Page 321 - sons-and-lovers
P. 321

She saw he was flattered by her diary. It did not repay her
         entirely.
            ‘You  really  do  blossom  out  sometimes,’  he  said.  ‘You
         ought to write poetry.’
            She lifted her head with joy, then she shook it mistrust-
         fully.
            ‘I don’t trust myself,’ she said.
            ‘You should try!’
            Again she shook her head.
            ‘Shall we read, or is it too late?’ he asked.
            ‘It is late—but we can read just a little,’ she pleaded.
            She was really getting now the food for her life during
         the next week. He made her copy Baudelaire’s ‘Le Balcon”.
         Then he read it for her. His voice was soft and caressing, but
         growing almost brutal. He had a way of lifting his lips and
         showing his teeth, passionately and bitterly, when he was
         much moved. This he did now. It made Miriam feel as if he
         were trampling on her. She dared not look at him, but sat
         with her head bowed. She could not understand why he got
         into such a tumult and fury. It made her wretched. She did
         not like Baudelaire, on the whole—nor Verlaine.
            ‘Behold   her     singing   in     the    field
         Yon solitary highland lass.’
            That nourished her heart. So did ‘Fair Ines”. And—
            ‘It  was  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  pure,
         And breathing holy quiet like a nun.’
            These were like herself. And there was he, saying in his
         throat bitterly:
            ‘Tu te rappelleras la beaute des caresses.’

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