Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence (best short novels .txt) 📕

steps into her dry, narrow, “finishing-off” room. Fanny walked before him: her black bodice was short⁠—the waist was under her armpits⁠—and her green-black cashmere skirt seemed very long, as she strode with big strides before the young man, himself so graceful. She went to her seat at the narrow end of the room, where the window opened on to chimney-pots. Paul watched her thin hands and her flat red wrists as she excitedly twitched her white apron, which was spread on the bench in front of her. She hesitated.

“You didn’t think we’d forgot you?” she asked, reproachful.

“Why?” he asked. He had forgotten his birthday himself.

“ ‘Why,’ he says! ‘Why!’ Why, look here!” She pointed to the calendar, and he saw, surrounding the big black number “21,” hundreds of little crosses in black-lead.

“Oh, kisses for my birthday,” he laughed. “How did you know?”

“Yes, you want to know, don’t you?” Fanny mocked, hugely delighted. “There’s one from everybody⁠—except Lady Clara⁠—and two from some. But I shan’t tell you how many I put.”

“Oh, I know, you’re spooney,” he said.

“There you are mistaken!” she cried, indignant. “I could never be so soft.” Her voice was strong and contralto.

“You always pretend to be such a hardhearted hussy,” he laughed. “And you know you’re as sentimental⁠—”

“I’d rather be called sentimental than frozen meat,” Fanny blurted. Paul knew she referred to Clara, and he smiled.

“Do you say such nasty things about me?” he laughed.

“No, my duck,” the hunchback woman answered, lavishly tender. She was thirty-nine. “No, my duck, because you don’t think yourself a fine figure in marble and us nothing but dirt. I’m as good as you, aren’t I, Paul?” and the question delighted her.

“Why, we’re not better than one another, are we?” he replied.

“But I’m as good as you, aren’t I, Paul?” she persisted daringly.

“Of course you are. If it comes to goodness, you’re better.”

She was rather afraid of the situation. She might get hysterical.

“I thought I’d get here before the others⁠—won’t they say I’m deep! Now shut your eyes⁠—” she said.

“And open your mouth, and see what God sends you,” he continued, suiting action to words, and expecting a piece of chocolate. He heard the rustle of the apron, and a faint clink of metal. “I’m going to look,” he said.

He opened his eyes. Fanny, her long cheeks flushed, her blue eyes shining, was gazing at him. There was a little bundle of paint-tubes on the bench before him. He turned pale.

“No, Fanny,” he said quickly.

“From us all,” she answered hastily.

“No, but⁠—”

“Are they the right sort?” she asked, rocking herself with delight.

“Jove! they’re the best in the catalogue.”

“But they’re the right sorts?” she cried.

“They’re off the little list I’d made to get when my ship came in.” He bit his lip.

Fanny was overcome with emotion. She must turn the conversation.

“They was all on thorns to do it; they all paid their shares, all except the Queen of Sheba.”

The Queen of Sheba was Clara.

“And wouldn’t she join?” Paul asked.

“She didn’t get the chance; we never told her; we wasn’t going to have her bossing this show. We didn’t want her to join.”

Paul laughed at the woman. He was much moved. At last he must go. She was very close to him. Suddenly she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him vehemently.

“I can give you a kiss today,” she said apologetically. “You’ve looked so white, it’s made my heart ache.”

Paul kissed her, and left her. Her arms were so pitifully thin that his heart ached also.

That day he met Clara as he ran downstairs to wash his hands at dinnertime.

“You have stayed to dinner!” he exclaimed. It was unusual for her.

“Yes; and I seem to have dined on old surgical-appliance stock. I must go out now, or I shall feel stale india-rubber right through.”

She lingered. He instantly caught at her wish.

“You are going anywhere?” he asked.

They went together up to the Castle. Outdoors she dressed very plainly, down to ugliness; indoors she always looked nice. She walked with hesitating steps alongside Paul, bowing and turning away from him. Dowdy in dress, and drooping, she showed to great disadvantage. He could scarcely recognise her strong form, that seemed to slumber with power. She appeared almost insignificant, drowning her stature in her stoop, as she shrank from the public gaze.

The Castle grounds were very green and fresh. Climbing the precipitous ascent, he laughed and chattered, but she was silent, seeming to brood over something. There was scarcely time to go inside the squat, square building that crowns the bluff of rock. They leaned upon the wall where the cliff runs sheer down to the Park. Below them, in their holes in the sandstone, pigeons preened themselves and cooed softly. Away down upon the boulevard at the foot of the rock, tiny trees stood in their own pools of shadow, and tiny people went scurrying about in almost ludicrous importance.

“You feel as if you could scoop up the folk like tadpoles, and have a handful of them,” he said.

She laughed, answering:

“Yes; it is not necessary to get far off in order to see us proportionately. The trees are much more significant.”

“Bulk only,” he said.

She laughed cynically.

Away beyond the boulevard the thin stripes of the metals showed upon the railway-track, whose margin was crowded with little stacks of timber, beside which smoking toy engines fussed. Then the silver string of the canal lay at random among the black heaps. Beyond, the dwellings, very dense on the river flat, looked like black, poisonous herbage, in thick rows and crowded beds, stretching right away, broken now and then by taller plants, right to where the river glistened in a hieroglyph across the country. The steep scarp cliffs across the river looked puny. Great stretches of country darkened with trees and faintly brightened with corn-land, spread towards the haze, where the hills rose blue beyond grey.

“It is comforting,” said Mrs. Dawes, “to think the town goes no farther. It is only a little sore upon the country yet.”

“A little scab,” Paul said.

She shivered.