Aaron's Rod - D. H. Lawrence (poetry books to read .TXT) 📗

said. “Not it! Not it!”

And he followed her to the gate.

She opened with her key, and they crossed the road to her door.

“Good-night,” she said, turning and giving him her hand.

“You’ll come and have dinner with me—or lunch—will you? When shall we make it?” he asked.

“Well, I can’t say for certain—I’m very busy just now. I’ll let you know.”

A policeman shed his light on the pair of them as they stood on the step.

“All right,” said Aaron, dropping back, and she hastily opened the big door, and entered.

CHAPTER VIII

A PUNCH IN THE WIND

The Lillys had a labourer’s cottage in Hampshire—pleasant enough. They were poor. Lilly was a little, dark, thin, quick fellow, his wife was strong and fair. They had known Robert and Julia for some years, but Josephine and Jim were new acquaintances,—fairly new.

One day in early spring Lilly had a telegram, “Coming to see you arrive 4:30—Bricknell.” He was surprised, but he and his wife got the spare room ready. And at four o’clock Lilly went off to the station. He was a few minutes late, and saw Jim’s tall, rather elegant figure stalking down the station path. Jim had been an officer in the regular army, and still spent hours with his tailor. But instead of being a soldier he was a sort of socialist, and a red- hot revolutionary of a very ineffectual sort.

“Good lad!” he exclaimed, as Lilly came up. “Thought you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all. Let me carry your bag.” Jim had a bag and a knapsack.

“I had an inspiration this morning,” said Jim. “I suddenly saw that if there was a man in England who could save me, it was you.”

“Save you from what?” asked Lilly, rather abashed.

“Eh—?” and Jim stooped, grinning at the smaller man.

Lilly was somewhat puzzled, but he had a certain belief in himself as a saviour. The two men tramped rather incongruously through the lanes to the cottage.

Tanny was in the doorway as they came up the garden path.

“So nice to see you! Are you all right?” she said.

“A-one” said Jim, grinning. “Nice of you to have me.”

“Oh, we’re awfully pleased.”

Jim dropped his knapsack on the broad sofa.

“I’ve brought some food,” he said.

“Have you! That’s sensible of you. We can’t get a great deal here, except just at week-ends,” said Tanny.

Jim fished out a pound of sausages and a pot of fish paste.

“How lovely the sausages,” said Tanny. “We’ll have them for dinner tonight—and we’ll have the other for tea now. You’d like a wash?”

But Jim had already opened his bag, taken off his coat, and put on an old one.

“Thanks,” he said.

Lilly made the tea, and at length all sat down.

“Well how unexpected this is—and how nice,” said Tanny.

“Jolly—eh?” said Jim.

He ate rapidly, stuffing his mouth too full.

“How is everybody?” asked Tanny.

“All right. Julia’s gone with Cyril Scott. Can’t stand that fellow, can you? What?”

“Yes, I think he’s rather nice,” said Tanny. “What will Robert do?”

“Have a shot at Josephine, apparently.”

“Really? Is he in love with her? I thought so. And she likes him too, doesn’t she?” said Tanny.

“Very likely,” said Jim.

“I suppose you’re jealous,” laughed Tanny.

“Me!” Jim shook his head. “Not a bit. Like to see the ball kept rolling.”

“What have you been doing lately?”

“Been staying a few days with my wife.”

“No, really! I can’t believe it.”

Jim had a French wife, who had divorced him, and two children. Now he was paying visits to this wife again: purely friendly. Tanny did most of the talking. Jim excited her, with his way of looking in her face and grinning wolfishly, and at the same time asking to be saved.

After tea, he wanted to send telegrams, so Lilly took him round to the village post-office. Telegrams were a necessary part of his life. He had to be suddenly starting off to keep sudden appointments, or he felt he was a void in the atmosphere. He talked to Lilly about social reform, and so on. Jim’s work in town was merely nominal. He spent his time wavering about and going to various meetings, philandering and weeping.

Lilly kept in the back of his mind the Saving which James had come to look for. He intended to do his best. After dinner the three sat cosily round the kitchen fire.

“But what do you really think will happen to the world?” Lilly asked Jim, amid much talk.

“What? There’s something big coming,” said Jim.

“Where from?”

“Watch Ireland, and watch Japan—they’re the two poles of the world,” said Jim.

“I thought Russia and America,” said Lilly.

“Eh? What? Russia and America! They’ll depend on Ireland and Japan. I know it. I’ve had a vision of it. Ireland on this side and Japan on the other—they’ll settle it.”

“I don’t see how,” said Lilly.

“I don’t see HOW—But I had a vision of it.”

“What sort of vision?”

“Couldn’t describe it.”

“But you don’t think much of the Japanese, do you?” asked Lilly.

“Don’t I! Don’t I!” said Jim. “What, don’t you think they’re wonderful?”

“No. I think they’re rather unpleasant.”

“I think the salvation of the world lies with them.”

“Funny salvation,” said Lilly. “I think they’re anything but angels.”

“Do you though? Now that’s funny. Why?”

