Aaron's Rod. Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс

walls, the fire between—and two little round tables.

      "I began to think you weren't coming," said the landlady, bringing him a whiskey.

      She was a large, stout, high-coloured woman, with a fine profile, probably Jewish. She had chestnut-coloured eyes, ​quick, intelligent. Her movements were large and slow, her voice laconic.

      "I'm not so late, am I?" asked Aaron.

      "Yes, you are late, I should think." She looked up at the little clock. "Close on nine."

      "I did some shopping," said Aaron, with a quick smile.

      "Did you indeed? That's news, I'm sure. May we ask what you bought?"

      This he did not like. But he had to answer.

      "Christmas-tree candles, and toffee."

      "For the little children? Well you've done well for once! I must say I recommend you. I didn't think you had so much in you."

      She sat herself down in her seat at the end of the bench, and took up her knitting. Aaron sat next to her. He poured water into his glass, and drank.

      It's warm in here," he said, when he had swallowed the liquor.

      "Yes, it is. You won't want to keep that thick good overcoat on," replied the landlady.

      "No," he said, "I think I'll take it off."

      She watched him as he hung up his overcoat. He wore black clothes, as usual. As he reached up to the pegs, she could see the muscles of his shoulders, and the form of his legs. Her reddish-brown eyes seemed to burn, and her nose, that had a subtle, beautiful Hebraic curve, seemed to arch itself. She made a little place for him by herself, as he returned. She carried her head thrown back, with dauntless self-sufficiency.

      There were several colliers in the room, talking quietly. They were the superior type all, favoured by the landlady, who loved intellectual discussion. Opposite, by the fire, sat a little, greenish man—evidently an oriental.

      "You're very quiet all at once, Doctor," said the landlady in her slow, laconic voice.

      "Yes.—May I have another whiskey, please?" She rose at once, powerfully energetic.

      "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. And she went to the bar.

      ​"Well," said the little Hindu doctor, "and how are things going now, with the men?"

      "The same as ever," said Aaron.

      "Yes," said the stately voice of the landlady. "And I'm afraid they will always be the same as ever. When will they learn wisdom?"

      "But what do you call wisdom?" asked Sherardy, the Hindu. He spoke with a little, childish lisp.

      "What do I call wisdom?" repeated the landlady. "Why all acting together for the common good. That is wisdom in my idea."

      "Yes, very well, that is so. But what do you call the common good?" replied the little doctor, with childish pertinence.

      "Ay," said Aaron, with a laugh, "that's it." The miners were all stirring now, to take part in the discussion.

      "What do I call the common good?" repeated the landlady. "That all people should study the welfare of other people, and not only their own."

      "They are not to study their own welfare?" said the doctor.

      "Ah, that I did not say," replied the landlady. "Let them study their own welfare, and that of others also."

      "Well then," said the doctor, "what is the welfare of a collier?"

      "The welfare of a collier," said the landlady, "is that he shall earn sufficient wages to keep himself and his family comfortable, to educate his children, and to educate himself; for that is what he wants, education."

      "Ay, happen so," put in Brewitt, a big, fine, good-humoured collier. "Happen so, Mrs. Houseley. But what if you haven't got much education, to speak of?"

      "You can always get it," she said patronizing.

      "Nay—I'm blest if you can. It's no use tryin' to educate a man over forty—not by book-learning. That isn't saying he's a fool, neither."

      "And what better is them that's got education?" put in another man. "What better is the manager, or th' ​under-manager, than we are?—Pender's yaller enough i' th' face."

      "He is that," assented the men in chorus.

      "But because he's yellow in the face, as you say, Mr. Kirk," said the landlady largely, "that doesn't mean he has no advantages higher than what you have got."

      "Ay," said Kirk. "He can ma'e more money than I can—that's about a' as it comes to."

      "He can make more money," said the landlady. "And when he's made it, he knows better how to use it."

      "'Appen so, an' a'!—What does he do, more than eat and drink and work?—an' take it out of hisself a sight harder than I do, by th' looks of him.—What's it matter, if he eats a bit more or drinks a bit more—"

      No," reiterated the landlady. "He not only eats and drinks. He can read, and he can converse."

      "Me an' a'," said Tom Kirk, and the men burst into a laugh. "I can read—an' I've had many a talk an' conversation with you in this house, Mrs. Houseley—am havin' one at this minute, seemingly."

      "Seemingly, you are," said the landlady ironically. "But do you think there would be no difference between your conversation, and Mr. Pender's, if he were here so that I could enjoy his conversation?"

      "An' what difference would there be?" asked Tom Kirk, "He'd go home to his bed just the same."

      "There, you are mistaken. He would be the better, and so should I, a great deal better, for a little genuine conversation."

      "If it's conversation as ma'es his behind drop—" said Tom Kirk.

      "An' puts th' bile in his face—" said Brewitt. There was a general laugh.

      "I can see it's no use talking about it any further," said the landlady, lifting her head dangerously.

      "But look here, Mrs. Houseley, do you really think it makes much difference to a man, whether he can hold a serious conversation or not?" asked the doctor.

      ​"I do indeed, all the difference in the world—To me, there is no greater difference, than between an educated man and an uneducated man."

      "And where does it come in?" asked Kirk.

      "But wait a bit, now," said Aaron Sisson. "You take an educated man—take Pender. What's his education for? What does he scheme for?—What does he contrive for? What does he talk for?—"

      "For all the purposes of his life," replied the landlady.

      "Ay, an' what's the purpose of his life?" insisted Aaron Sisson.

      "The purpose of his life," repeated the landlady, at a loss. "I should think he knows that best himself."

      "No better than I know it—and you know it," said Aaron.

      "Well," said the landlady, "if you know, then speak out. What is it?"

      "To make more money for the firm—and so make his own chance of a rise better."

      The landlady was baffled for some moments. Then she said:

      "Yes, and suppose that he does. Is there any harm in it? Isn't it his duty to do what he can for himself? Don't you try to earn all you can?"

      "Ay," said Aaron. "But there's soon a limit to what I can earn.—It's like this. When you work it out, everything comes to money. Reckon it as you like, it's money on both sides. It's money we live for, and money is what our lives is worth—nothing else. Money we live for, and money we are when we're dead: that or nothing. An' it's money as is between the masters and us. There's a few educated