The Shades of Spring, D.H. Lawrence
It was a mile nearer through the wood. Mechanically, Syson turned up by the
forge and lifted the field gate. The blacksmith and his mate stood still, watching
he trespasser. But Syson looked too much a gentleman to be accosted. They let
him go on in silence across the small field to the wood
There was not the least difference between this morning and those of the
right springs, six or eight years back. White and sandy-gold fowls still scratched
around the gate,littering the earth and the field with feathers and scratched up
rubbish. Between the two thick holly bushes in the wood-hedge was the hidden
gap, whose fence one climbed to get into the wood; the bars were scored just the
same by the keeper’s boots. He was back in the eternal.
Syson was extraordinarily glad. Like an uneasy spirit he had returned to the
country of his past, and he found it waiting for him, unaltered. The hazel still
spread glad little hands downwards, the bluebells here were still wan and few,
among the lush grass and in shade of the bushes.
The path through the wood, on the very brow of a slope, ran winding easily for
a time. All around were twiggy oaks, just issuing their gold, and floor spaces
diapered with woodruff, with patches of dog-mercury and tufts of hyacinth. Two
fallen trees still lay across the track. Syson jolted down a steep, rough slope, and
came again upon the open land, this time looking north as through a great
window in the wood. He stayed to gaze over the level fields of the hill-top, at
the village which strewed the bare uplands as if it had tumbled off the passing
wagons of industry, and been forsaken. There was a stiff, modern, grey little
church, and blocks and rows of red dwellings lying at random; at the back, the
twinkling headstocks of the pit, and the looming pit hill. All was naked and out of
doors, not a tree! It was quite unaltered.
Syson turned, satisfied, to follow the path that sheered downhill into the wood.
He was curiously elated, feeling himself back in an enduring vision. He started. A
keeper was standing a few yards in front, barring the way.
“Where might you be going this road, sir?” asked the man. The tone of his
question had a challenging twang. Syson looked a the fellow with an
impersonal observant gaze. It was a young man of four-or five-and-twenty,
ruddy and well favoured. His dark blue eyes now stared aggressively at the
intruder. His black mustached, very thick, was cropped short over a small,
rather soft mouth. In every other respect the fellow was manly and good
looking. He stood just above middle height; the strong forward thrust of his
chest, and the perfect ease of his erect, self-sufficient body, gave one the feeling
that he was taut with animal life, like the thick jet of a fountain balanced on itself.
He stood with the butt of his gun on the ground, looking uncertainly
and questioningly at Syson. The dark, restless eyes of the trespasser, examining
the man and penetrating into him without heeding his office, troubled the
keeper and made him flush.
“Where is Naylor? Have you got his job?” Syson asked.
“You’re not from the House, are you? inquired the keeper. It could not be,
since everyone was away.
“No, I’m not from the House,” the other replied. It seemed to annoy him.
“Then might I ask where you were making for?” said the keeper, nettled.
“Where I am making for?” Syson repeated. “I am going to Willey-Water Farm.”
“This isn’t the road.”
“I think so. Down this path, past the well, and out by the white gate.”
“But that’s not the public road.”
“I suppose not. I used to come so often, in Naylor’s time, I had forgotten. Where
is he, by the way?”
“Crippled with rheumatism,” the keeper answered reluctantly.
“Is he?” Syson exclaimed in pain.
“And who might you be?” asked the keeper, with a new intonation.
“John Adderley Syson; I used to live in Cordy Lane.”
“Used to court Hilda Millership?
Syson eyes opened with a pained smile. He nodded. There was an awkward silence.
“And you - who are you?” asked Syson.
“Arthur Pilbeam - Naylor’s my uncle,” said the other.
“You live here in Nutall?”
“I’m lodgin’ at my uncle’s - at Naylor’s.”
“Did you say you was goin’ down to Willey-Water?” asked the keeper.
There was a pause of some moments, before the keeper blurted: “I’m courtin’
The young fellow looked at the intruder with a stubborn defiance, almost
pathetic. Syson opened new eyes.
“Are you?” he said, astonished. The keeper flushed dark.
“She and me are keeping company,” he said.
“I didn’t know!” Said Syson. The other man waited uncomfortably.
“What, is the thing settled?” asked the intruder.
“How, settled?” retorted the other, sulkily.
"Are you going to get married soon, and all that?"
The keeper stared in silence for some moments, impotent.
“I suppose so,” he said, full of resentment.
“Ah!” Syson watched closely.
“I’m married myself,” he added, after a time.
“You are?” said the other, incredulously. Syson laughed in his brilliant, unhappy way.
“This last fifteen months,” he said.
The keeper gazed at him with wide, wondering eyes, apparently thinking back,
and trying to make things out.
“Why, didn’t you know?” asked Syson.
“No, I didn’t,” said the other sulkily.
There was silence for a moment.
“Ah well!” said Syson, “I will go on. I suppose I may.” The keeper stood in silent
opposition. The two men hesitated in the open, grassy space, set round with
small sheaves of sturdy bluebells; a little open platform, on the brow of the
hill. Syson took a few indecisive steps forward, then stopped.
“I say, how beautiful!” he cried.
‘He had come in full view of the downslope. The wide path ran from his feet like a
river, and it was full of bluebells, save for a green winding thread down the
centre, where the keeper walked. Like a stream the path opened into azure
shallows at the levels, and there were pools of bluebells, with still the green
thread winding through, like a thin current of ice water through blue lakes. And
from under the twig-purple of the bushes swam the shadowed blue, as if the
flowers lay in flood water over the woodland.
“Ah, isn’t it lovely!” Syson exclaimed; this was his past, the country he had
abandoned, and it hurt him to see it so beautiful. Wood-pigeons cooed overhead, and the air was full of the brightness of birds singing.
“If you’re married, what do you keep writing to her for, and sending her poetry
books and things?” asked the keeper. Syson stared at him, taken aback and
humiliated. Then he began to smile.
“Well,” he said, “I did not know about you…”
Again the keeper flushed darkly.
“But if you are married ----------” he charged.
“I am,” answered the other cynically.
“Then, looking down the blue, beautiful path, Syson felt his own humiliation.
“What right have I to hang on to her?” he thought, bitterly self-contemptuous.
“She knows I’m married and all that,” he said.
“But you keep sending her books,” challenged the keeper.
Syson, silenced, looked at the other man quizzically, half pitying. Then he turned.
“Good day,” he said, and was gone. Now, everything irritated him: the two
swallows, one all gold and perfume and murmur, one silver-green and bristly,
reminded him that here he had taught her all about pollination. What a fool he
was? What a god-forsaken folly it all was ! “Ah well,” he said to himself; “the poor
devil seems to have a grudge against me. I’ll do my best for him.” He grinned to
himself, in a very bad temper.
Lawrence, D.H. "The Shades of Spring." 1981. Access to Literature: Understanding Fiction, Drama, and Poetry. Ed. Elliot L. Smith and Wanda V. Smith. New York: St. Martin's, 1981. 157-60. Print.
The most likely reason that Syson is 'satisfied" in line 26 is that