本書是英漢雙語版名著系列叢書中的一種，編寫本系列叢書的另一個(gè)主要目的就是為準(zhǔn)備參加英語國家留學(xué)考試的學(xué)生提供學(xué)習(xí)素材。對于留學(xué)考試，無論是SSAT、SAT還是TOEFL、GRE，要取得好的成績，就必須了解西方的社會(huì)、歷史、文化、生活等方面的背景知識，而閱讀西方原版名著是了解這些知識*重要的手段之一。
戴維·赫伯特·勞倫斯（David Herbert Lawrence，1885—1930），英國著名小說家、詩人、散文家，被譽(yù)為“英國文學(xué)史上*偉大的人物之一”。
第三章 莫雷爾遭棄，威廉得寵C(jī)hapter 3 The Casting off of Morel, the Taking on of William莫雷爾的脾氣十分古怪，他竟然喜歡吃藥。閣樓里掛著各式各樣的干藥草，他平常會(huì)自己煎一罐藥，有時(shí)候還讓孩子們和他一起享用。但不管吃了多少藥，還是得病了——莫雷爾患了腦炎。莫雷爾太太不僅要照看孩子，還得伺候他。鄰居們經(jīng)常過來幫忙，即使這樣莫雷爾太太也還是累得夠嗆。家里經(jīng)濟(jì)也很拮據(jù)，要不是鄰居和工友們慷慨解囊，莫雷爾一家早就被拖垮了。
幾個(gè)星期過后，莫雷爾的病情竟然好轉(zhuǎn)了。生病期間被老婆照顧得很舒服，身體好轉(zhuǎn)之后他還時(shí)不時(shí)裝出頭痛的樣子，惹來老婆一陣痛罵。家里過了好一段太平日子，不過莫雷爾太太對丈夫的感情越來越淡了，所以對他也就越來越寬容�，F(xiàn)在莫雷爾太太將全部心思都放到了威廉身上。威廉已經(jīng)長大了，并且是學(xué)校里*聰明的孩子，這使莫雷爾太太看到了未來的光明。莫雷爾一個(gè)人很孤單。那種壓抑的情緒影響著身邊的人。*后只有等到他上床休息之后，莫雷爾太太才能安心做家務(wù)。在這期間，家里*小的男孩出生了，取名為亞瑟。奇怪的是亞瑟一出生就愛上了自己的父親，總是伸出雙臂熱情地向父親歡叫。莫雷爾高興的時(shí)候也會(huì)抱起亞瑟逗他玩，父子倆愉快的互動(dòng)讓莫雷爾太太的生活中又多了點(diǎn)快樂時(shí)光。保羅長得高高瘦瘦的，有時(shí)候很好動(dòng)，有時(shí)候也會(huì)一個(gè)人生悶氣，他總是顯得與眾不同。這讓莫雷爾太太心頭多了一些陰影。
一天，隔壁的安東尼太太前來告狀，指責(zé)威廉抓破了她兒子的領(lǐng)子。莫雷爾太太并沒有立即揍孩子，而是問清楚了情況，但還是訓(xùn)了威廉一頓。誰知道傍晚莫雷爾回到家，立刻氣沖沖地要教訓(xùn)威廉。莫雷爾太太認(rèn)為丈夫沒必要發(fā)這么大的火，畢竟不全是威廉的錯(cuò)。等威廉回到家的時(shí)候，莫雷爾發(fā)瘋似地朝著兒子怒吼，嚇得威廉不敢動(dòng)彈。這時(shí)莫雷爾太太站了出來，攔下了丈夫即將伸出的拳頭，并且威脅他說不許碰孩子一根指頭。
莫雷爾太太在孩子們長大些后加入了婦女協(xié)會(huì)，那些女人不時(shí)地會(huì)討論一些社會(huì)問題。孩子們看到母親讀報(bào)寫字感到有些奇怪，但對母親卻產(chǎn)生了深深的敬意。威廉十三歲的時(shí)候，莫雷爾太太在合作社給他找了份工作。莫雷爾對此很不滿，認(rèn)為那樣的工作還不如下井干活，但老婆堅(jiān)決不肯讓孩子做礦工。威廉很快便證明了自己的能力，他成為了當(dāng)?shù)財(cái)?shù)一數(shù)二的速記員，他將掙到的大部分錢交給母親，而且從不喝酒。威廉經(jīng)常和中產(chǎn)階級來往，經(jīng)常參加各種舞會(huì)，回家后便談?wù)摳鞣N各樣的女子，莫雷爾太太對于兒子談?wù)摰倪@些女子一概不贊成。她曾經(jīng)打發(fā)走了上門尋找威廉的女孩，這遭到威廉的指責(zé)。母子之間經(jīng)常為這些事情發(fā)生爭執(zhí)。當(dāng)威廉十九歲的時(shí)候，他離開合作社，到諾丁漢找到份新工作，一個(gè)星期可以掙三十個(gè)先令。這讓莫雷爾一家都感到十分驕傲。莫雷爾太太希望他能夠幫助兩個(gè)弟弟。
威廉在諾丁漢干了一年之后又要到倫敦去了，年薪漲到一百二十英鎊。但莫雷爾太太并不為兒子的新工作感到開心，因?yàn)樗幌雰鹤与x開自己。可威廉似乎沒有絲毫的傷感。臨走前威廉燒毀了所有的情書，他還念了其中一些有趣的言語，惹得母親哈哈大笑。收拾好東西之后，威廉便踏上了去倫敦的路途。
uring the next week Morel’s temper was almost unbearable. Like all miners, he was a great lover of medicines, which, strangely enough, he would often pay for himself.
“You mun get me a drop o’ laxy vitral,” he said. “It’s a winder as we canna ha’e a sup i’ th’ ’ouse.”
So Mrs. Morel bought him elixir of vitriol, his favourite first medicine. And he made himself a jug of wormwood tea. He had hanging in the attic great bunches of dried herbs: wormwood, rue, horehound, elder flowers, parsley–purt, marshmallow, hyssop, dandelion, and centaury. Usually there was a jug of one or other decoction standing on the hob, from which he drank largely.
