Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated), page 119
She was with child, and there was again the silence and distance between them. She did not want him nor his secrets nor his game, he was deposed, he was cast out. He seethed with fury at the small, ugly- mouthed woman who had nothing to do with him. Sometimes his anger broke on her, but she did not cry. She turned on him like a tiger, and there was battle.
He had to learn to contain himself again, and he hated it. He hated her that she was not there for him. And he took himself off, anywhere.
But an instinct of gratitude and a knowledge that she would receive him back again, that later on she would be there for him again, prevented his straying very far. He cautiously did not go too far. He knew she might lapse into ignorance of him, lapse away from him, farther, farther, farther, till she was lost to him. He had sense enough, premonition enough in himself, to be aware of this and to measure himself accordingly. For he did not want to lose her: he did not want her to lapse away.
Cold, he called her, selfish, only caring about herself, a foreigner with a bad nature, caring really about nothing, having no proper feelings at the bottom of her, and no proper niceness. He raged, and piled up accusations that had some measure of truth in them all. But a certain grace in him forbade him from going too far. He knew, and he quivered with rage and hatred, that she was all these vile things, that she was everything vile and detestable. But he had grace at the bottom of him, which told him that, above all things, he did not want to lose her, he was not going to lose her.
So he kept some consideration for her, he preserved some relationship. He went out more often, to the “Red Lion” again, to escape the madness of sitting next to her when she did not belong to him, when she was as absent as any woman in indifference could be. He could not stay at home. So he went to the “Red Lion”. And sometimes he got drunk. But he preserved his measure, some things between them he never forfeited.
A tormented look came into his eyes, as if something were always dogging him. He glanced sharp and quick, he could not bear to sit still doing nothing. He had to go out, to find company, to give himself away there. For he had no other outlet, he could not work to give himself out, he had not the knowledge.
As the months of her pregnancy went on, she left him more and more alone, she was more and more unaware of him, his existence was annulled. And he felt bound down, bound, unable to stir, beginning to go mad, ready to rave. For she was quiet and polite, as if he did not exist, as one is quiet and polite to a servant.
Nevertheless she was great with his child, it was his turn to submit. She sat opposite him, sewing, her foreign face inscrutable and indifferent. He felt he wanted to break her into acknowledgment of him, into awareness of him. It was insufferable that she had so obliterated him. He would smash her into regarding him. He had a raging agony of desire to do so.
But something bigger in him withheld him, kept him motionless. So he went out of the house for relief. Or he turned to the little girl for her sympathy and her love, he appealed with all his power to the small Anna. So soon they were like lovers, father and child.
For he was afraid of his wife. As she sat there with bent head, silent, working or reading, but so unutterably silent that his heart seemed under the millstone of it, she became herself like the upper millstone lying on him, crushing him, as sometimes a heavy sky lies on the earth.
Yet he knew he could not tear her away from the heavy obscurity into which she was merged. He must not try to tear her into recognition of himself, and agreement with himself. It were disastrous, impious. So, let him rage as he might, he must withhold himself. But his wrists trembled and seemed mad, seemed as if they would burst.
When, in November, the leaves came beating against the window shutters, with a lashing sound, he started, and his eyes flickered with flame. The dog looked up at him, he sunk his head to the fire. But his wife was startled. He was aware of her listening.
“They blow up with a rattle,” he said.
“What?” she asked.
“The leaves.”
She sank away again. The strange leaves beating in the wind on the wood had come nearer than she. The tension in the room was overpowering, it was difficult for him to move his head. He sat with every nerve, every vein, every fibre of muscle in his body stretched on a tension. He felt like a broken arch thrust sickeningly out from support. For her response was gone, he thrust at nothing. And he remained himself, he saved himself from crashing down into nothingness, from being squandered into fragments, by sheer tension, sheer backward resistance.
During the last months of her pregnancy, he went about in a surcharged, imminent state that did not exhaust itself. She was also depressed, and sometimes she cried. It needed so much life to begin afresh, after she had lost so lavishly. Sometimes she cried. Then he stood stiff, feeling his heart would burst. For she did not want him, she did not want even to be made aware of him. By the very puckering of her face he knew that he must stand back, leave her intact, alone. For it was the old grief come back in her, the old loss, the pain of the old life, the dead husband, the dead children. This was sacred to her, and he must not violate her with his comfort. For what she wanted she would come to him. He stood aloof with turgid heart.
