The Horse Dealer’s Daughter pg. 4

Jenna — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 01:49:26 +0000

It seemed an unthinkably long way, and his burden so heavy he felt he would never get to the house. But at last he was in the stable-yard, and then in the house-yard. He opened the door and went into the house. In the kitchen he laid her down on the hearth-rug and called. The house was empty. But the fire was burning in the grate.

Then again he kneeled to attend to her. She was breathing regularly, her eyes wide open and as if conscious, but there seemed something missing in her look.

She was conscious in herself, but unconscious of her surroundings.

He ran upstairs, took blankets from a bed and put them before the fire to warm. Then he removed her saturated, earthy-smelling clothing, rubbed her dry with a towel, and wrapped her naked in the blankets. Then he went into the

dining-room, to look for spirits. There was a little whisky. He drank a gulp himself, and put some into her mouth.

The effect was instantaneous. She looked full into his face, as if she had been seeing him for some time, and yet had only just become conscious of him.

‘Dr. Fergusson ?’ she said.

‘What ?’ he answered.

He was divesting himself of his coat, intending to find some dry clothing upstairs. He could not bear the smell of the dead, clayey water, and he was mortally afraid for his own health.

‘What did I do ?’ she asked.

‘Walked into the pond,’ he replied. He had begun to shudder like one sick, and could hardly attend to her. Her eyes remained full on him, he seemed to be going dark in his mind, looking back at her helplessly. The shuddering became quieter in him, his life came back to him, dark and unknowing, but strong again.

‘Was I out of my mind ?’ she asked, while her eyes were fixed on him all the time.

‘Maybe, for the moment,’ he replied. He felt quiet, because his strength had come back. The strange fretful strain had left him.

‘Am I out of my mind now ?’ she asked.

‘Are you ?’ he reflected a moment. ‘No,’ he answered truthfully, ‘I don’t see that you are.’ He turned his face aside. He was afraid now, because he felt dazed, and felt dimly that her power was stronger that his, in this issue. And she continued to look at him fixedly all the time. ‘Can you tell me where I shall find some dry things to put on ?’ he asked.

‘Did you dive into the pond for me ?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he answered. ‘I walked in. But I went in overhead as well.’

There was silence for a moment. He hesitated. He very much wanted to go upstairs to get into dry clothing. But there was another desire in him. And she seemed to hold him. His will seemed to have gone to sleep, and left him, standing there slack before her. But he felt warm inside himself. He did not shudder at all, though his clothes were sodden on him.

‘Why did you ?’ she asked.

‘Because I didn’t want you to do such a foolish thing,’ he said.

‘It wasn’t foolish,’ she said, still gazing at him as she lay on the floor, with a sofa cushion under her head. ‘It was the right thing to do. I knew best, then.’

‘I’ll go and shift these wet things,’ he said. But still he had not the power to move out of her presence, until she sent him. It was as if she had the life of his body in her hands, and he could not extricate himself. Or perhaps he did not want to.

Suddenly she sat up. Then she became aware of her own immediate condition. She felt the blankets about her, she knew her own limbs. For a moment it seemed as if her reason were going. She looked round, with wild eye, as if seeking something. He stood still with fear. She saw her clothing lying scattered.

‘Who undressed me ?’ she asked, her eyes resting full and inevitable on his face.

‘I did,’ he replied, ‘to bring you round.’

For some moments she sat and gazed at him awfully, her lips parted.

‘Do you love me, then ?’ she asked.

He only stood and stared at her, fascinated. His soul seemed to melt.

She shuffled forward on her knees, and put her arms round him, round his legs, as he stood there, pressing her breasts against his knees and thighs, clutching him with strange, convulsive certainty, pressing his thighs against her, drawing him to her face, her throat, as she looked up at him with flaring, humble eyes and transfiguration, triumphant in first possession.

‘You love me,’ she murmured, in strange transport, yearning and triumphant and confident. ‘You love me. I know you love me, I know.’

And she was passionately kissing his knees, through the wet clothing, passionately and indiscriminately kissing his knees, his legs, as if unaware of everything.

He looked down at the tangled wet hair, the wild, bare, animal shoulders. He was amazed, bewildered and afraid. He had never thought of loving her. He had never wanted to love her. When he rescued her and restored her, he was a doctor, and she was a patient. He had had no single personal thought of her.

Nay, this introduction of the personal element was very distasteful to him, a violation of his professional honour. It was horrible to have her there embracing his knees. It was horrible. He revolted from it, violently. And yet - and yet – he had not the power to break away.

She looked at him again, with the same supplication of powerful love, and that same transcendent, frightening light of triumph. In view of the delicate flame which seemed to come from her face like a light, he was powerless. And yet he had never intended to love her. He had never intended. And something stubborn in him could not give way.

‘You love me,’ she repeated, in a murmur of deep, rhapsodic assurance. ‘You love me.’

Her hands were drawing him, drawing him down to her. He was afraid, even a little horrified. For he had, really, no intention of loving her. Yet her hands were drawing him towards her. He put out his hand quickly to steady himself, and grasped her bare shoulder. He had no intention of loving her: his whole will was against his yielding. It was horrible. And yet wonderful was the touch of her shoulders, beautiful the shining of her face. Was she perhaps mad? He had a horror of yielding to her. Yet something in him ached also.

He had been staring away at the door, away from her. But his hand remained on her shoulder. She had gone suddenly very still. He looked down at her. Her eyes were now wide with fear, with doubt, the light was dying from her face, a shadow of terrible greyness was returning. He could not bear the touch of her

eyes’ question upon him, and the look of death behind the question.

