Sons and Lovers HTML version
PART II: 9. Defeat Of Miriam
PAUL was dissatisfied with himself and with everything. The deepest of his love
belonged to his mother. When he felt he had hurt her, or wounded his love for
her, he could not bear it. Now it was spring, and there was battle between him
and Miriam. This year he had a good deal against her. She was vaguely aware of
it. The old feeling that she was to be a sacrifice to this love, which she had had
when she prayed, was mingled in all her emotions. She did not at the bottom
believe she ever would have him. She did not believe in herself primarily:
doubted whether she could ever be what he would demand of her. Certainly she
never saw herself living happily through a lifetime with him. She saw tragedy,
sorrow, and sacrifice ahead. And in sacrifice she was proud, in renunciation she
was strong, for she did not trust herself to support everyday life. She was
prepared for the big things and the deep things, like tragedy. It was the
sufficiency of the small day-life she could not trust.
The Easter holidays began happily. Paul was his own frank self. Yet she felt it
would go wrong. On the Sunday afternoon she stood at her bedroom window,
looking across at the oak-trees of the wood, in whose branches a twilight was
tangled, below the bright sky of the afternoon. Grey-green rosettes of
honeysuckle leaves hung before the window, some already, she fancied,
showing bud. It was spring, which she loved and dreaded.
Hearing the clack of the gate she stood in suspense. It was a bright grey day.
Paul came into the yard with his bicycle, which glittered as he walked. Usually he
rang his bell and laughed towards the house. To-day he walked with shut lips
and cold, cruel bearing, that had something of a slouch and a sneer in it. She
knew him well by now, and could tell from that keen-looking, aloof young body of
his what was happening inside him. There was a cold correctness in the way he
put his bicycle in its place, that made her heart sink.
She came downstairs nervously. She was wearing a new net blouse that she
thought became her. It had a high collar with a tiny ruff, reminding her of Mary,
Queen of Scots, and making her, she thought, look wonderfully a woman, and
dignified. At twenty she was full-breasted and luxuriously formed. Her face was
still like a soft rich mask, unchangeable. But her eyes, once lifted, were
wonderful. She was afraid of him. He would notice her new blouse.
He, being in a hard, ironical mood, was entertaining the family to a description of
a service given in the Primitive Methodist Chapel, conducted by one of the well-
known preachers of the sect. He sat at the head of the table, his mobile face,
with the eyes that could be so beautiful, shining with tenderness or dancing with
laughter, now taking on one expression and then another, in imitation of various
people he was mocking. His mockery always hurt her; it was too near the reality.
He was too clever and cruel. She felt that when his eyes were like this, hard with
mocking hate, he would spare neither himself nor anybody else. But Mrs. Leivers