“Looking at them even. I knew a Russian doctor who’d been through the Russo-Japanese war, and who had gone a bit cracked. He said he saw the Japs rush a trench. They threw everything away and flung themselves through the Russian fire and simply dropped in masses. But those that reached the trenches jumped in with bare hands on the Russians and tore their faces apart and bit their throats out—fairly ripped the faces off the bone.—It had sent the doctor a bit cracked. He said the wounded were awful,—their faces torn off and their throats mangled—and dead Japs with flesh between the teeth—God knows if it’s true. But that’s the impression the Japanese had made on this man. It had affected his mind really.”

Jim watched Lilly, and smiled as if he were pleased.

“No—really—!” he said.

“Anyhow they’re more demon than angel, I believe,” said Lilly.

“Oh, no, Rawdon, but you always exaggerate,” said Tanny.

“Maybe,” said Lilly.

“I think Japanese are fascinating—fascinating—so quick, and such FORCE in them—”

“Rather!—eh?” said Jim, looking with a quick smile at Tanny.

“I think a Japanese lover would be marvellous,” she laughed riskily.

“I s’d think he would,” said Jim, screwing up his eyes.

“Do you hate the normal British as much as I do?” she asked him.

“Hate them! Hate them!” he said, with an intimate grin.

“Their beastly virtue,” said she. “And I believe there’s nobody more vicious underneath.”

“Nobody!” said Jim.

“But you’re British yourself,” said Lilly to Jim.

“No, I’m Irish. Family’s Irish—my mother was a Fitz-patrick.”

“Anyhow you live in England.”

“Because they won’t let me go to Ireland.”

The talk drifted. Jim finished up all the beer, and they prepared to go to bed. Jim was a bit tipsy, grinning. He asked for bread and cheese to take upstairs.

“Will you have supper?” said Lilly. He was surprised, because Jim had eaten strangely much at dinner.

“No—where’s the loaf?” And he cut himself about half of it. There was no cheese.

“Bread’ll do,” said Jim.

“Sit down and eat it. Have cocoa with it,” said Tanny.

“No, I like to have it in my bedroom.”

“You don’t eat bread in the night?” said Lilly.

“I do.”

“What a funny thing to do.”

The cottage was in darkness. The Lillys slept soundly. Jim woke up and chewed bread and slept again. In the morning at dawn he rose and went downstairs. Lilly heard him roaming about—heard the woman come in to clean—heard them talking. So he got up to look after his visitor, though it was not seven o’clock, and the woman was busy.—But before he went down, he heard Jim come upstairs again.

Mrs. Short was busy in the kitchen when Lilly went down.

“The other gentleman have been down, Sir,” said Mrs. Short. “He asked me where the bread and butter were, so I said should I cut him a piece. But he wouldn’t let me do it. I gave him a knife and he took it for himself, in the pantry.”

“I say, Bricknell,” said Lilly at breakfast time, “why do you eat so much bread?”

“I’ve got to feed up. I’ve been starved during this damned war.”

“But hunks of bread won’t feed you up.”

“Gives the stomach something to work at, and prevents it grinding on the nerves,” said Jim.

“But surely you don’t want to keep your stomach always full and heavy.”

“I do, my boy. I do. It needs keeping solid. I’m losing life, if I don’t. I tell you I’m losing life. Let me put something inside me.”

“I don’t believe bread’s any use.”

During breakfast Jim talked about the future of the world.

I reckon Christ’s the finest thing time has ever produced,” said he; “and will remain it.”

“But you don’t want crucifixions ad infinitum,” said Lilly.

“What? Why not?”

“Once is enough—and have done.”

“Don’t you think love and sacrifice are the finest things in life?” said Jim, over his bacon.

“Depends WHAT love, and what sacrifice,” said Lilly. “If I really believe in an Almighty God, I am willing to sacrifice for Him. That is, I’m willing to yield my own personal interest to the bigger creative interest.—But it’s obvious Almighty God isn’t mere Love.”

“I think it is. Love and only love,” said Jim. “I think the greatest joy is sacrificing oneself to love.”

“To SOMEONE you love, you mean,” said Tanny.

“No I don’t. I don’t mean someone at all. I mean love—love—love. I sacrifice myself to love. I reckon that’s the highest man is capable of.”

“But you can’t sacrifice yourself to an abstract principle,” said Tanny.

“That’s just what you can do. And that’s the beauty of it. Who represents the principle doesn’t matter. Christ is the principle of love,” said Jim.

“But no!” said Tanny. “It MUST be more individual. It must be SOMEBODY you love, not abstract love in itself. How can you sacrifice yourself to an abstraction.”

“Ha, I think Love and your Christ detestable,” said Lilly—“a sheer ignominy.”

“Finest thing the world has produced,” said Jim.

“No. A thing which sets itself up to be betrayed! No, it’s foul. Don’t you see it’s the Judas principle you really worship. Judas is the real hero. But for Judas the whole show would have been manque.”

“Oh yes,” said Jim. “Judas was inevitable. I’m not sure that Judas wasn’t the greatest of the disciples—and Jesus knew it. I’m not sure Judas wasn’t the disciple Jesus loved.”

“Jesus certainly encouraged him in his Judas tricks,” said Tanny.

Jim grinned knowingly at Lilly.

“Then it