“But she seems—” he began.
“You’ve never tried,” she answered.
THE TEST ON MIRIAM
With the spring came again the old madness and
battle. Now he knew he would have to go to Miriam.
But what was his reluctance? He told himself
it was only a sort of overstrong virginity in her and
him which neither could break through. He might
have married her; but his circumstances at home made
it difficult, and, moreover, he did not want to marry.
Marriage was for life, and because they had become
close companions, he and she, he did not see that
it should inevitably follow they should be man and
wife. He did not feel that he wanted marriage
with Miriam. He wished he did. He would
have given his head to have felt a joyous desire to
marry her and to have her. Then why couldn’t
he bring it off? There was some obstacle; and
what was the obstacle? It lay in the physical
bondage. He shrank from the physical contact.
But why? With her he felt bound up inside himself.
He could not go out to her. Something struggled
in him, but he could not get to her. Why?
She loved him. Clara said she even wanted him;
then why couldn’t he go to her, make love to
her, kiss her? Why, when she put her arm in his,
timidly, as they walked, did he feel he would burst
forth in brutality and recoil? He owed himself
to her; he wanted to belong to her. Perhaps the
recoil and the shrinking from her was love in its
first fierce modesty. He had no aversion for
her. No, it was the opposite; it was a strong
desire battling with a still stronger shyness and
virginity. It seemed as if virginity were a positive
force, which fought and won in both of them. And
with her he felt it so hard to overcome; yet he was
nearest to her, and with her alone could he deliberately
break through. And he owed himself to her.
Then, if they could get things right, they could marry;
but he would not marry unless he could feel strong
in the joy of it—never. He could not
have faced his mother. It seemed to him that to
sacrifice himself in a marriage he did not want would
be degrading, and would undo all his life, make it
a nullity. He would try what he could do.
And he had a great tenderness for Miriam. Always,
she was sad, dreaming her religion; and he was nearly
a religion to her. He could not bear to fail
her. It would all come right if they tried.
He looked round. A good many of the nicest men
he knew were like himself, bound in by their own virginity,
which they could not break out of. They were
so sensitive to their women that they would go without
them for ever rather than do them a hurt, an injustice.
Being the sons of mothers whose husbands had blundered
rather brutally through their feminine sanctities,
they were themselves too diffident and shy. They
could easier deny themselves than incur any reproach
from a woman; for a woman was like their mother, and
they were full of the sense of their mother.
They preferred themselves to suffer the misery of celibacy,
rather than risk the other person.