With an inward groan he gave way, and let his heart yield towards her. A

sudden gentle smile came on his face. And her eyes, which never left his face,

slowly, slowly filled with tears. He watched the strange water rise in her

eyes, like some slow fountain coming up. And his heart seemed to burn and melt

away in his breast.

He could not bear to look at her any more. He dropped on his knees and caught

her head. with his arms and pressed her face against his throat. She was very

still. His heart, which seemed to have broken, was burning with a kind of

agony in his breast. And he felt her slow, hot tears wetting his throat. But

he could not move.

He felt the hot tears wet his neck and the hollows of his neck, and he

remained motionless, suspended through one of man’s eternities. Only now it

had become indispensable to him to have her face pressed close to him; he

could never let her go again. He could never let her head go away from the

close crutch of his arm. He wanted to remain like that for ever, with his

heart hurting him in a pain that was also life to him. Without knowing, he was

looking down on her damp, soft brown hair.

Then, as it were suddenly, he smelt the horrid stagnant smell of that water.

And at the same moment she drew away from him and looked at him. Her eyes were

wistful and unfathomable. He was afraid of them, and he fell to kissing her,

not knowing what he was doing. He wanted her eyes not to have that terrible,

wistful, unfathomable look.

When she turned her face to him again, a faint delicate flush was glowing, and

there was again dawning that terrible shining of joy in her eyes, which really

terrified him, and yet which he now wanted to see, because he feared the look

of doubt still more.

‘You love me ?’ she said, rather faltering.

‘Yes.’ The word cost him a painful effort. Not because it wasn’t true. But

because it was too newly true, the saying seemed to tear open again his

newly-torn heart. And he hardly wanted it to be true, even now.

She lifted her face to him, and he bent forward and kissed her on the mouth,

gently, with the one kiss that is an eternal pledge. And as he kissed her his

heart strained again in his breast. He never intended to love her. But now it

was over. He had crossed over the gulf to her, and all that he had left behind

had shrivelled and become void.

After the kiss, her eyes again slowly filled with tears. She sat still, away

from him, with her face drooped aside, and her hands folded in her lap. The

tears fell very slowly. There was complete silence. He too sat there motionless and silent on the hearth-rug. The strange pain of his heart that was broken seemed to consume him. That he should love her ? That this was love! That he should be ripped open in this way! Him, a doctor! How they would all jeer if they knew! It was agony to him to think they might know.

In the curious naked pain of the thought he looked again to her. She was sitting there drooped into a muse. He saw a tear fall, and his heart flared hot. He saw for the first time that one of her shoulders was quite uncovered, one arm bare, he could see one of her small breasts; dimly, because it had become almost dark in the room.

‘Why are you crying ?’ he asked, in an altered voice.

She looked up at him, and behind her tears the consciousness of her situation for the first time brought a dark look of shame to her eyes.

‘I’m not crying, really,’ she said, watching him, half-frightened.

He reached his hand, and softly closed it on her bare arm.

‘I love you! I love you!’ he said in a soft, low vibrating voice, unlike himself.

She shrank, and dropped her head. The soft, penetrating grip of his hand on her arm distressed her. She looked up at him.

‘I want to go,’ she said. ‘I want to go and get you some dry things.’

‘Why ?’ he said. ‘I’m all right.’

‘But I want to go,’ she said. ‘And I want you to change your things.’

He released her arm, and she wrapped herself in the blanket, looking at him rather frightened. And still she did not rise.

‘Kiss me,’ she said wistfully.

He kissed her, but briefly, half in anger.

Then, after a second, she rose nervously, all mixed up in the blanket. He watched her in her confusion as she tried to extricate herself and wrap herself up so that she could walk. He watched her relentlessly, as she knew.

And as she went, the blanket trailing, and he saw a glimpse of her feet and her white leg, he tried to remember her as she was when he had wrapped her up in the blanket. But then he didn’t want to remember, because she had been nothing to him then, and his nature revolted from remembering her as she was when she was nothing to him.

A tumbling, muffled noise from within the dark house startled him. Then he heard her voice: ‘There are clothes.’ He rose and went to the foot of the stairs, and gathered up the garments she had thrown down. Then he came back to the fire, to rub himself down and dress. He grinned at his own appearance when he had finished.

The fire was sinking, so he put on coal. The house was now quite dark, save for the light of a street-lamp that shone in faintly from beyond the holly trees. He lit the gas with matches he found on the mantelpiece. Then he emptied the pockets of his own clothes, and threw all his wet things in a heap into the scullery. After which he gathered up her sodden clothes, gently, and put them in a separate heap on the copper-top in the scullery.

It was six o’clock on the clock. His own watch ha stopped. He ought to go back to the surgery. He waited, and still she did not come down. So he went to the foot of the stairs and called:

‘I shall have to go.’

Almost immediately he heard her coming down. She had on her best dress of black voile, and her hair was tidy, but still damp. She looked at him – and in spite of herself, smiled.

‘I don’t like you in those clothes,’ she said.

‘Do I look a sight ?’ he answered.

They were shy of one another.

‘I’ll make you some tea,’ she said.

‘No, I must go.’

‘Must you ?’ And she looked at him again with the wide, strained, doubtful eyes. And again, from the pain of his breast, he knew how he loved her. He went and bent to kiss her, gently, passionately, with his heart’s painful kiss.

‘And my hair smells so horrible,’ she murmured in distraction. ‘And I’m so awful, I’m so awful! Oh no, I’m too awful.’ And she broke into bitter, heart-broken sobbing. ‘You can’t want to love me, I’m horrible.’

