Sons and Lovers HTML version

PART I: 2. The Birth Of Paul, And Another
AFTER such a scene as the last, Walter Morel was for some days abashed and
ashamed, but he soon regained his old bullying indifference. Yet there was a
slight shrinking, a diminishing in his assurance. Physically even, he shrank, and
his fine full presence waned. He never grew in the least stout, so that, as he sank
from his erect, assertive bearing, his physique seemed to contract along with his
pride and moral strength.
But now he realised how hard it was for his wife to drag about at her work, and,
his sympathy quickened by penitence, hastened forward with his help. He came
straight home from the pit, and stayed in at evening till Friday, and then he could
not remain at home. But he was back again by ten o'clock, almost quite sober.
He always made his own breakfast. Being a man who rose early and had plenty
of time he did not, as some miners do, drag his wife out of bed at six o'clock. At
five, sometimes earlier, he woke, got straight out of bed, and went downstairs.
When she could not sleep, his wife lay waiting for this time, as for a period of
peace. The only real rest seemed to be when he was out of the house.
He went downstairs in his shirt and then struggled into his pit-trousers, which
were left on the hearth to warm all night. There was always a fire, because Mrs.
Morel raked. And the first sound in the house was the bang, bang of the poker
against the raker, as Morel smashed the remainder of the coal to make the kettle,
which was filled and left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and knife and fork, all he
wanted except just the food, was laid ready on the table on a newspaper. Then
he got his breakfast, made the tea, packed the bottom of the doors with rugs to
shut out the draught, piled a big fire, and sat down to an hour of joy. He toasted
his bacon on a fork and caught the drops of fat on his bread; then he put the
rasher on his thick slice of bread, and cut off chunks with a clasp-knife, poured
his tea into his saucer, and was happy. With his family about, meals were never
so pleasant. He loathed a fork: it is a modern introduction which has still scarcely
reached common people. What Morel preferred was a clasp-knife. Then, in
solitude, he ate and drank, often sitting, in cold weather, on a little stool with his
back to the warm chimney-piece, his food on the fender, his cup on the hearth.
And then he read the last night's newspaper--what of it he could--spelling it over
laboriously. He preferred to keep the blinds down and the candle lit even when it
was daylight; it was the habit of the mine.
At a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick slices of bread and butter, and put them
in the white calico snap-bag. He filled his tin bottle with tea. Cold tea without milk
or sugar was the drink he preferred for the pit. Then he pulled off his shirt, and
put on his pit-singlet, a vest of thick flannel cut low round the neck, and with short
sleeves like a chemise.