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

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СКАЧАТЬ of Clarence MacFadden,” he said, lighting a pipe as if the conversation did not interest him.

      “Yes — what ages since we sang that!”

      ‘Clarence MacFadden he wanted to dance But his feet were not gaited that way . . . ’

      “I remember we sang it after one corn harvest — we had a fine time. I never thought of you before as Clarence. It is very funny. By the way — will you come to our party at Christmas?”

      “When? Who’s coming?”

      “The twenty-sixth — Oh! — only the old people — Alice — Tom Smith — Fanny — those from Highclose.”

      “And what will you do?”

      “Sing — charades —— dance a little — anything you like.”

      “Polka?”

      “And minuets — and valetas. Come and dance a valeta, Cyril.”

      She made me take her through a valeta, a minuet, a mazurka, and she danced elegantly, but with a little of Carmen’s ostentation — her dash and devilry. When we had finished, the father said:

      “Very pretty — very pretty, indeed! They do look nice, don’t they, George? I wish I was young.”

      “As I am —” said George, laughing bitterly.

      “Show me how to do them — some time, Cyril,” said Emily, in her pleading way, which displeased Lettie so much. “Why don’t you ask me?” said the latter quickly. “Well — but you are not often here.”

      “I am here now. Come —” and she waved Emily imperiously to the attempt.

      Lettie, as I have said, is tall, approaching six feet; she is lissome. but firmly moulded, by nature graceful; in her poise and harmonious movement are revealed the subtle sympathies of her artist’s soul. The other is shorter, much heavier. In her every motion you can see the extravagance of her emotional nature. She quivers with feeling; emotion conquers and carries havoc through her, for she had not a strong intellect, nor a heart of light humour; her nature is brooding and defenceless; she knows herself powerless in the tumult of her feelings, and adds to her misfortunes a profound mistrust of herself.

      As they danced together, Lettie and Emily, they showed in striking contrast. My sister’s ease and beautiful poetic movement were exquisite; the other could not control her movements, but repeated the same error again and again. She gripped Lettie’s hand fiercely, and glanced up with eyes full of humiliation and terror of her continued failure, and passionate, trembling, hopeless desire to succeed. To show her, to explain, made matters worse. As soon as she trembled on the brink of an action, the terror of not being able to perform it properly blinded her, and she was conscious of nothing but that she must do something — in a turmoil. At last Lettie ceased to talk, and merely swung her through the dances haphazard. This way succeeded better. So long as Emily need not think about her actions, she had a large, free grace; and the swing and rhythm and time were imparted through her senses rather than through her intelligence.

      It was time for supper. The mother came down for a while, and we talked quietly, at random. Lettie did not utter a word about her engagement, not a suggestion. She made it seem as if things were just as before, although I am sure she had discovered that I had told George. She intended that we should play as if ignorant of her bond.

      After supper, when we were ready to go home, Lettie said to him:

      “By the way — you must send us some mistletoe for the party — with plenty of berries, you know. Are there many berries on your mistletoe this year?”

      “I do not know — I have never looked. We will go and see — if you like,” George answered.

      “But will you come out into the cold?”

      He pulled on his boots, and his coat, and twisted a scarf round his neck. The young moon had gone. It was very dark — the liquid stars wavered. The great night filled us with awe. Lettie caught hold of my arm, and held it tightly. He passed on in front to open the gates. We went down into the front garden, over the turf bridge where the sluice rushed coldly under, on to the broad slope of the bank. We could just distinguish the gnarled old apple trees leaning about us. We bent our heads to avoid the boughs, and followed George. He hesitated a moment, saying:

      “Let me see — I think they are there — the two trees with mistletoe on.”

      We again followed silently.

      “Yes,” he said. “Here they are!”

      We went close and peered into the old trees. We could just see the dark bush of the mistletoe between the boughs of the tree. Lettie began to laugh.

      “Have we come to count the berries?” she said. “I can’t even see the mistletoe.”

      She leaned forward and upwards to pierce the darkness; he, also straining to look, felt her breath on his cheek, and turning, saw the pallor of her face close to his, and felt the dark glow of her eyes. He caught her in his arms, and held her mouth in a kiss. Then, when he released her, he turned away, saying something incoherent about going to fetch the lantern to look. She remained with her back towards me, and pretended to be feeling among the mistletoe for the berries. Soon I saw the swing of the hurricane lamp below.

      “He is bringing the lantern,” said I.

      When he came up, he said, and his voice was strange and subdued:

      “Now we can see what it’s like.”

      He went near, and held up the lamp, so that it illuminated both their faces, and the fantastic boughs of the trees, and the weird bush of mistletoe sparsely pearled with berries. Instead of looking at the berries they looked into each other’s eyes; his lids flickered, and he flushed, in the yellow light of the lamp looking warm and handsome; he looked upwards in confusion and said, “There are plenty of berries.”

      As a matter of fact, there were very few.

      She too looked up, and murmured her assent. The light seemed to hold them as in a globe, in another world, apart from the night in which I stood. He put up his hand and broke off a sprig of mistletoe, with berries, and offered it to her. They looked into each other’s eyes again. She put the mistletoe among her furs, looking down at her bosom. They remained still, in the centre of light, with the lamp uplifted; the red and black scarf wrapped loosely round his neck gave him a luxurious, generous look. He lowered the lamp and said, affecting to speak naturally:

      “Yes — there is plenty this year.”

      “You will give me some,” she replied, turning away and finally breaking the spell.

      “When shall I cut it?”— He strode beside her, swinging the lamp, as we went down the bank to go home. He came as far as the brooks without saying another word. Then he bade us good night. When he had lighted her over the stepping-stones, she did not take my arm as we walked home.

      During the next two weeks we were busy preparing for Christmas, ranging the woods for the reddest holly, and pulling the gleaming ivy-bunches from the trees. From the farms around came the cruel yelling of pigs, and in the evening later, was a scent of pork-pies. Far off on the high-way could be heard the sharp trot of ponies СКАЧАТЬ