‘Don’t be silly, don’t be silly,’ he said, trying to comfort her, kissing her, holding her in his arms. ‘I want you, I want to marry you, we’re going to be married, quickly, quickly – to-morrow if I can.’

But she only sobbed terribly, and cried: ‘I feel awful. I feel awful. I feel I’m horrible to you.’

‘No, I want you, I want you,’ was all he answered, blindly, with that terrible intonation which frightened her almost more than her horror lest he should not want her.

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The Horse Dealer’s Daughter pg. 3

Jenna — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 01:46:28 +0000

There  she  always felt secure, as if no one could see her, although as a matter
of  fact  she  was  exposed  to  the  stare  of  everyone  who  passed along the
churchyard  wall.  Nevertheless,  once  under  the  shadow  of the great looming
church,  among  the  graves, she felt immune from the world, reserved within the
thick churchyard wall as in another country.

Carefully  she  clipped  the grass from the grave, and arranged the pinky white,
small  chrysanthemums  in  the  tin cross. When this was done, she took an empty
jar  from  a neighbouring grave, brought water, and carefully, most scrupulously
sponged the marble headstone and the coping-stone.

It  gave  her  sincere  satisfaction  to  do this. She felt in immediate contact
with  the  world  of her mother. She took minute pains, went through the park in
a  state  bordering  on  pure  happiness, as if in performing this task she came
into  a  subtle,  intimate connection with her mother. For the life she followed
here  in  the world was far less real than the world of death she inherited from
her mother.

The  doctor's  house  was  just  by  the  church.  Fergusson, being a mere hired
assistant,  was  slave  to  the country-side. As he hurried now to attend to the
out-patients  in  the surgery, glancing across the graveyard with his quick eye,
he  saw  the  girl at task at the grave. She seemed so intent and remote, it was
looking  into  another  world.  Some  mystical  element  was  touched in him. He
slowed down as he walked, watching her as if spellbound.

She  lifted  her  eyes,  feeling  him  looking.  Their eyes met. And each looked
again  at  once,  each  feeling,  in some way, found out by the other. He lifted
his  cap  and passed on down the road. There remained distinct in consciousness,
like  a  vision,  the  memory  of  her  face,  lifted  from the tombstone in the
churchyard, and looking at him with slow, large, portentous eyes. It
was  portentous,  her face. It seemed to mesmerise him. There was a heavy
power  in  her  eyes which laid hold of his whole being, as if he had drunk some
powerful  drug.  He  had  been  feeling  weak and done before. Now the life came
back into him, he felt delivered from his own fretted, daily self.

He  finished  his  duties at the surgery as quickly as might be, hastily filling
up  the  bottles  of  the  waiting  people  with cheap drugs. Then, in perpetual
haste,  he  set  off  again to visit several cases in another part of his round,
before tea-time. At all times he preferred to walk if he could, but
particularly,  when  he  was  not  well.  He  fancied  the  motion restored him.

The  afternoon  was  falling.  It  was  grey, deadened, and wintry, with a slow,
moist,  heavy  coldness  sinking  in  and  deadening  all the faculties. But why
should  he  think  or notice ? He hastily climbed the hill and turned across the
dark  green  fields, following the black cinder-track. In the distance, across a
shallow  dip  in the country, the small town was clustered like smouldering ash,
a  tower,  a  spire,  a  heap  of  low,  raw, extinct houses. And on the nearest
fringe  of  the  town,  sloping into the dip, was Oldmeadow, the Pervins' house.
He  could  see  the stables and the outbuildings distinctly, as they lay towards
him  on  the  slope.  Well,  he  would  not  go  there many more times ! Another
resource  would  be  lost  to him, another place gone: the only company he cared
for  in  the  alien, ugly little town he was losing. Nothing but work, drudgery,
constant  hastening  from  dwelling  to  dwelling  among  the  colliers  and the
iron-workers.  It  wore  him  out, but at the same time he had a craving for it.
It  was  a stimulant to him to be in the bones of the working people, moving, as
it  were,  through the innermost body of their life. His nerves were excited and
gratified. He could come so near, into the very lives of the rough,
inarticulate,  powerfully  emotional  men  and  women.  He  grumbled, he said he
hated  the  hellish  hole.  But  as a matter of fact it excited him, the contact
with  the  rough,  strongly-feeling people was a stimulant applied direct to his
nerves.

Below  Oldmeadow,  in  the  green,  shallow,  soddened  hollow  of fields, lay a
square,  deep  pond.  Roving  across  the  landscape,  the  doctor's  quick  eye
detected  a  figure in black passing through the gate of the field, down towards
the  pond.  He  looked again. It would be Mabel Pervin. His mind suddenly became
alive and attentive.

Why  was  she  going  down there ? He pulled up on the path on the  slope above,
and  stood  staring. He could just make sure of the small black figure moving in
the  hollow  of  the  failing  day.  He  seemed  to see her in the midst of such
obscurity,  that  he  was  like a clairvoyant, seeing rather with the mind's eye
that  with  ordinary  sight.  Yet  he could see her positively enough, whilst he
kept  his  eye  attentive.  He  felt,  if he looked away from her, in the thick,
ugly falling dusk, he would lose her altogether.

He  followed  her  minutely  as  she  moved,  direct  and intent, like something
transmitted  rather  than  stirring  in  voluntary  activity,  straight down the
field  towards  the  pond.  There  she stood on the bank for a moment. She never
raised her head. Then she waded slowly into the water.

