The Brangwen Family Saga: The Rainbow & Women in Love. D. H. Lawrence
prim and shining both of them, wordless, whilst the company raged down the table.
The Brangwen men had brandy in their tea, and were becoming unmanageable. The saturnine Alfred had glittering, unseeing eyes, and a strange, fierce way of laughing that showed his teeth. His wife glowered at him and jerked her head at him like a snake. He was oblivious. Frank Brangwen, the butcher, flushed and florid and handsome, roared echoes to his two brothers. Tom Brangwen, in his solid fashion, was letting himself go at last.
These three brothers dominated the whole company. Tom Brangwen wanted to make a speech. For the first time in his life, he must spread himself wordily.
“Marriage,” he began, his eyes twinkling and yet quite profound, for he was deeply serious and hugely amused at the same time, “Marriage,” he said, speaking in the slow, full-mouthed way of the Brangwens, “is what we’re made for ——”
“Let him talk,” said Alfred Brangwen, slowly and inscrutably, “let him talk.” Mrs. Alfred darted indignant eyes at her husband.
“A man,” continued Tom Brangwen, “enjoys being a man: for what purpose was he made a man, if not to enjoy it?”
“That a true word,” said Frank, floridly.
“And likewise,” continued Tom Brangwen, “a woman enjoys being a woman: at least we surmise she does ——”
“Oh, don’t you bother ——” called a farmer’s wife.
“You may back your life they’d be summisin’.” said Frank’s wife.
“Now,” continued Tom Brangwen, “for a man to be a man, it takes a woman ——”
“It does that,” said a woman grimly.
“And for a woman to be a woman, it takes a man ——” continued Tom Brangwen.
“All speak up, men,” chimed in a feminine voice.
“Therefore we have marriage,” continued Tom Brangwen.
“Hold, hold,” said Alfred Brangwen. “Don’t run us off our legs.”
And in dead silence the glasses were filled. The bride and bridegroom, two children, sat with intent, shining faces at the head of the table, abstracted.
“There’s no marriage in heaven,” went on Tom Brangwen; “but on earth there is marriage.”
“That’s the difference between ’em,” said Alfred Brangwen, mocking.
“Alfred,” said Tom Brangwen, “keep your remarks till afterwards, and then we’ll thank you for them.-There’s very little else, on earth, but marriage. You can talk about making money, or saving souls. You can save your own soul seven times over, and you may have a mint of money, but your soul goes gnawin’, gnawin’, gnawin’, and it says there’s something it must have. In heaven there is no marriage. But on earth there is marriage, else heaven drops out, and there’s no bottom to it.”
“Just hark you now,” said Frank’s wife.
“Go on, Thomas,” said Alfred sardonically.
“If we’ve got to be Angels,” went on Tom Brangwen, haranguing the company at large, “and if there is no such thing as a man nor a woman amongst them, then it seems to me as a married couple makes one Angel.”
“It’s the brandy,” said Alfred Brangwen wearily.
“For,” said Tom Brangwen, and the company was listening to the conundrum, “an Angel can’t be less than a human being. And if it was only the soul of a man minus the man, then it would be less than a human being.”
“Decidedly,” said Alfred.
And a laugh went round the table. But Tom Brangwen was inspired.
“An Angel’s got to be more than a human being,” he continued. “So I say, an Angel is the soul of man and woman in one: they rise united at the Judgment Day, as one Angel ——”
“Praising the Lord,” said Frank.
“Praising the Lord,” repeated Tom.
“And what about the women left over?” asked Alfred, jeering. The company was getting uneasy.
“That I can’t tell. How do I know as there is anybody left over at the Judgment Day? Let that be. What I say is, that when a man’s soul and a woman’s soul unites together — that makes an Angel ——”
“I dunno about souls. I know as one plus one makes three, sometimes,” said Frank. But he had the laugh to himself.
“Bodies and souls, it’s the same,” said Tom.
“And what about your missis, who was married afore you knew her?” asked Alfred, set on edge by this discourse.
“That I can’t tell you. If I am to become an Angel, it’ll be my married soul, and not my single soul. It’ll not be the soul of me when I was a lad: for I hadn’t a soul as would make an Angel then.”
“I can always remember,” said Frank’s wife, “when our Harold was bad, he did nothink but see an angel at th’ back o’ th’ lookin’-glass. ‘Look, mother,’ ’e said, ‘at that angel!’ ‘Theer isn’t no angel, my duck,’ I said, but he wouldn’t have it. I took th’ lookin’-glass off’n th’ dressin’-table, but it made no difference. He kep’ on sayin’ it was there. My word, it did give me a turn. I thought for sure as I’d lost him.”
“I can remember,” said another man, Tom’s sister’s husband, “my mother gave me a good hidin’ once, for sayin’ I’d got an angel up my nose. She seed me pokin’, an’ she said: ‘What are you pokin’ at your nose for-give over.’ ‘There’s an angel up it,’ I said, an’ she fetched me such a wipe. But there was. We used to call them thistle things ‘angels’ as wafts about. An’ I’d pushed one o’ these up my nose, for some reason or other.”
“It’s wonderful what children will get up their noses,” said Frank’s wife. “I c’n remember our Hemmie, she shoved one o’ them bluebell things out o’ th’ middle of a bluebell, what they call ‘candles’, up her nose, and oh, we had some work! I’d seen her stickin’ ’em on the end of her nose, like, but I never thought she’d be so soft as to shove it right up. She was a gel of eight or more. Oh, my word, we got a crochet-hook an’ I don’t know what . . . ”
Tom Brangwen’s mood of inspiration began to pass away. He forgot all about it, and was soon roaring and shouting with the rest. Outside the wake came, singing the carols. They were invited into the bursting house. They had two fiddles and a piccolo. There in the parlour they played carols, and the whole company sang them at the top of its voice. Only the bride and bridegroom sat with shining eyes and strange, bright faces, and scarcely sang, or only with just moving lips.
The wake departed, and the guysers came. There was loud applause, and shouting and excitement as the old mystery play of St. George, in which every man present had acted as a boy, proceeded, with banging and thumping of club and dripping pan.
“By Jove, I got a crack once, when I was playin’ Beelzebub,” said Tom Brangwen, his eyes full of water with laughing. “It knocked all th’ sense out of me as you’d crack an egg. But I tell you, when I come to, I played Old Johnny Roger with St. George, I did that.”
He was shaking with laughter. Another knock came at the door. There was a hush.
“It’s th’ cab,” said somebody from the door.
“Walk in,” shouted Tom Brangwen, and a red-faced grinning man entered.
“Now, you two, get yourselves ready an’ off to blanket fair,” shouted Tom Brangwen. “Strike a daisy, but if you’re not off like a blink o’ lightnin’, you shanna go, you s’ll sleep separate.”
Anna rose silently and went to change her dress. Will Brangwen