He had to see her tears come, fall over her scarcely moving face, that only puckered sometimes, down on to her breast, that was so still, scarcely moving. And there was no noise, save now and again, when, with a strange, somnambulant movement, she took her handkerchief and wiped her face and blew her nose, and went on with the noiseless weeping. He knew that any offer of comfort from himself would be worse than useless, hateful to her, jangling her. She must cry. But it drove him insane. His heart was scalded, his brain hurt in his head, he went away, out of the house.
His great and chiefest source of solace was the child. She had been at first aloof from him, reserved. However friendly she might seem one day, the next she would have lapsed to her original disregard of him, cold, detached, at her distance.
The first morning after his marriage he had discovered it would not be so easy with the child. At the break of dawn he had started awake hearing a small voice outside the door saying plaintively:
“Mother!”
He rose and opened the door. She stood on the threshold in her night-dress, as she had climbed out of bed, black eyes staring round and hostile, her fair hair sticking out in a wild fleece. The man and child confronted each other.
“I want my mother,” she said, jealously accenting the “my”.
“Come on then,” he said gently.
“Where’s my mother?”
“She’s here-come on.”
The child’s eyes, staring at the man with ruffled hair and beard, did not change. The mother’s voice called softly. The little bare feet entered the room with trepidation.
“Mother!”
“Come, my dear.”
The small bare feet approached swiftly.
“I wondered where you were,” came the plaintive voice. The mother stretched out her arms. The child stood beside the high bed. Brangwen lightly lifted the tiny girl, with an “up-a-daisy”, then took his own place in the bed again.
“Mother!” cried the child, as in anguish.
“What, my pet?”
Anna wriggled close into her mother’s arms, clinging tight, hiding from the fact of the man. Brangwen lay still, and waited. There was a long silence.
Then suddenly, Anna looked round, as if she thought he would be gone. She saw the face of the man lying upturned to the ceiling. Her black eyes stared antagonistic from her exquisite face, her arms clung tightly to her mother, afraid. He did not move for some time, not knowing what to say. His face was smooth and soft-skinned with love, his eyes full of soft light. He looked at her, scarcely moving his head, his eyes smiling.
“Have you just wakened up?” he said.
“Go away,” she retorted, with a little darting forward of the head, something like a viper.
“Nay,” he answered, “I’m not going. You can go.”
“Go away,” came the sharp little command.
“There’s room for you,” he said.
“You can’t send your father from his own bed, my little bird,” said her mother, pleasantly.
The child glowered at him, miserable in her impotence.
“There’s room for you as well,” he said. “It’s a big bed enough.”
She glowered without answering, then turned and clung to her mother. She would not allow it.
During the day she asked her mother several times:
“When are we going home, mother?”
“We are at home, darling, we live here now. This is our house, we live here with your father.”
The child was forced to accept it. But she remained against the man. As night came on, she asked:
“Where are you going to sleep, mother?”
“I sleep with the father now.”
And when Brangwen came in, the child asked fiercely:
“Why do you sleep with my mother? My mother sleeps with me,” her voice quivering.
“You come as well, an’ sleep with both of us,” he coaxed.
“Mother!” she cried, turning, appealing against him.
“But I must have a husband, darling. All women must have a husband.”
“And you like to have a father with your mother, don’t you?” said Brangwen.
Anna glowered at him. She seemed to cogitate.
“No,” she cried fiercely at length, “no, I don’t want.” And slowly her face puckered, she sobbed bitterly. He stood and watched her, sorry. But there could be no altering it.
Which, when she knew, she became quiet. He was easy with her, talking to her, taking her to see the live creatures, bringing her the first chickens in his cap, taking her to gather the eggs, letting her throw crusts to the horse. She would easily accompany him, and take all he had to give, but she remained neutral still.
She was curiously, incomprehensibly jealous of her mother, always anxiously concerned about her. If Brangwen drove with his wife to Nottingham, Anna ran about happily enough, or unconcerned, for a long time. Then, as afternoon came on, there was only one cry-”I want my mother, I want my mother — ” and a bitter, pathetic sobbing that soon had the soft-hearted Tilly sobbing too. The child’s anguish was that her mother was gone, gone.
Yet as a rule, Anna seemed cold, resenting her mother, critical of her. It was:
“I don’t like you to do that, mother,” or, “I don’t like you to say that.” She was a sore problem to Brangwen and to all the people at the Marsh. As a rule, however, she was active, lightly flitting about the farmyard, only appearing now and again to assure herself of her mother. Happy she never seemed, but quick, sharp, absorbed, full of imagination and changeability. Tilly said she was bewitched. But it did not matter so long as she did not cry. There was something heart-rending about Anna’s crying, her childish anguish seemed so utter and so timeless, as if it were a thing of all the ages.