He  stood  motionless  as  the small black figure walked slowly and deliberately
towards  the  centre  of the pond, very slowly, gradually moving deeper into the
motionless  water,  and  still moving forward as the water got up to her breast.
Then he could see her no more in the dusk of the dead afternoon.

'There !' he exclaimed. 'Would you believe it ?'

And  he  hastened  straight down, running over the wet, soddened fields, pushing
through  the  hedges,  down  into the depression of callous wintry obscurity. It
took  him  several  minutes to come to the pond. He stood on the bank, breathing
heavily.  He  could  see  nothing.  His eyes seemed to penetrate the dead water.
Yes,  perhaps  that  was  the  dark  shadow  of  her  black clothing beneath the
surface of water.

He  slowly  ventured  into the pond. The bottom was deep, soft clay, he sank in,
and  the  water  clasped  dead cold round his legs. As he stirred he could smell
the  cold,  rotten  clay  that fouled up into the water. It was objectionable in
his  lungs.  Still, repelled and yet not heeding, he moved deeper into the pond.
The  cold  water  rose  over  his  thighs,  over his loins, upon his abdomen The
lower  part  of  body  was  all sunk in the hideous cold element. And the bottom
was  so  deeply  soft  and  uncertain,  he was afraid of pitching with his mouth
underneath. He could not swim, and was afraid.

He  crouched  a  little,  spreading  his  hands  under the water and moving them
round,  trying  to  feel  for  her. The dead cold pond swayed upon his chest. He
moved  again,  a  little  deeper,  and again, with his hands underneath, he felt
all  around  under  the  water.  And  he touched her clothing. But it evaded his
fingers. He made a desperate effort to grasp it.

And  so  doing her lost his balance and went under, horribly, suffocating in the
foul  earthy  water,  struggling  madly  for  a few moments. At last, after what
seemed  an  eternity,  he  got  his  footing, rose again into the air and looked
around.  He  gasped,  and knew he was in the world. Then he looked at the water.
She  had  risen  near  him.  He  grasped  her  clothing, and drawing her nearer,
turned to take his way to land again.

He  went  very  slowly, carefully, absorbed in the slow process. He rose higher,
climbing  out  of  the  pond.  The  water  was  now  only about his legs; he was
thankful,  full  of  relief to be out of the clutches of the pond. He lifted her
and staggered on to the bank, out of the horror of wet, grey clay.

He  laid  her  down  on  the  bank.  She  was quite unconscious and running with
water.  He  made the water come from her mouth, he worked to restore her. He did
not  have  to  work  very long before he could feel the breathing begin again in
her;  she  was  breathing heavily naturally. He worked a little longer. He could
feel  her  live  beneath  his  hands;  she  was  coming back. He wiped her face,
wrapped  her  in  his overcoat, looked round into the dim, dark grey world, then
lifted her and staggered down the bank and across the fields.


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The Horse Dealer’s Daughter pg. 2

Jenna — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 01:18:55 +0000

There  was  a  silence.  Mabel  sat  on  like  one condemned, at the head of the
table.  Then  a  whistle  was  heard from the kitchen. The dog got up and barked
sharply. Joe opened the door and shouted:

'Come on.'

After  a  moment  a  young  man entered. He was muffled in overcoat and a purple
woollen  scarf,  and  his tweed cap, which he did not remove, was pulled down on
his  head.  He was of medium height, his face was rather long and pale, his eyes
looked tired.

'Hello,  Jack  !  Well,  Jack  !'  exclaimed  Malcolm and Joe. Fred Henry merely
said: 'Jack.'

'What's doing ?' asked the newcomer, evidently addressing Fred Henry.

'Same. We've got to be out by Wednesday. Got a cold ?'

'I have - got it bad, too.'

'Why don't you stop in ?'

'Me  stop  in  ?  When  I  can't stand on my legs, perhaps I shall have a
chance.' The young man spoke huskily. He had a slight Scotch accent.

'It's  a  knock-out,  isn't it,' said Joe, boisterously, 'if a doctor goes round
croaking with a cold. Looks bad for the patients, doesn't it ?'

The young doctor looked at him slowly.

'Anything the matter with you then ?' he asked sarcastically.

'Not as I know of. Damn your eyes, I hope not. Why ?'

'I  thought  you  were  very concerned about the patients, wondered if you might
be one yourself.'

'Damn  it,  no, I've never been a patient to no flaming doctor, and hope I never
shall be,' returned Joe.

At  this  point  Mabel  rose from the table, and they all seemed to become aware
of  their  existence.  She  began  putting the dishes together. The young doctor
looked  at  her,  but  did not address her. He had not greeted her. She went out
the room with the tray, her face impassive and unchanged.

'When are you off then, all of you ?' asked the doctor.

'I'm  catching  the  eleven-forty,' replied Malcolm. 'Are you goin' down wi' th'
trap, Joe ?'

'Yes, I've told you I'm going down wi' th' trap, haven't I ?'

'We'd  better  be  getting  in  then. So long, Jack, if I don't see you before I
go,' said Malcolm, shaking hands.

He  went  out,  followed  by  Joe, who seemed to have his tail between his legs.

'Well,  this  is  the devil's own,' exclaimed the doctor, when he was left alone
with Fred Henry. 'Going before Wednesday, are you ?'

'That's the orders,' replied the other.

'Where, to Northampton ?'

'That's it.'

'The devil !' exclaimed Fergusson, with quiet chagrin.

And there was silence between the two.

'All settled up, are you ?' asked Fergusson.

'About.'

There was another pause.

'Well, I shall miss yer, Freddy, boy,' said the young doctor.

