The Rainbow D. H. Lawrence (fun to read txt) 📖

organ. The whole party was trooping to the vestry. There was a blotted, scrawled book⁠—and that young girl putting back her veil in her vanity, and laying her hand with the wedding-ring self-consciously conspicuous, and signing her name proudly because of the vain spectacle she made:

“Anna Theresa Lensky.”

“Anna Theresa Lensky”⁠—what a vain, independent minx she was! The bridegroom, slender in his black swallowtail and grey trousers, solemn as a young solemn cat, was writing seriously:

“William Brangwen.”

That looked more like it.

“Come and sign, father,” cried the imperious young hussy.

“Thomas Brangwen⁠—clumsy-fist,” he said to himself as he signed.

Then his brother, a big, sallow fellow with black side-whiskers wrote:

“Alfred Brangwen.”

“How many more Brangwens?” said Tom Brangwen, ashamed of the too-frequent recurrence of his family name.

When they were out again in the sunshine, and he saw the frost hoary and blue among the long grass under the tombstones, the holly-berries overhead twinkling scarlet as the bells rang, the yew trees hanging their black, motionless, ragged boughs, everything seemed like a vision.

The marriage party went across the graveyard to the wall, mounted it by the little steps, and descended. Oh, a vain white peacock of a bride perching herself on the top of the wall and giving her hand to the bridegroom on the other side, to be helped down! The vanity of her white, slim, daintily-stepping feet, and her arched neck. And the regal impudence with which she seemed to dismiss them all, the others, parents and wedding guests, as she went with her young husband.

In the cottage big fires were burning, there were dozens of glasses on the table, and holly and mistletoe hanging up. The wedding party crowded in, and Tom Brangwen, becoming roisterous, poured out drinks. Everybody must drink. The bells were ringing away against the windows.

“Lift your glasses up,” shouted Tom Brangwen from the parlour, “lift your glasses up, an’ drink to the hearth an’ home⁠—hearth an’ home, an’ may they enjoy it.”

“Night an’ day, an’ may they enjoy it,” shouted Frank Brangwen, in addition.

“Hammer an’ tongs, and may they enjoy it,” shouted Alfred Brangwen, the saturnine.

“Fill your glasses up, an’ let’s have it all over again,” shouted Tom Brangwen.

“Hearth an’ home, an’ may ye enjoy it.”

There was a ragged shout of the company in response.

“Bed an’ blessin’, an’ may ye enjoy it,” shouted Frank Brangwen.

There was a swelling chorus in answer.

“Comin’ and goin’, an’ may ye enjoy it,” shouted the saturnine Alfred Brangwen, and the men roared by now boldly, and the women said, “Just hark, now!”

There was a touch of scandal in the air.

Then the party rolled off in the carriages, full speed back to the Marsh, to a large meal of the high-tea order, which lasted for an hour and a half. The bride and bridegroom sat at the head of the table, very 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