“Grand!” he said, smacking his lips after wormwood. “Grand!” And he exhorted the children to try.
“It’s better than any of your tea or your cocoa stews,” he vowed. But they were not to be tempted.
This time, however, neither pills nor vitriol nor all his herbs would shift the “nasty peens in his head”. He was sickening for an attack of an inflammation of the brain. He had never been well since his sleeping on the ground when he went with Jerry to Nottingham. Since then he had drunk and stormed. Now he fell seriously ill, and Mrs. Morel had him to nurse. He was one of the worst patients imaginable. But, in spite of all, and putting aside the fact that he was breadwinner, she never quite wanted him to die. Still there was one part of her wanted him for herself.
The neighbours were very good to her: occasionally some had the children in to meals, occasionally some would do the downstairs work for her, one would mind the baby for a day. But it was a great drag, nevertheless. It was not every day the neighbours helped. Then she had nursing of baby and husband, cleaning and cooking, everything to do. She was quite worn out, but she did what was wanted of her.
And the money was just sufficient. She had seventeen shillings a week from clubs, and every Friday Barker and the other butty put by a portion of the stall’s profits for Morel’s wife. And the neighbours made broths, and gave eggs, and such invalids’ trifles. If they had not helped her so generously in those times, Mrs. Morel would never have pulled through, without incurring debts that would have dragged her down.
The weeks passed. Morel, almost against hope, grew better. He had a fine constitution, so that, once on the mend, he went straight forward to recovery. Soon he was pottering about downstairs. During his illness his wife had spoilt him a little. Now he wanted her to continue. He often put his band to his head, pulled down the comers of his mouth, and shammed pains he did not feel. But there was no deceiving her. At first she merely smiled to herself. Then she scolded him sharply.
“Goodness, man, don’t be so lachrymose.”
That wounded him slightly, but still he continued to feign sickness.
“I wouldn’t be such a mardy baby,” said the wife shortly.