'And I shall miss thee, Jack,' returned the other.

'Miss you like hell,' mused the doctor.

Fred  Henry  turned  aside.  There  was  nothing to say. Mabel came in again, to
finish clearing the table.

'What  are  you going to do, then, Miss Pervin ?' asked Fergusson. 'Going
to your sister's, are you ?'

Mabel  looked  at  him  with  her  steady,  dangerous eyes, that always made him
uncomfortable, unsettling his superficial ease.

'No,' she said.

'Well,  what  in  the  name of fortune are you going to do ? Say what you
mean to do,' cried Fred Henry, with futile intensity.

But  she  only  averted  her  head, and continued her work. She folded the white
table-cloth, and put on the chenille cloth.

'The sulkiest bitch that ever trod !' muttered her brother.

But  she  finished  her  task  with  perfectly  impassive face, the young doctor
watching her interestedly all the while. Then she went out.

Fred  Henry  stared after her, clenching his lips, his blue eyes fixing in sharp
antagonism, as he made a grimace of sour exasperation.

'You  could  bray  her into bits, and that's all you'd get out of her,' he said,
in a small, narrowed tone.

The doctor smiled faintly.

'What's she going to do, then ?' he asked.

'Strike me if I know !' returned the other.

There was a pause. Then the doctor stirred.

'I'll be seeing you to-night, shall I ?' he said to his friend.

'Ay - where's it to be ? Are we going over to Jessdale ?'

'I  don't  know.  I've  got  such a cold on me. I'll come round to the "Moon and
Stars", anyway.'

'Let Lizzie and May miss their night for once, eh ?'

'That's it - if I feel as I do now.'

'All's one -- '

The  two  young men went through the passage and down to the back door together.
The  house  was large, but it was servantless now, and desolate. At the back was
a  small  bricked  house-yard  and  beyond that a big square, gravelled fine and
red,  and  having  stables  on  two  sides.  Sloping,  dank,  winter-dark fields
stretched away on the open sides.

But  the  stables  were empty. Joseph Pervin, the father of the family, had been
a  man  of no education, who had become a fairly large horse-dealer. The stables
had  been  full  of  horses, there was a great turmoil and come-and-go of horses
and  of  dealers  and grooms. Then the kitchen was full of servants. But of late
things  has  declined.  The  old  man had married a second time, to retrieve his
fortunes.  Now  he  was  dead  and  everything  was  gone to the dogs, there was
nothing but debt and threatening.

For  months,  Mabel  had  been  servantless  in  the big house, keeping the home
together  in  penury  for  her  ineffectual brothers. She had kept house for ten
years.  But  previously  it  was  with unstinted means. Then, however brutal and
coarse  everything  was,  the  sense of money had kept her proud, confident. The
men might be foul-mouthed, the women in the kitchens might have bad
reputations,  her  brothers  might  have  illegitimate  children. But so long as
there  was  money,  the  girl  felt  herself  established,  and  brutally proud,
reserved.

No  company  came  to  the  house,  save  dealers  and  coarse men. Mabel had no
associates  of  her  own  sex, after her sister went away. But she did not mind.
She  went  regularly to church, she attended to her father. And she lived in the
memory  of  her  mother,  who  had  died when she was fourteen, and whom she had
loved.  She  had  loved her father, too, in a different way, depending upon him,
and  feeling  secure  in  him,  until at the age of fifty-four he married again.
And  then  she  had  set  hard  against  him.  Now he had died and left them all
hopelessly in debt.
She  had  suffered  badly  during the period of poverty. Nothing, however, could
shake  the  curious,  sullen,  animal  pride  that  dominated each member of the
family.  Now,  for  Mabel, the end had come. Still she would not cast about her.
She  would  follow  her own way just the same. She would always hold the keys of
her  own  situation.  Mindless  and persistent, she endured from day to day. Why
should  she  think ? Why should she answer anybody ? It was enough that this was
the  end,  and there was no way out. She need not pass any more darkly along the
main  street  of  the small town, avoiding every eye. She need not pass any more
darkly  along  the  main  street of the small town, avoiding every eye. She need
not  demean  herself  any  more,  going  into  the shops and buying the cheapest
food.  This  was  at  an  end. She thought of nobody, not even herself. Mindless
and  persistent,  she  seemed  in  a  sort of ecstasy to be coming nearer to her
fulfilment,  her  own  glorification,  approaching  her  dead  mother,  who  was
glorified.

In  the  afternoon  she  took  a  little bag, with shears and sponge and a small
scrubbing-brush,  and  went  out. It was a grey, wintry day, with saddened, dark
green  fields  and  an  atmosphere  blackened  by the smoke of foundries not far
off.  She  went  quickly, darkly along the causeway, heeding nobody, through the
town to the churchyard.

< Prev | Next >

The Horse Dealer’s Daughter

Jenna — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 01:10:22 +0000

The Horse Dealer’s Daughter

by D H Lawrence

'Well,  Mabel,  and  what  are  you going to do with yourself ?' asked Joe, with
foolish  flippancy.  He  felt  quite  safe  himself.  Without  listening  for an
answer,  he  turned  aside,  worked a grain of tobacco to the tip of his tongue,
and  spat  it  out.  He did not care about anything, since he felt safe himself.

The  three  brothers  and  the  sister  sat  round the desolate breakfast-table,
attempting  some  sort  of  desultory consultation. The morning's post had given
the  final  tap to the family fortunes, and all was over. The dreary dining-room
itself,  with  its  heavy mahogany furniture, looked as if it were waiting to be
done away with.

