本书是英汉双语版名著系列丛书中的一种，编写本系列丛书的另一个主要目的就是为准备参加英语国家留学考试的学生提供学习素材。对于留学考试，无论是SSAT、SAT还是TOEFL、GRE，要取得好的成绩，就必须了解西方的社会、历史、文化、生活等方面的背景知识，而阅读西方原版名著是了解这些知识*重要的手段之一。
戴维·赫伯特·劳伦斯（David Herbert Lawrence，1885—1930），英国著名小说家、诗人、散文家，被誉为“英国文学史上*伟大的人物之一”。
第三章 莫雷尔遭弃，威廉得宠Chapter 3 The Casting off of Morel, the Taking on of William莫雷尔的脾气十分古怪，他竟然喜欢吃药。阁楼里挂着各式各样的干药草，他平常会自己煎一罐药，有时候还让孩子们和他一起享用。但不管吃了多少药，还是得病了——莫雷尔患了脑炎。莫雷尔太太不仅要照看孩子，还得伺候他。邻居们经常过来帮忙，即使这样莫雷尔太太也还是累得够呛。家里经济也很拮据，要不是邻居和工友们慷慨解囊，莫雷尔一家早就被拖垮了。
几个星期过后，莫雷尔的病情竟然好转了。生病期间被老婆照顾得很舒服，身体好转之后他还时不时装出头痛的样子，惹来老婆一阵痛骂。家里过了好一段太平日子，不过莫雷尔太太对丈夫的感情越来越淡了，所以对他也就越来越宽容。现在莫雷尔太太将全部心思都放到了威廉身上。威廉已经长大了，并且是学校里*聪明的孩子，这使莫雷尔太太看到了未来的光明。莫雷尔一个人很孤单。那种压抑的情绪影响着身边的人。*后只有等到他上床休息之后，莫雷尔太太才能安心做家务。在这期间，家里*小的男孩出生了，取名为亚瑟。奇怪的是亚瑟一出生就爱上了自己的父亲，总是伸出双臂热情地向父亲欢叫。莫雷尔高兴的时候也会抱起亚瑟逗他玩，父子俩愉快的互动让莫雷尔太太的生活中又多了点快乐时光。保罗长得高高瘦瘦的，有时候很好动，有时候也会一个人生闷气，他总是显得与众不同。这让莫雷尔太太心头多了一些阴影。
一天，隔壁的安东尼太太前来告状，指责威廉抓破了她儿子的领子。莫雷尔太太并没有立即揍孩子，而是问清楚了情况，但还是训了威廉一顿。谁知道傍晚莫雷尔回到家，立刻气冲冲地要教训威廉。莫雷尔太太认为丈夫没必要发这么大的火，毕竟不全是威廉的错。等威廉回到家的时候，莫雷尔发疯似地朝着儿子怒吼，吓得威廉不敢动弹。这时莫雷尔太太站了出来，拦下了丈夫即将伸出的拳头，并且威胁他说不许碰孩子一根指头。
莫雷尔太太在孩子们长大些后加入了妇女协会，那些女人不时地会讨论一些社会问题。孩子们看到母亲读报写字感到有些奇怪，但对母亲却产生了深深的敬意。威廉十三岁的时候，莫雷尔太太在合作社给他找了份工作。莫雷尔对此很不满，认为那样的工作还不如下井干活，但老婆坚决不肯让孩子做矿工。威廉很快便证明了自己的能力，他成为了当地数一数二的速记员，他将挣到的大部分钱交给母亲，而且从不喝酒。威廉经常和中产阶级来往，经常参加各种舞会，回家后便谈论各种各样的女子，莫雷尔太太对于儿子谈论的这些女子一概不赞成。她曾经打发走了上门寻找威廉的女孩，这遭到威廉的指责。母子之间经常为这些事情发生争执。当威廉十九岁的时候，他离开合作社，到诺丁汉找到份新工作，一个星期可以挣三十个先令。这让莫雷尔一家都感到十分骄傲。莫雷尔太太希望他能够帮助两个弟弟。
威廉在诺丁汉干了一年之后又要到伦敦去了，年薪涨到一百二十英镑。但莫雷尔太太并不为儿子的新工作感到开心，因为她不想儿子离开自己。可威廉似乎没有丝毫的伤感。临走前威廉烧毁了所有的情书，他还念了其中一些有趣的言语，惹得母亲哈哈大笑。收拾好东西之后，威廉便踏上了去伦敦的路途。
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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