Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence

by D. H. Lawrence

  “Aw — aw Mother, my peacock — aw, my peacock, my green peacock!” Lavishly she hovered over a sinuous greenish bird, with wings and tail of spun glass, pearly, and body of deep electric green.

  “It’s mine — my green peacock! It’s mine, because Marjory’s had one wing off, and mine hadn’t. My green peacock that I love! I love it!” She swung it softly from the little ring on its back. Then she went to her mother.

  “Look, Mother, isn’t it a beauty?”

  “Mind the ring doesn’t come out,” said her mother. “Yes, it’s lovely!” The girl passed on to her father.

  “Look, Father, don’t you love it!”

  “Love it?” he re-echoed, ironical over the word love.

  She stood for some moments, trying to force his attention. Then she went back to her place.

  Marjory had brought forth a golden apple, red on one cheek, rather garish.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Millicent feverishly, instantly seized with desire for what she had not got, indifferent to what she had. Her eye ran quickly over the packages. She took one.

  “Now!” she exclaimed loudly, to attract attention. “Now! What’s this? — What’s this? What will this beauty be?”

  With finicky fingers she removed the newspaper. Marjory watched her wide-eyed. Millicent was self-important.

  “The blue ball!” she cried in a climax of rapture. “I’ve got THE BLUE BALL.”

  She held it gloating in the cup of her hands. It was a little globe of hardened glass, of a magnificent full dark blue color. She rose and went to her father.

  “It was your blue ball, wasn’t it, father?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you had it when you were a little boy, and now I have it when I’m a little girl.”

  “Ay,” he replied drily.

  “And it’s never been broken all those years.”

  “No, not yet.”

  “And perhaps it never will be broken.” To this she received no answer.

  “Won’t it break?” she persisted. “Can’t you break it?”

  “Yes, if you hit it with a hammer,” he said.

  “Aw!” she cried. “I don’t mean that. I mean if you just drop it. It won’t break if you drop it, will it?”

  “I dare say it won’t.”

  “But WILL it?”

  “I sh’d think not.”

  “Should I try?”

  She proceeded gingerly to let the blue ball drop, it bounced dully on the floor-covering.

  “Oh-h-h!” she cried, catching it up. “I love it.”

  “Let ME drop it,” cried Marjory, and there was a performance of admonition and demonstration from the elder sister.

  But Millicent must go further. She became excited.

  “It won’t break,” she said, “even if you toss it up in the air.”

  She flung it up, it fell safely. But her father’s brow knitted slightly. She tossed it wildly: it fell with a little splashing explosion: it had smashed. It had fallen on the sharp edge of the tiles that protruded under the fender.

  “NOW what have you done!” cried the mother.

  The child stood with her lip between her teeth, a look, half, of pure misery and dismay, half of satisfaction, on her pretty sharp face.

  “She wanted to break it,” said the father.

  “No, she didn’t! What do you say that for!” said the mother. And Millicent burst into a flood of tears.

  He rose to look at the fragments that lay splashed on the floor.

  “You must mind the bits,” he said, “and pick ‘em all up.”

  He took one of the pieces to examine it. It was fine and thin and hard, lined with pure silver, brilliant. He looked at it closely. So — this was what it was. And this was the end of it. He felt the curious soft explosion of its breaking still in his ears. He threw his piece in the fire.

  “Pick all the bits up,” he said. “Give over! give over! Don’t cry any more.” The good-natured tone of his voice quieted the child, as he intended it should.

  He went away into the back kitchen to wash himself. As he was bending his head over the sink before the little mirror, lathering to shave, there came from outside the dissonant voices of boys, pouring out the dregs of carol-singing.

  “While Shep-ep-ep-ep-herds watched — ”

  He held his soapy brush suspended for a minute. They called this singing! His mind flitted back to early carol music. Then again he heard the vocal violence outside.

  “Aren’t you off there!” he called out, in masculine menace. The noise stopped, there was a scuffle. But the feet returned and the voices resumed. Almost immediately the door opened, boys were heard muttering among themselves. Millicent had given them a penny. Feet scraped on the yard, then went thudding along the side of the house, to the street.