But the consultation amounted to nothing. There was a strange air of
ineffectuality  about  the  three  men,  as  they sprawled at table, smoking and
reflecting  vaguely  on their own condition. The girl was alone, a rather short,
sullen-looking  young  woman of twenty-seven. She did not share the same life as
her  brothers.  She would have been good-looking, save for the impressive fixity
of her face, 'bull-dog', as her brothers called it.

There  was  a  confused  tramping  of  horses'  feet  outside. The three men all
sprawled  round  in  their  chairs  to  watch. Beyond the dark holly bushes that
separated  the  strip  of lawn from the high-road, they could see a cavalcade of
shire  horses  swinging  out  of  their own yard, being taken for exercise. This
was  the  last  time.  These  were  the  last horses that would go through their
hands.  The  young  men  watched  with  critical,  callous  look.  They were all
frightened  at  the  collapse of their lives, and the sense of disaster in which
they were involved left them no inner freedom.

Yet  they  were  three fine, well-set fellows enough. Joe, the eldest, was a man
of  thirty-five,  broad  and handsome in a hot flushed way. His face was red, he
twisted  his  black  moustache  over  a  thick finger, his eyes were shallow and
restless.  HE  had  a  sensual  way of uncovering his teeth when he laughed, and
his  bearing  was  stupid.  Now  he  watched  the  horses  with a glazed look of
helplessness in his eyes, a certain stupor of downfall.

The  great  drought-horses  swung  past.  They  were  tied head to tail, four of
them,  and  they  heaved  along to where a lane branched off from the high-road,
planting  their  great  roofs  flouting  in  the  fine black mud, swinging their
great  rounded  haunches  sumptously,  and  trotting  a few sudden steps as they
were  led  into  the  lane,  round  the corner. Every movement showed a massive,
slumbrous  strength,  and  a  stupidity which held them in subjection. The groom
at  the  head looked back, jerking the leading rope. And the cavalcade moved out
of  sight  up  the  lane, the tail of the last horse, bobbed up tight and stiff,
held  out  taut  from  the  swinging  great  haunches  as they rocked behind the
hedges in a motion-like sleep.

Joe  watched  with  glazed  hopeless  eyes.  The horses were almost like his own
body  to  him.  He  felt he was done for now. Luckily he was  engaged to a woman
as  old  as himself, and therefore her father, who was steward of a neighbouring
estate,  would  provide  him with a job. He would marry and go into harness. His
life was over, he would be a subject animal now.

He  turned  uneasily  aside,  the  retreating steps of the horses echoing in his
ears.  Then,  with foolish restlessness, he reached for the scraps of bacon-rind
from  the  plates, and making a faint whistling sound, flung them to the terrier
that  lay  against  the fender. He watched the dog swallow them, and waited till
the  creature  looked  into his eyes. Then a faint grin came on his face, and in
a high, foolish voice he said:

'You won't get much more bacon, shall you, you little b---- ?'

The  dog  faintly  and  dismally  wagged  its  tail,  then lowered its haunches,
circled round, and lay down again.

There  was  another  hopeless silence at the table. Joe sprawled uneasily in his
seat,  not  willing  to  go  till the family conclave was dissolved. Fred Henry,
the  second  brother, was erect, clean-limbed, alert. He had watched the passing
of  the  horses  with  more sang-froid. If he was an animal, like Joe, he was an
animal  which  controls,  not  one  which  is  controlled.  He was master of any
horse,  and  he  carried himself with a well-tempered air of mastery. But he was
not  master  of  the  situation  of  life.  He pushed his coarse brown moustache
upwards,  off  his  lip,  and glanced irritably at his sister, who sat impassive
and inscrutable.

'You'll  go  and  stop with Lucy for a bit, shan't you ?' he asked. The girl did
not answer.

'I don't see what else you can do,' persisted Fred Henry.

'Go as a skivvy,' Joe interpolated laconically.

The girl did not move a muscle.

'If  I  was  her,  I  should go in for training for a nurse,' said Malcolm,  the
youngest  of  them  all.  He  was  the  baby  of  the  family,  a  young  man of
twenty-two, with a fresh, jaunty museau.

But  Mabel  did not take any notice of him. They had talked at her and round her
for so many years, that she hardly heard them at all.

The  marble  clock on the mantel piece softly chimed the half-hour, the dog rose
uneasily  from  the  hearth-rug  and looked at the party at the breakfast-table.
But still they sat on in ineffectual conclave.

'Oh,  all  right,'  said  Joe suddenly, apropos of nothing. 'Ill get a move on.'

He  pushed  back  his  chair,  straddled  his knees with a downward jerk, to get
them  free,  in  horsey  fashion, and went to the fire. Still, he did not go out
of  the  room;  he was curious to know what the others would do or say. He began
to charge his pipe, looking down at the dog and saying in a high affected voice:

'Going  wi'  me ? Going wi' me are ter ? Tha'rt goin' further than tha counts on
just now, dost hear ?'

The  dog  faintly  wagged  its  tail,  the man stuck out his jaw and covered his
pipe  with  his  hands,  and  puffed  intently,  losing  himself in the tobacco,
looking  down  all the while at the dog with an absent brown eye. The dog looked
up  at  him  in  mournful  distrust. Joe stood with his knees stuck out, in real
horsey fashion.

'Have  you   had  a  letter  from  Lucy  ?'  Fred  Henry  asked  of  his sister.

'Last week,' came the neutral reply.

'And what does she say ?'

There was no answer.

'Does  she  ask  you  to  go  and  stop  there  ?'  persisted Fred Henry.

'She says I can if I like.'