Then he was indignant, and cursed under his breath, like a boy. He was forced to resume a normal tone, and to cease to whine.
Nevertheless, there was a state of peace in the house for some time. Mrs. Morel was more tolerant of him, and he, depending on her almost like a child, was rather happy. Neither knew that she was more tolerant because she loved him less. Up till this time, in spite of all, he had been her husband and her man. She had felt that, more or less, what he did to himself he did to her. Her living depended on him. There were many, many stages in the ebbing of her love for him, but it was always ebbing.
Now, with the birth of this third baby, her self no longer set towards him, helplessly, but was like a tide that scarcely rose, standing off from him. After this she scarcely desired him. And, standing more aloof from him, not feeling him so much part of herself, but merely part of her circumstances, she did not mind so much what he did, could leave him alone.
There was the halt, the wistfulness about the ensuing year, which is like autumn in a man’s life. His wife was casting him off, half regretfully, but relentlessly; casting him off and turning now for love and life to the children. Henceforward he was more or less a husk. And he himself acquiesced, as so many men do, yielding their place to their children.
During his recuperation, when it was really over between them, both made an effort to come back somewhat to the old relationship of the first months of their marriage. He sat at home and, when the children were in bed, and she was sewing—she did all her sewing by hand, made all shirts and children’s clothing—he would read to her from the newspaper, slowly pronouncing and delivering the words like a man pitching quoits. Often she hurried him on, giving him a phrase in anticipation. And then he took her words humbly.
The silences between them were peculiar. There would be the swift, slight “cluck” of her needle, the sharp “pop” of his lips as he let out the smoke, the warmth, the sizzle on the bars as he spat in the fire. Then her thoughts turned to William. Already he was getting a big boy. Already he was top of the class, and the master said he was the smartest lad in the school. She saw him a man, young, full of vigour, making the world glow again for her.
And Morel sitting there, quite alone, and having nothing to think about, would be feeling vaguely uncomfortable. His soul would reach out in its blind way to her and find her gone. He felt a sort of emptiness, almost like a vacuum in his soul. He was unsettled and restless. Soon he could not live in that atmosphere, and he affected his wife. Both felt an oppression on their breathing when they were left together for some time. Then he went to bed and she settled down to enjoy herself alone, working, thinking, living.
Meanwhile another infant was coming, fruit of this little peace and tenderness between the separating parents. Paul was seventeen months old when the new baby was born. He was then a plump, pale child, quiet, with heavy blue eyes, and still the peculiar slight knitting of the brows. The last child was also a boy, fair and bonny. Mrs. Morel was sorry when she knew she was with child, both for economic reasons and because she did not love her husband; but not for the sake of the infant.
They called the baby Arthur. He was very pretty, with a mop of gold curls, and he loved his father from the first. Mrs. Morel was glad this child loved the father. Hearing the miner’s footsteps, the baby would put up his arms and crow. And if Morel were in a good temper, he called back immediately, in his hearty, mellow voice:“What then, my beauty? I sh’ll come to thee in a minute.”
And as soon as he had taken off his pit–coat, Mrs. Morel would put an apron round the child, and give him to his father.
“What a sight the lad looks!” she would exclaim sometimes, taking back the baby, that was smutted on the face from his father’s kisses and play. Then Morel laughed joyfully.
“He’s a little collier, bless his bit o’ mutton!” he exclaimed.
And these were the happy moments of her life now, when the children included the father in her heart.
Meanwhile William grew bigger and stronger and more active, while Paul, always rather delicate and quiet, got slimmer, and trotted after his mother like her shadow. He was usually active and interested, but sometimes he would have fits of depression. Then the mother would find the boy of three or four crying on the sofa.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, and got no answer.
“What’s the matter?” she insisted, getting cross.
“I don’t know,” sobbed the child.
So she tried to reason him out of it, or to amuse him, but without effect. It made her feel beside herself. Then the father, always impatient, would jump from his chair and shout:“If he doesn’t stop, I’ll smack him till he does.”
……
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