  To Aaron Sisson, this was home, this was Christmas: the unspeakably familiar. The war over, nothing was changed. Yet everything changed. The scullery in which he stood was painted green, quite fresh, very clean, the floor was red tiles. The wash-copper of red bricks was very red, the mangle with its put-up board was white-scrubbed, the American oil-cloth on the table had a gay pattern, there was a warm fire, the water in the boiler hissed faintly. And in front of him, beneath him as he leaned forward shaving, a drop of water fell with strange, incalculable rhythm from the bright brass tap into the white enamelled bowl, which was now half full of pure, quivering water. The war was over, and everything just the same. The acute familiarity of this house, which he had built for his marriage twelve years ago, the changeless pleasantness of it all seemed unthinkable. It prevented his thinking.

  When he went into the middle room to comb his hair he found the Christmas tree sparkling, his wife was making pastry at the table, the baby was sitting up propped in cushions.

  “Father,” said Millicent, approaching him with a flat blue-and-white angel of cotton-wool, and two ends of cotton — ”tie the angel at the top.”

  “Tie it at the top?” he said, looking down.

  “Yes. At the very top — because it’s just come down from the sky.”

  “Ay my word!” he laughed. And he tied the angel.

  Coming downstairs after changing he went into the icy cold parlour, and took his music and a small handbag. With this he retreated again to the back kitchen. He was still in trousers and shirt and slippers: but now it was a clean white shirt, and his best black trousers, and new pink and white braces. He sat under the gas-jet of the back kitchen, looking through his music. Then he opened the bag, in which were sections of a flute and a piccolo. He took out the flute, and adjusted it. As he sat he was physically aware of the sounds of the night: the bubbling of water in the boiler, the faint sound of the gas, the sudden crying of the baby in the next room, then noises outside, distant boys shouting, distant rags of carols, fragments of voices of men. The whole country was roused and excited.

  The little room was hot. Aaron rose and opened a square ventilator over the copper, letting in a stream of cold air, which was grateful to him. Then he cocked his eye over the sheet of music spread out on the table before him. He tried his flute. And then at last, with the odd gesture of a diver taking a plunge, he swung his head and began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms with slight, intense movements, as the delicate music poured out. It was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid and delicate.

  The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense, exasperated to the point of intolerable anger, in his good-humored breast, as he played the finely-spun peace-music. The more exquisite the music, the more perfectly he produced it, in sheer bliss; and at the same time, the more intense was the maddened exasperation within him.

  Millicent appeared in the room. She fidgetted at the sink. The music was a bugbear to her, because it prevented her from saying what was on her own mind. At length it ended, her fa
ther was turning over the various books and sheets. She looked at him quickly, seizing her opportunity.

  “Are you going out, Father?” she said.

  “Eh?”

  “Are you going out?” She twisted nervously.

  “What do you want to know for?”

  He made no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet — then over it again — then more closely over it again.

  “Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot.

  He looked at her, and his eyes were angry under knitted brows.

  “What are you bothering about?” he said.

  “I’m not bothering — I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry.

  “I expect I am,” he said quietly.

  She recovered at once, but still with timidity asked:

  “We haven’t got any candles for the Christmas tree — shall you buy some, because mother isn’t going out?”

  “Candles!” he repeated, settling his music and taking up the piccolo.

  “Yes — shall you buy us some, Father? Shall you?”

  “Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo to his mouth and blowing a few piercing, preparatory notes.

  “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles — blue ones and red ones, in boxes — Shall you, Father?”

  “We’ll see — if I see any — ”

  “But SHALL you?” she insisted desperately. She wisely mistrusted his vagueness.

  But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, shrill, brilliant. He was playing Mozart. The child’s face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise.

  The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music seemed to possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. In the frosty evening the sound carried. People passing down the street hesitated, listening. The neighbours knew it was Aaron practising his piccolo. He was esteemed a good player: was in request at concerts and dances, also at swell balls. So the vivid piping sound tickled the darkness.

  He played on till about seven o’clock; he did not want to go out too soon, in spite of the early closing of the public houses. He never went with the stream, but made a side current of his own. His wife said he was contrary. When he went into the middle room to put on his collar and tie, the two little girls were having their hair brushed, the baby was in bed, there was a hot smell of mince-pies baking in the oven.

  “You won’t forget our candles, will you, Father?” asked Millicent, with assurance now.

  “I’ll see,” he answered.

  His wife watched him as he put on his overcoat and hat. He was well-dressed, handsome-looking. She felt there was a curious glamour about him. It made her feel bitter. He had an unfair advantage — he was free to go off, while she must stay at home with the children.

  “There’s no knowing what time you’ll be home,” she said.

  “I shan’t be late,” he answered.

  “It’s easy to say so,” she retorted, with some contempt. He took his stick, and turned towards the door.

  “Bring the children some candles for their tree, and don’t be so selfish,” she said.