'Well, then, you'd better. Tell her you'll come on Monday.'

This was received in silence.

'That's  what  you'll  do  then, is it ?' said Fred Henry, in some exasperation.

But  she  made  no answer. There was a silence of futility and irritation in the
room. Malcolm grinned fatuously.

'You'll  have  to  make  up  your mind between now and next Wednesday,' said Joe
loudly, 'or else find your lodgings on the kerbstone.

The face of the young woman darkened, but she sat on immutable.

'Here's  Jack  Fergusson  !' exclaimed Malcolm, who was looking aimlessly out of
the window.

'Where ?' exclaimed Joe loudly.

'Just gone past.'

'Coming in ?'

Malcolm craned his neck to see the gate.

'Yes,' he said.

There  was  a  silence.  Mabel  sat  on  like  one condemned, at the head of the
table.  Then  a  whistle  was  heard from the kitchen. The dog got up and barked
sharply. Joe opened the door and shouted:

'Come on.'

After  a  moment  a  young  man entered. He was muffled in overcoat and a purple
woollen  scarf,  and  his tweed cap, which he did not remove, was pulled down on
his  head.  He was of medium height, his face was rather long and pale, his eyes
looked tired.

'Hello,  Jack  !  Well,  Jack  !'  exclaimed  Malcolm and Joe. Fred Henry merely
said: 'Jack.'

'What's doing ?' asked the newcomer, evidently addressing Fred Henry.

'Same. We've got to be out by Wednesday. Got a cold ?'

'I have - got it bad, too.'

'Why don't you stop in ?'

'Me  stop  in  ?  When  I  can't stand on my legs, perhaps I shall have a
chance.' The young man spoke huskily. He had a slight Scotch accent.

'It's  a  knock-out,  isn't it,' said Joe, boisterously, 'if a doctor goes round
croaking with a cold. Looks bad for the patients, doesn't it ?'

The young doctor looked at him slowly.

'Anything the matter with you then ?' he asked sarcastically.

'Not as I know of. Damn your eyes, I hope not. Why ?'

'I  thought  you  were  very concerned about the patients, wondered if you might
be one yourself.'

'Damn  it,  no, I've never been a patient to no flaming doctor, and hope I never
shall be,' returned Joe.

At  this  point  Mabel  rose from the table, and they all seemed to become aware
of  their  existence.  She  began  putting the dishes together. The young doctor
looked  at  her,  but  did not address her. He had not greeted her. She went out
the room with the tray, her face impassive and unchanged.

'When are you off then, all of you ?' asked the doctor.

'I'm  catching  the  eleven-forty,' replied Malcolm. 'Are you goin' down wi' th'
trap, Joe ?'

'Yes, I've told you I'm going down wi' th' trap, haven't I ?'

'We'd  better  be  getting  in  then. So long, Jack, if I don't see you before I
go,' said Malcolm, shaking hands.

He  went  out,  followed  by  Joe, who seemed to have his tail between his legs.

'Well,  this  is  the devil's own,' exclaimed the doctor, when he was left alone
with Fred Henry. 'Going before Wednesday, are you ?'

'That's the orders,' replied the other.

'Where, to Northampton ?'

'That's it.'

'The devil !' exclaimed Fergusson, with quiet chagrin.

And there was silence between the two.

'All settled up, are you ?' asked Fergusson.

'About.'

There was another pause.

'Well, I shall miss yer, Freddy, boy,' said the young doctor.

'And I shall miss thee, Jack,' returned the other.

'Miss you like hell,' mused the doctor.

Fred  Henry  turned  aside.  There  was  nothing to say. Mabel came in again, to
finish clearing the table.

'What  are  you going to do, then, Miss Pervin ?' asked Fergusson. 'Going
to your sister's, are you ?'

Mabel  looked  at  him  with  her  steady,  dangerous eyes, that always made him
uncomfortable, unsettling his superficial ease.

'No,' she said.

'Well,  what  in  the  name of fortune are you going to do ? Say what you
mean to do,' cried Fred Henry, with futile intensity.

But  she  only  averted  her  head, and continued her work. She folded the white
table-cloth, and put on the chenille cloth.

'The sulkiest bitch that ever trod !' muttered her brother.

But  she  finished  her  task  with  perfectly  impassive face, the young doctor
watching her interestedly all the while. Then she went out.

Fred  Henry  stared after her, clenching his lips, his blue eyes fixing in sharp
antagonism, as he made a grimace of sour exasperation.

'You  could  bray  her into bits, and that's all you'd get out of her,' he said,
in a small, narrowed tone.

The doctor smiled faintly.

'What's she going to do, then ?' he asked.

'Strike me if I know !' returned the other.

There was a pause. Then the doctor stirred.

'I'll be seeing you to-night, shall I ?' he said to his friend.

'Ay - where's it to be ? Are we going over to Jessdale ?'

'I  don't  know.  I've  got  such a cold on me. I'll come round to the "Moon and
Stars", anyway.'

'Let Lizzie and May miss their night for once, eh ?'

'That's it - if I feel as I do now.'

'All's one -- '

The  two  young men went through the passage and down to the back door together.
The  house  was large, but it was servantless now, and desolate. At the back was
a  small  bricked  house-yard  and  beyond that a big square, gravelled fine and
red,  and  having  stables  on  two  sides.  Sloping,  dank,  winter-dark fields
stretched away on the open sides.

