.
He went back to her. Something in her, when he looked at her, brought the tears
almost to his eyes. One day he stood behind her as she sang. Annie was playing
a song on the piano. As Miriam sang her mouth seemed hopeless. She sang like
a nun singing to heaven. It reminded him so much of the mouth and eyes of one
 
 
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