(no subject)
Sons And Lovers by D. H. Lawrence
"Tell them you wouldn't and won't marry me, and have broken off," he said. "It's true enough."
She bit her finger moodily. She thought over their whole affair. She had known it would come to this: she had seen it all along. It chimed with her bitter expectation.
"Always, it has always been so!" she cried. "It has been one long battle between us - you fighting away from me."
It came from her unawares, like a flash of lightning. The man's heart stood still. Was this how she saw it?
"But we've had some perfect hours, some perfect times, when we were together," he pleaded.
"Never!" she cried, "never! It has always been you fighting me off."
"Not always - not at first," he pleaded.
"Always - from the very beginning - always the same."
She had finished - but she had done enough. He sat aghast. He had wanted to say 'It has been good, but it is at an end.' And she, she whose love he had believed in when he had despised himself, denied that their love had ever been love. 'He had always fought away from her?' Then it had been monstrous. There had never been anything really between them - all the time he had been imagining something where there was nothing. And she had known. She had known so much, and had told him so little. She had known all the time. All the time this was at the bottom of her!
He sat silent in bitterness. At last, the whole affair appeared in a cynical aspect to him. She had really played with him, not he with her. She had hidden all her condemnation from him, had flattered him, and despised him. She despised him now. He grew intellectual and cruel.
She sat full of bitterness. She had known - oh well she had known. All the time he was away from her - she had summed him up, seen his littleness, his meanness, and his folly. Even she had guarded her soul against him. She was not overthrown, not prostrated, not even much hurt. She had known. Only why, as he sat there, had he still this strange dominance over her. His very movements fascinated her as if she were hypnotised by him. Yet he was despicable, false, inconsistent, and mean. Why this bondage for her? Why was it movement of his arm stirred her as nothing else in the world could? Why was she fastened to him? Why even now, if he looked at her and commanded her, would she have to obey? She would obey him in his trifling demands. But once he was obeyed, then she had him in her power, she knew, to lead him where she would. She was sure of herself. Only, this new influence! Ah, he was not a man, he was a baby that cries for the newest toy. And all the attachment of his soul would not keep him.
It was the end between them. She could not take him and relieve him the responsibility of himself. She could only sacrifice herself to him, sacrifice herself every day, gladly. And that he did not want. He wanted her to hold him and say, with joy and authority: “Stop now all this restlessness and beating against death. You are mine for a mate.” She had not the strength. Or was it a mate she wanted, or did she want a Christ in him?
He felt, in leaving her, he was defrauding her of life. But he knew that in staying, stifling the inner, desperate man, he was denying his own life. And he did not hope to give life to her by denying his own.
"Tell them you wouldn't and won't marry me, and have broken off," he said. "It's true enough."
She bit her finger moodily. She thought over their whole affair. She had known it would come to this: she had seen it all along. It chimed with her bitter expectation.
"Always, it has always been so!" she cried. "It has been one long battle between us - you fighting away from me."
It came from her unawares, like a flash of lightning. The man's heart stood still. Was this how she saw it?
"But we've had some perfect hours, some perfect times, when we were together," he pleaded.
"Never!" she cried, "never! It has always been you fighting me off."
"Not always - not at first," he pleaded.
"Always - from the very beginning - always the same."
She had finished - but she had done enough. He sat aghast. He had wanted to say 'It has been good, but it is at an end.' And she, she whose love he had believed in when he had despised himself, denied that their love had ever been love. 'He had always fought away from her?' Then it had been monstrous. There had never been anything really between them - all the time he had been imagining something where there was nothing. And she had known. She had known so much, and had told him so little. She had known all the time. All the time this was at the bottom of her!
He sat silent in bitterness. At last, the whole affair appeared in a cynical aspect to him. She had really played with him, not he with her. She had hidden all her condemnation from him, had flattered him, and despised him. She despised him now. He grew intellectual and cruel.
She sat full of bitterness. She had known - oh well she had known. All the time he was away from her - she had summed him up, seen his littleness, his meanness, and his folly. Even she had guarded her soul against him. She was not overthrown, not prostrated, not even much hurt. She had known. Only why, as he sat there, had he still this strange dominance over her. His very movements fascinated her as if she were hypnotised by him. Yet he was despicable, false, inconsistent, and mean. Why this bondage for her? Why was it movement of his arm stirred her as nothing else in the world could? Why was she fastened to him? Why even now, if he looked at her and commanded her, would she have to obey? She would obey him in his trifling demands. But once he was obeyed, then she had him in her power, she knew, to lead him where she would. She was sure of herself. Only, this new influence! Ah, he was not a man, he was a baby that cries for the newest toy. And all the attachment of his soul would not keep him.
It was the end between them. She could not take him and relieve him the responsibility of himself. She could only sacrifice herself to him, sacrifice herself every day, gladly. And that he did not want. He wanted her to hold him and say, with joy and authority: “Stop now all this restlessness and beating against death. You are mine for a mate.” She had not the strength. Or was it a mate she wanted, or did she want a Christ in him?
He felt, in leaving her, he was defrauding her of life. But he knew that in staying, stifling the inner, desperate man, he was denying his own life. And he did not hope to give life to her by denying his own.