Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (113 page)

Shape
of Things to Come

From
The Portable D. H,
Lawrence,
copyright
1933, by Estate of D. H. Lawrence, 1947 by The Viking Press, Inc., New York,
reprinted by permission of Mrs. Frieda Lawrence and William Heinemann Ltd.

Horse Winner

By D. H

LAWRENCE

T
here
was
a
woman who was
beautiful, who started with all
the
advantages,
yet
she
had
no
luck.
She
married
for
love,
and
the love
turned
to
dust.
She
had
bonny
children,
yet
she
felt
they
had been
thrust
upon
her,
and
she
could
not
love
them.
They
looked
at her
coldly,
as
if
they
were
finding
fault
with
her.
And
hurriedly
she felt
she
must
cover
up
some
fault
in
herself.
Yet
what
it
was
that
she must
cover
up
she
never
knew.
Nevertheless,
when
her
children
were present,
she
always
felt
the
centre
of
her
heart
go
hard.
This
troubled her,
and
in
her
manner
she
was
all
the
more
gentle
and
anxious
for her
children,
as
if
she
loved
them
very
much.
Only
she
herself
knew that
at
the
centre
of
her
heart
was
a
hard
little
place
that
could
not feel
love,
no,
not
for
anybody.
Everybody
else
said
of
her:
"She
is such
a
good
mother.
She
adores
her
children."
Only
she
herself,
and her
children
themselves,
knew
it
was
not
so.
They
read
it
in
each other's
eyes.

There
were
a
boy
and
two
little
girls.
They
lived
in
a
pleasant
house, with
a
garden,
and
they
had
discreet
servants,
and
felt
themselves superior
to
anyone
in
the
neighbourhood.

Although
they
lived
in
style,
they
felt
always
an
anxiety
in
the house.
There
was
never
enough
money.
The
mother
had
a
small income,
and
the
father
had
a
small
income,
but
not
nearly
enough for
the
social
position
which
they
had
to
keep
up.
The
father
went
in
to town to some office. But though he had good prospects, these prospects never
materialised. There was always the grinding sense of the shortage of money,
though the style was always kept up.

At
last the mother said, "I will see if I can't make something." But she
did not know where to begin. She racked her brains, and tried this thing and
the other, but could not find anything successful. The failure made deep lines
come into her face. Her children were growing up, they would have to go to
school. There must be more money, there must be more money. The father, who was
always very handsome and expensive in his tastes, seemed as if he never
would
be able to do anything worth doing. And the mother, who had a great
belief in herself, did not succeed any better, and her tastes were just as
expensive.

And
so the house came to be haunted by the unspoken phrase: There must be more
money.' There must be more money.' The children could hear it all the time,
though nobody said it aloud. They heard it at Christmas, when the expensive and
splendid toys filled the nursery. Behind the shining modem rocking-horse,
behind the smart doll's-house, a voice would start whispering: "There must
be more money! There must be more money!" And the children would stop
playing, to listen for a moment. They would look into each other's eyes, to see
if they had all heard. And each one saw in the eyes of the other two that they
too had heard. "There must be more money! There must be more money!"

It
came whispering from the springs of the still-swaying rocking-horse, and even
the horse, bending his wooden, champing head, heard it. The big doll, sitting
so pink and smirking in her new pram, could hear it quite plainly, and seemed
to be smirking all the more selfconsciously because of it. The foolish puppy,
too, that took the place of the teddy-bear, he was looking so extraordinarily
foolish for no other reason but that he heard the secret whisper all over the
house: "There must be more money."

Yet
nobody ever said it aloud. The whisper was everywhere, and therefore no one
spoke it. Just as no one evei says: "We are breathing!" in spite of
the fact that breath is coming and going all the time.

"Mother!"
said the boy Paul one day, "why don't we keep a car of our own? Why do we
always use uncle's, or else a taxi?"

"Because
we're
the
poor
members
,of
the
family,"
said
the
mother. "But
why
are
we,
mother?"

"Well—I
suppose,"
she
said
slowly
and
bitterly,
"it's
because
your father
has
no
luck."

The
boy
was
silent
for
some
time.

"Is
luck
money,
mother?"
he
asked,
rather
timidly.

"No,
Paul!
Not
quite.
It's
what
causes
you
to
have
money."

"Oh!"
said
Paul
vaguely.
"I
thought
when
Uncle
Oscar
said
filthy
Iucker,
it
meant
money."

"Filthy
lucre
does
mean
money,"
said
the
mother.
"But
it's
lucre, not
luck."

"Oh!"
said
the
boy.
"Then
what
is
luck,
mother?"

"It's
what
causes
you
to
have
money.
If
you're
lucky
you
have money.
That's
why
it's
better
to
be
bom
lucky
than
rich.
If
you're rich,
you
may
lose
your
money.
But
if
you're
lucky,
you
will
always get
more
money."