The Greatest Works of D. H. Lawrence. D. H. Lawrence

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СКАЧАТЬ Now be still, and I’ll tell you what sort of music you make.”

      “Oh — well — tell me.”

      “Like the calling of throstles and blackies, in the evening, frightening the pale little wood-anemones, till they run panting and swaying right up to our wall. Like the ringing of bluebells when the bees are at them; like Hippomenes, out-of-breath, laughing because he’d won.”

      He kissed her with rapturous admiration.

      “Marriage music, sir,” she added.

      “What golden apples did I throw?” he asked lightly. “What!” she exclaimed, half mocking.

      “This Atalanta,” he replied, looking lovingly upon her, “this Atalanta — I believe she just lagged at last on purpose.”

      “You have it,” she cried, laughing, submitting to his caresses. “It was you — the apples of your firm heels — the apples of your eyes — the apples Eve bit — that won me — hein!”

      “That was it — you are clever, you are rare. And I’ve won, won the ripe apples of your cheeks, and your breasts, and your very fists — they can’t stop me — and — and — all your roundness and warmness and softness — I’ve won you, Lettie.”

      She nodded wickedly, saying:

      “All those — those — yes.”

      “All — she admits it — everything!”

      “Oh! — but let me breathe. Did you claim everything?”

      “Yes, and you gave it me.”

      “Not yet. Everything though?”

      “Every atom.”

      “But — now you look —”

      “Did I look aside?”

      “With the inward eye. Suppose now we were two angels —”

      “Oh, dear — a sloppy angel!”

      “Well — don’t interrupt now — suppose I were one — like the ‘Blessed Damosel’.”

      “With a warm bosom —!”

      “Don’t be foolish, now — I a ‘Blessed Damosel’ and you kicking the brown beech leaves below thinking —”

      “What are you driving at?”

      “Would you be thinking — thoughts like prayers?”

      “What on earth do you ask that for? Oh — I think I’d be cursing — eh?”

      “No — saying fragrant prayers — that your thin soul might mount up —”

      “Hang thin souls, Lettie! I’m not one of your souly sort. I can’t stand Pre-Raphaelities. You — You’re not a Burne-Jonesess — you’re an Albert Moore. I think there’s more in the warm touch of a soft body than in a prayer. I’ll pray with kisses.”

      “And when you can’t?”

      “I’ll wait till prayer-time again. By. Jove, I’d rather feel my arms full of you; I’d rather touch that red mouth — you grudger! — than sing hymns with you in any heaven.”

      “I’m afraid you’ll never sing hymns with me in heaven.”

      “Well — I have you here — yes, I have you now.”

      “Our life is but a fading dawn?”

      “Liar! — Well, you called me! Besides, I don’t care; ‘Carpe diem’, my rosebud, my fawn. There’s a nice Carmen about a fawn. ‘Time to leave its mother, and venture into a warm embrace.’ Poor old Horace — I’ve forgotten him.”

      “Then poor old Horace.”

      “Ha! Ha! — Well, I shan’t forget you. What’s that queer look in your eyes?”

      “What is it?”

      “Nay — you tell me. You are such a tease, there’s no getting to the bottom of you.”

      “You can fathom the depth of a kiss —”

      “I will — I will —”

      After a while he asked:

      “When shall we be properly engaged, Lettie?”

      “Oh, wait till Christmas — till I am twenty-one.”

      “Nearly three months! Why on earth —”

      “It will make no difference. I shall be able to choose thee of my own free choice then.”

      “But three months!”

      “I shall consider thee engaged — it doesn’t matter about other people.”

      “I thought we should be married in three months.”

      “Ah — married in haste — But what will your mother say?”

      “Say! Oh, she’ll say it’s the first wise thing I’ve done. You’ll make a fine wife, Lettie, able to entertain, and all that.”

      “You will flutter brilliantly.”

      “We will.”

      “No — you’ll be the moth — I’ll paint your wings — gaudy feather-dust. Then when you lose your coloured dust, when you fly too near the light, or when you play dodge with a butterfly-net — away goes my part — you can’t fly — I— alas, poor me! What becomes of the feather-dust when the moth brushes his wings against a butterfly-net?”

      “What are you making so many words about? You don’t know now, do you?”

      “No — that I don’t.”

      “Then just be comfortable. Let me look at myself in your eyes.”

      “Narcissus, Narcissus! — Do you see yourself well? Does the image flatter you? — Or is it a troubled stream, distorting your fair lineaments?”

      “I can’t see anything — only feel you looking — you are laughing at me. — What have you behind there — what joke?”

      “I— I’m thinking you’re just like Narcissus — a sweet, beautiful youth.”

      “Be serious — do.”

      “It would be dangerous. You’d die of it, and I— I should —”

      “What!”

      “Be just like I am now — serious.”

      He looked proudly, thinking she referred СКАЧАТЬ