The Shades of Spring, D.H. Lawrence, 1914
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.
...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 mustache, 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's 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’ Hilda Millership.”
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
“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.”
“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!
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.
Overall, Syson's state of mind can BEST be summed up by