Page 629 - sons-and-lovers

Then a dull, live feeling, gone in an instant, told him that
it was wrong. After a while, suddenly came the question:
‘Why wrong?’
Again there was no answer, but a stroke of hot stubborn-
ness inside his chest resisted his own annihilation.
There was a sound of a heavy cart clanking down the
road. Suddenly the electric light went out; there was a bruis-
ing thud in the penny-in-the-slot meter. He did not stir, but
sat gazing in front of him. Only the mice had scuttled, and
the fire glowed red in the dark room.
Then, quite mechanically and more distinctly, the con-
versation began again inside him.
‘She’s dead. What was it all for—her struggle?’
That was his despair wanting to go after her.
‘You’re alive.’
‘She’s not.’
‘She is—in you.’
Suddenly he felt tired with the burden of it.
‘You’ve got to keep alive for her sake,’ said his will in
him.
Something felt sulky, as if it would not rouse.
‘You’ve got to carry forward her living, and what she had
done, go on with it.’
But he did not want to. He wanted to give up.
‘But you can go on with your painting,’ said the will in
him. ‘Or else you can beget children. They both carry on
her effort.’
‘Painting is not living.’
‘Then live.’

Sons and Lovers