[adapted]

by
D. H. Lawrence

There was a woman who was very beautiful. She had many good things in life, but she had no luck. She married for love, but the love turned cold and faded away. She had pretty children, but she felt they had been pushed onto her, and she could not love them. The children looked at her with cold eyes, as if they were blaming her. She felt she must hide something wrong inside herself. But she never knew what it was she needed to hide. Still, when her children were with her, she always felt her heart go hard. This made her worried, and so she acted even more kind and caring toward her children, as if she loved them a lot. But only she knew that deep in her heart was a small hard place that could not feel love—not for anyone. Everyone else said, “She is such a good mother. She loves her children so much.” Only she, and her children too, knew that this was not true. They could see it in each other’s eyes.

There was one boy and two little girls. They lived in a nice house with a garden. They had quiet and polite servants, and they thought they were better than anyone else in the area.

Even though they lived in a nice way, there was always worry in the house. There was never enough money. The mother had a little money, and the father also had a little money, but it was not enough for the rich lifestyle they wanted to keep. The father went to work in an office in town. People said he had a good future, but that future never came true. There was always the hard feeling of not having enough money, even though they kept living in style.

At last the mother said, “I will try to make some money.” But she didn’t know how to begin. She thought very hard and tried one thing after another, but nothing worked. Failing made her face look older and tired. Her children were growing up, and they would need to go to school. There had to be more money—there had to be more money. The father, who was very good-looking and liked expensive things, never seemed able to do anything that brought success. And the mother, who believed in herself very much, didn’t do any better. She also liked expensive things.

And so, the house felt haunted by an unspoken voice. It seemed to say: “There must be more money! There must be more money!” The children could hear it all the time, even though no one said it out loud. They heard it at Christmas, when the big, fancy toys filled the nursery. Behind the shiny new rocking-horse, behind the stylish doll’s house, a soft voice seemed to whisper: “There must be more money! There must be more money!” And the children would stop playing and listen. They would look at each other, to see if they had all heard it. And each one could see in the eyes of the other two that they had heard it. “There must be more money! There must be more money!”

The whisper seemed to come from the springs of the rocking-horse as it moved back and forth. Even the horse, with its wooden head bent forward, seemed to hear it. The big doll, sitting pink and smiling in her new baby carriage, could hear it clearly too. She seemed to smile even more, but in a shy way, because she had heard the secret whisper. The silly toy puppy, which had replaced the teddy bear, also looked very silly—just because he had heard the secret whisper all through the house: “There must be more money!”

But no one ever said the words out loud. The whisper was everywhere, so no one needed to speak it. It was like how no one says, “We are breathing,” even though we are breathing all the time.

“Mother,” said the boy Paul one day, “why don’t we have our own car? Why do we always use Uncle’s car or take a taxi?”

“Because we are the poor ones in the family,” said the mother.

“But why are we, Mother?”

“Well—I suppose,” she said slowly and sadly, “it’s because your father has no luck.”

The boy was quiet for a while.

“Is luck the same as money, Mother?” he asked, a little shyly.

“No, Paul. Not exactly. Luck is what makes you get money.”

“Oh!” said Paul, not really sure. “I thought when Uncle Oscar said filthy lucker, he meant money.”

“Filthy lucre does mean money,” said the mother. “But it’s lucre, not luck.”

“Oh!” said the boy. “Then what is luck, Mother?”

“It’s what helps you get money. If you’re lucky, you have money. That’s why it’s better to be born lucky than to be born rich. If you are rich, you can lose your money. But if you’re lucky, you will always be able to get more money.”

“Oh! Will you? And isn’t Father lucky?”

“Very unlucky, I would say,” she said sadly.

The boy looked at her with unsure eyes.

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Nobody ever knows why one person is lucky and another is not.”

“They don’t? Nobody at all? Doesn’t anyone know?”

“Maybe God knows. But He never tells.”

“He should tell, then. And aren’t you lucky either, Mother?”

“I can’t be, if I married an unlucky husband.”

“But what about just you—aren’t you lucky by yourself?”

“I used to think I was, before I got married. Now I think I am very unlucky.”

“Why?”

“Well—never mind! Maybe I’m not really unlucky,” she said.

The child looked at her to see if she meant what she said. But he saw, from the lines around her mouth, that she was only trying to hide something from him.

“Well, anyway,” he said strongly, “I’m a lucky person.”

“Why?” asked his mother, suddenly laughing.

He looked at her. He didn’t even know why he had said that.

“God told me,” he said boldly, trying to sound sure.

“I hope He did, dear!” she said, laughing again, but the laugh sounded a little sad.

“He did, Mother!”

“Excellent!” said the mother, using a word her husband often used.

The boy could see she didn’t believe him—or maybe she just didn’t really listen to what he said. This made him feel angry deep inside. He wanted to make her listen to him.

He went off by himself, in a quiet, childlike way, trying to find the secret of “luck.” Deep in thought and not paying attention to others, he walked around quietly, searching inside himself for luck. He wanted luck. He wanted it badly.

When the two little girls were playing with dolls in the nursery, he would sit on his big rocking-horse, riding it wildly, as if racing through the air. He rode so fast and so hard that the little girls looked at him with worry. The horse rocked crazily, the boy’s dark hair flew, and his eyes looked strange and bright. The little girls were too scared to speak to him.

When he had finished one of his wild rides, he climbed down and stood in front of his rocking-horse. He stared hard into its face. The horse’s red mouth was a little open, and its big eye looked wide and shiny like glass.

“Now!” he would silently tell the breathing horse. “Now take me to where luck is! Now take me!”

Then he would hit the horse on the neck with the little whip he had asked Uncle Oscar to give him. He believed the horse could take him to luck—if he forced it enough. So he would get back on and ride again, fast and hard, hoping he would finally reach the place where luck was.

“You’ll break your horse, Paul!” said the nurse.

“He’s always riding like that! I wish he’d stop!” said his older sister, Joan.

But Paul just looked down at them without saying a word. The nurse gave up. She didn’t understand him. Anyway, he was getting too big for her to manage.

One day, his mother and Uncle Oscar came in while he was riding wildly. He didn’t talk to them.

“Hello, young jockey! Are you riding a winner?” said his uncle.

“Aren’t you getting too big for a rocking-horse? You’re not such a little boy anymore, you know,” said his mother.

But Paul only gave her a cold blue stare from his big, close-set eyes. He didn’t talk to anyone when he was riding at full speed. His mother looked at him with worry on her face.

At last, he suddenly stopped pushing the horse into its fast, shaking ride and slid off.

“Well, I got there!” he said strongly, his blue eyes still shining, and his strong legs standing wide apart.

“Where did you get to?” asked his mother.