But  the  stables  were empty. Joseph Pervin, the father of the family, had been
a  man  of no education, who had become a fairly large horse-dealer. The stables
had  been  full  of  horses, there was a great turmoil and come-and-go of horses
and  of  dealers  and grooms. Then the kitchen was full of servants. But of late
things  has  declined.  The  old  man had married a second time, to retrieve his
fortunes.  Now  he  was  dead  and  everything  was  gone to the dogs, there was
nothing but debt and threatening.

For  months,  Mabel  had  been  servantless  in  the big house, keeping the home
together  in  penury  for  her  ineffectual brothers. She had kept house for ten
years.  But  previously  it  was  with unstinted means. Then, however brutal and
coarse  everything  was,  the  sense of money had kept her proud, confident. The
men might be foul-mouthed, the women in the kitchens might have bad
reputations,  her  brothers  might  have  illegitimate  children. But so long as
there  was  money,  the  girl  felt  herself  established,  and  brutally proud,
reserved.

No  company  came  to  the  house,  save  dealers  and  coarse men. Mabel had no
associates  of  her  own  sex, after her sister went away. But she did not mind.
She  went  regularly to church, she attended to her father. And she lived in the
memory  of  her  mother,  who  had  died when she was fourteen, and whom she had
loved.  She  had  loved her father, too, in a different way, depending upon him,
and  feeling  secure  in  him,  until at the age of fifty-four he married again.
And  then  she  had  set  hard  against  him.  Now he had died and left them all
hopelessly in debt.

She  had  suffered  badly  during the period of poverty. Nothing, however, could
shake  the  curious,  sullen,  animal  pride  that  dominated each member of the
family.  Now,  for  Mabel, the end had come. Still she would not cast about her.
She  would  follow  her own way just the same. She would always hold the keys of
her  own  situation.  Mindless  and persistent, she endured from day to day. Why
should  she  think ? Why should she answer anybody ? It was enough that this was
the  end,  and there was no way out. She need not pass any more darkly along the
main  street  of  the small town, avoiding every eye. She need not pass any more
darkly  along  the  main  street of the small town, avoiding every eye. She need
not  demean  herself  any  more,  going  into  the shops and buying the cheapest
food.  This  was  at  an  end. She thought of nobody, not even herself. Mindless
and  persistent,  she  seemed  in  a  sort of ecstasy to be coming nearer to her
fulfilment,  her  own  glorification,  approaching  her  dead  mother,  who  was
glorified.

In  the  afternoon  she  took  a  little bag, with shears and sponge and a small
scrubbing-brush,  and  went  out. It was a grey, wintry day, with saddened, dark
green  fields  and  an  atmosphere  blackened  by the smoke of foundries not far
off.  She  went  quickly, darkly along the causeway, heeding nobody, through the
town to the churchyard.

 | Next >

Sonnet 18

Jenna — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 17:38:41 +0000

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

- William Shakespeare

“Journey of the Magi,” by T.S. Eliot

Jenna — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 17:54:03 +0000

A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For the journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins,
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death,
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

“Ulysses,” by Lord Alfred Tennyson

Jenna — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 17:52:27 +0000

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees; all times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy,
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Cold Fusion Sources

Jenna — Fri, 04 Jul 2008 10:56:25 +0000

The New Energy Times, May 2008

An article by the fabulous Arata himself, The Formation of “Solid Deuterium” Solidified Inside Crystal Lattice and Intense Solid-State Nuclear Fusion (“Cold Fusion”) Centre for Advanced Science and Innovation, Osaka University.

A Research: New Energy caused by “Spillover-Deuterium.” By Yoshiaki Arata, M. J. A., and Yue-Chang Zhang. September 12, 1994

Another Arata publication, Development of Compact Nuclear Fusion Reactor Using Solid Pycnodeuterium as Nuclear Fuel. Yoshiaki Arata and Yu-Chang Zhang. Cooperation Research Centre for Science and Technology, Osaka University.

The Expansionary Times. Cold Fusion Demonstration a Success. June 12, 2008

Also see:

Low Energy Nuclear Reactions.org a library of papers on LENR

Shunga

Jenna — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 00:36:48 +0000

Until the mid-19th century, daily life included a trip to the sentō – the local unisex bathhouse. Since nudity was not erotic in and of itself, people were almost always depicted in clothes in order to allow the artist to frame particular body-parts. It was also used to identify foreigners and prostitutes. Due to the fact that only the wealthiest of men could afford hookers, they were highly romanticized by the middle-class; men wanted them because they were unattainable and women saw them as glamorous, considering them fashion icons. Likewise, the Japanese approximation of gigolos were featured along with Samurai, and sometimes even Portuguese or Dutch explorers.

The only explanation I have found for the sheer magnitude of genitalia in shunga comes from a Finnish book from the Helsinki art museum… via wikipedia. One of the thousand things the Japanese were honour-bound to do was hide emotion in public. According to Helsinkipedia, the genitals were seen as a second face, one that is allowed to express passion, and in order to express their importance, genitals were drawn as large as and as close to the face as possible.

(This also explains why some positions featured in shunga are highly improbable.)

Symbolism was used frequently in shunga to add an almost story-telling element. Plum blossoms symbolize virginity, and tissues denoted impending ejaculation.

“Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife” c. 1820

This the writing in the background of this last print tells the story of the Fisherman’s Wife, who went diving for pearls and ended up in a cave being pleasured by two octopi. Although this would eventually degenerate into hentai monster rape, the Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife depicts mutually enjoyable inter-species copulation, and was considered “playful” in nature.

Lila Dreams Concept Art

Jenna — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 23:29:33 +0000

“The icy shores of Northlook Island”

The Nomad Village

Between swamp and forest

Snail-Mail Courier

Taken from here.