第39章 儿子与情人 (2)

　　He told her everything that took place，everything that

　　was said. It was as if she had been there. And he was dying to

　　introduce her to these new friends who had dinner at seventhirty

　　in the evening.

　　“Go along with you!”she said.“ What do they want to know

　　me for?”

　　“They do! ”he cried indignantly.“If they want to know

　　me — and they say they do — then they want to know you，because

　　you are quite as clever as I am.”

　　“Go along with you，child!”she laughed.

　　But she began to spare her hands. They，too，were workgnarled

　　now. The skin was shiny with so much hot water，the

　　knuckles rather swollen. But she began to be careful to keep

　　them out of soda. She regretted what they had been — so small

　　and exquisite. And when Annie insisted on her having more

　　stylish blouses to suit her age，she submitted. She even went so

　　far as to allow a black velvet bow to be placed on her hair. Then

　　she sniffed in her sarcastic manner，and was sure she looked a

　　sight. But she looked a lady，Paul declared，as much as Mrs.

　　Major Moreton，and far，far nicer. The family was coming on.

　　Only Morel remained unchanged，or rather，lapsed slowly.

　　Paul and his mother now had long discussions about life.

　　Religion was fading into the background. He had shoveled away

　　all the beliefs that would hamper him，had cleared the ground，

　　and come more or less to the bedrock of belief that one should

　　feel inside oneself for right and wrong，and should have the

　　patience to gradually realize one’s God. Now life interested him

　　more.

　　“You know，”he said to his mother，“I don’t want to belong

　　to the well-to-do middle class. I like my common people best. I

　　belong to the common people.”

　　“But if anyone else said so，my son，wouldn’t you be in a

　　tear. You know you consider yourself equal to any gentleman.”

　　“In myself，”he answered，”not in my class or my education

　　or my manners. But in myself I am.’

　　“Very well，then. Then why talk about the common people?”

　　“Because — the difference between people isn’t in their class，

　　but in themselves. Only from the middle classes one gets ideas，

　　and from the common people — life itself，warmth. You feel their

　　hates and loves.”

　　“It’s all very well，my boy. But，then，why don’t you go and

　　talk to your father’s pals?”

　　“But they’re rather different.”

　　Not at all. They’re the common people. After all，whom do you

　　mix with now — among the common people? Those that exchange

　　ideas，like the middle classes. The rest don’t interest you.”

　　“But — there’s the life —”

　　“I don’t believe there’s a lot more life from Miriam than you

　　could get from any educated girl — say Miss Moreton? It is you

　　who are snobbish about class.”

　　She frankly wanted him to climb into the middle class，a

　　thing not very difficult，she knew. And she wanted him in the

　　end to marry a lady.

　　Now she began to combat him in his restless fretting. He still

　　kept up his connexion with Miriam，could neither break free nor

　　go the whole length of engagement. And this indecision seemed

　　to bleed him of his energy. Moreover，his mother suspected him

　　of an unrecognized leaning towards Clara，and，since the latter

　　was a married woman，she wished he would fall in love with

　　one of the girls in a better station of life. But he was stupid，and

　　would refuse to love or even to admire a girl much，just because

　　she was his social superior.

　　“My boy，”said his mother to him，“All your cleverness，

　　your breaking away from old things，and taking life in your own

　　hands，doesn’t seem to bring you much happiness.”

　　“What is happiness! ”he cried.“ It’s nothing to me! How

　　am Ｉ to be happy?”

　　The plump question disturbed her.

　　“That’s for you to judge，my lad. But if you could meet

　　some good woman who would make you happy — and you began

　　to think of settling your life — when you have the means — so

　　that you could work without all this fretting — it would be much

　　better for you.”

　　He frowned. His mother caught him on the raw of his wound

　　of Miriam. He pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead，his eyes

　　full of pain and fire.

　　“you mean easy，mother，”he cried.“That’s a woman’s

　　whole doctrine for life — ease of soul and physical comfort. And I do

　　despise it.”

　　“Oh，do you!”replied his mother.“ And do you call yours a

　　divine discontent?”

　　“Yes. I don’t care about its divinity. But damn your

　　happiness! So long as life’s full，it doesn’t matter whether it’s

　　happy or not. I’m afraid your happiness would bore me. ”

　　“You never give it a chance，”she said. Then suddenly all her

　　passion of grief over him broke out.“ But it does matter!”she

　　cried.“ And you ought to be happy，you ought to try to be happy，

　　to live to be happy. How could I bear to think your life wouldn’t

　　be a happy one!

　　“Your own’s been bad enough，mater，but it hasn’t left you

　　so much worse off than the folk who’ve been happier. I reckon

　　you’ve done well. And I am the same. Aren’t I well enough off?”

　　“You’re not，my son. Battle — battle — and suffer. It’s about

　　all you do，as far as I can see.”

　　“But why not，my dear? I tell you it’s the best —”

　　“It isn’t. And one ought to be happy，one ought.

　　By this time Mrs. Morel was trembling violently. Struggles

　　of this kind often took place between her and her son，when she

　　seemed to fight for his very life against his own will to die. He

　　took her in his arms. She was ill and pitiful.

　　“Never mind，Little，”he murmured.“So long as you don’t feel

　　life’s paltry and a miserable business，the rest doesn’t matter，

　　happiness or unhappiness.”

　　She pressed him to her.

　　“But I want you to be happy，”she said pathetically.

　　Eh，my dear — say rather you want me to live.

　　Mrs. Morel felt as if her heart would break for him. At this

　　rate she knew he would not live. He had that poignant careless

　　ness about himself，his own suffering，his own life，which

　　is a form of slow suicide. It almost broke her heart. With all the

　　passion of her strong nature she hated Miriam for having in