Aaron's Rod. D. H. Lawrence
“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 father 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