  “All right,” he said, going out.

  “Don’t say ALL RIGHT if you never mean to do it,” she cried, with sudden anger, following him to the door.

  His figure stood large and shadowy in the darkness.

  “How many do you want?” he said.

  “A dozen,” she said. “And holders too, if you can get them,” she added, with barren bitterness.

  “Yes — all right,” he turned and melted into the darkness. She went indoors, worn with a strange and bitter flame.

  He crossed the fields towards the little town, which once more fumed its lights under the night. The country ran away, rising on his right hand. It was no longer a great bank of darkness. Lights twinkled freely here and there, though forlornly, now that the war-time restrictions were removed. It was no glitter of pre-war nights, pit-heads glittering far-off with electricity. Neither was it the black gulf of the war darkness: instead, this forlorn sporadic twinkling.

  Everybody seemed to be out of doors. The hollow dark countryside re-echoed like a shell with shouts and calls and excited voices. Restlessness and nervous excitement, nervous hilarity were in the air. There was a sense of electric surcharge everywhere, frictional, a neurasthenic haste for excitement.

  Every moment Aaron Sisson was greeted with Good-night — Good-night, Aaron — Good-night, Mr. Sisson. People carrying parcels, children, women, thronged home on the dark paths. They were all talking loudly, declaiming loudly about what they could and could not get, and what this or the other had lost.

  When he got into the main street, the only street of shops, it was crowded. There seemed to have been some violent but quiet contest, a subdued fight, going on all the afternoon and evening: people struggling to buy things, to get things. Money was spent like water, there was a frenzy of money-spending. Though the necessities of life were in abundance, still the people struggled in frenzy for cheese, sweets, raisins, pork-stuff, even for flowers and holly, all of which were scarce, and for toys and knick-knacks, which were sold out. There was a wild grumbling, but a deep satisfaction in the fight, the struggle. The same fight and the same satisfaction in the fight was witnessed whenever a tram-car stopped, or when it heaved its way into sight. Then the struggle to mount on board became desperate and savage, but stimulating. Souls surcharged with hostility found now some outlet for their feelings.

  As he came near the little market-place he bethought himself of the Christmas-tree candles. He did not intend to trouble himself. And yet, when he glanced in passing into the sweet-shop window, and saw it bare as a board, the very fact that he probably could not buy the things made him hesitate, and try.

  “Have you got any Christmas-tree candles?” he asked as he entered the shop.

  “How many do you want?”

  “A dozen.”

  “Can’t let you have a dozen. You can have two boxes — four in a box — eight. Six-pence a box.”

  “Got any holders?”

  “Holders? Don’t ask. Haven’t seen one this year.”

  “Got any toffee — ?”

  “Cough-drops — two-pence an ounce — nothing else left.”

  “Give me four ounces.”

  He watched her weighing them in the little brass scales.

  “You’ve not got much of a Christmas show,” he said.

  “Don’t talk about Christmas, as far as sweets is concerned. They ought to have allowed us six times the quantity — there’s plenty of sugar, why didn’t they? We s’ll have to enjoy ourselves with what we’ve got. We mean to, anyhow.”

  “Ay,” he said.

  “Time we had a bit of enjoyment, THIS Christmas. They ought to have made things more plentiful.”

  “Yes,” he said, stuffing his package in his pocket.

  CHAPTER II. ROYAL OAK

  The war had killed the little market of the town. As he passed the market place on the brow, Aaron noticed that there were only two miserable stalls. But people crowded just the same. There was a loud sound of voices, men’s voices. Men pressed round the doorways of the public-houses.

  But he was going to a pub out of town. He descended the dark hill. A street-lamp here and there shed parsimonious light. In the bottoms, under the trees, it was very dark. But a lamp glimmered in front of the “Royal Oak.” This was a low white house sunk three steps below the highway. It was darkened, but sounded crowded.

  Opening the door, Sisson found himself in the stone passage. Old Bob, carrying three cans, stopped to see who had entered — then went on into the public bar on the left. The bar itself was a sort of little window-sill on the right: the pub was a small one. In this window-opening stood the landlady, drawing and serving to her husband. Behind the bar was a tiny par
lour or den, the landlady’s preserve.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, bobbing down to look at the newcomer. None entered her bar-parlour unless invited.

  “Come in,” said the landlady. There was a peculiar intonation in her complacent voice, which showed she had been expecting him, a little irritably.

  He went across into her bar-parlour. It would not hold more than eight or ten people, all told — just the benches along the 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.