She made playmates of the creatures of the farmyard, talking to them, telling them the stories she had from her mother, counselling them and correcting them. Brangwen found her at the gate leading to the paddock and to the duckpond. She was peering through the bars and shouting to the stately white geese, that stood in a curving line:
“You’re not to call at people when they want to come. You must not do it.”
The heavy, balanced birds looked at the fierce little face and the fleece of keen hair thrust between the bars, and they raised their heads and swayed off, producing the long, can-canking, protesting noise of geese, rocking their ship-like, beautiful white bodies in a line beyond the gate.
“You’re naughty, you’re naughty,” cried Anna, tears of dismay and vexation in her eyes. And she stamped her slipper.
“Why, what are they doing?” said Brangwen.
“They won’t let me come in,” she said, turning her flushed little face to him.
“Yi, they will. You can go in if you want to,” and he pushed open the gate for her.
She stood irresolute, looking at the group of bluey-white geese standing monumental under the grey, cold day.
“Go on,” he said.
She marched valiantly a few steps in. Her little body started convulsively at the sudden, derisive can-cank-ank of the geese. A blankness spread over her. The geese trailed away with uplifted heads under the low grey sky.
“They don’t know you,” said Brangwen. “You should tell ‘em what your name is.”
“They’re naughty to shout at me,” she flashed.
“They think you don’t live here,” he said.
Later he found her at the gate calling shrilly and imperiously:
“My name is Anna, Anna Lensky, and I live here, because Mr. Brangwen’s my father now. He is, yes he is. And I live here.”
This pleased Brangwen very much. And gradually, without knowing it herself, she clung to him, in her lost, childish, desolate moments, when it was good to creep up to something big and warm, and bury her little self in his big, unlimited being. Instinctively he was careful of her, careful to recognise her and to give himself to her disposal.
She was difficult of her affections. For Tilly, she had a childish, essential contempt, almost dislike, because the poor woman was such a servant. The child would not let the serving-woman attend to her, do intimate things for her, not for a long time. She treated her as one of an inferior race. Brangwen did not like it.
“Why aren’t you fond of Tilly?” he asked.
“Because-because-because she looks at me with her eyes bent.”
Then gradually she accepted Tilly as belonging to the household, never as a person.
For the first weeks, the black eyes of the child were for ever on the watch. Brangwen, good-humoured but impatient, spoiled by Tilly, was an easy blusterer. If for a few minutes he upset the household with his noisy impatience, he found at the end the child glowering at him with intense black eyes, and she was sure to dart forward her little head, like a serpent, with her biting:
“Go away.”
“I’m not going away,” he shouted, irritated at last. “Go yourself-hustle-stir thysen-hop.” And he pointed to the door. The child backed away from him, pale with fear. Then she gathered up courage, seeing him become patient.
“We don’t live with you,” she said, thrusting forward her little head at him. “You-you’re-you’re a bomakle.”
“A what?” he shouted.
Her voice wavered-but it came.
“A bomakle.”
“Ay, an’ you’re a comakle.”
She meditated. Then she hissed forwards her head.
“I’m not.”
“Not what?”
“A comakle.”
“No more am I a bomakle.”
He was really cross.
Other times she would say:
“My mother doesn’t live here.”
“Oh, ay?”
“I want her to go away.”
“Then want’s your portion,” he replied laconically.
So they drew nearer together. He would take her with him when he went out in the trap. The horse ready at the gate, he came noisily into the house, which seemed quiet and peaceful till he appeared to set everything awake.
“Now then, Topsy, pop into thy bonnet.”
The child drew herself up, resenting the indignity of the address.
“I can’t fasten my bonnet myself,” she said haughtily.
“Not man enough yet,” he said, tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers.
She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin.
“You talk-nonsents,” she said, re-echoing one of his phrases.
“That face shouts for th’ pump,” he said, and taking out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began wiping round her mouth.
“Is Kitty waiting for me?” she asked.
“Ay,” he said. “Let’s finish wiping your face-it’ll pass wi’ a cat-lick.”
She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her.
“Now my young buck-rabbit,” he said. “Slippy!”
She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and her black eyes glowed.
She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly’s hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mistress.
Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her.
But always in the child was some anxious connection with the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl played about and took very little notice of her. But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was:
“I want to go home.”
“Home, why tha’s nobbut this minute come.”
“I want to go home.”
“What for? What ails thee?”
“I want my mother.”
“Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee.”
“I want to go home.”
There would be tears in a moment.
