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diff --git a/old/28948.txt b/old/28948.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0ee154a..0000000 --- a/old/28948.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,24046 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Rainbow, by D. H. (David Herbert) Lawrence - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Rainbow - -Author: D. H. (David Herbert) Lawrence - -Release Date: May 23, 2009 [EBook #28948] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAINBOW *** - - - - -Produced by James Adcock. Special thanks to The Internet -Archive: American Libraries, and Project Gutenberg Australia - - - - - - - - - -[Transcriber's note: a few brief passages found in other editions, but -not in this edition, have been noted as [censored material] as having -been probably elided by this publisher by reason of content] - - - - - -THE RAINBOW - -BY D. H. LAWRENCE - - -THE - -MODERN LIBRARY - -NEW YORK - - -COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY D. H. LAWRENCE - - - -Random House is the publisher of - -THE MODERN LIBRARY - -BENNETT A. CERF :: DONALD S. KLOPFER :: ROBERT K. HAAS - -Manufactured in the United States of America -Printed by Parkway Printing Company -Bound by H. Wolff - - - - -TO ELSE - - - -CONTENTS - -I How Tom Brangwen Married a Polish Lady -II They Live at the Marsh -III Childhood of Anna Lensky -IV Girlhood of Anna Brangwen -V Wedding at the Marsh -VI Anna Victrix -VII The Cathedral -VIII The Child -IX The Marsh and the Flood -X The Widening Circle -XI First Love -XXII Shame -XIII The Man's World -XIV The Widening Circle -XV The Bitterness of Ecstasy -XVI The Rainbow - - -THE RAINBOW - - - -CHAPTER I - -HOW TOM BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY - -I - -The Brangwens had lived for generations on the Marsh Farm, in -the meadows where the Erewash twisted sluggishly through alder -trees, separating Derbyshire from Nottinghamshire. Two miles -away, a church-tower stood on a hill, the houses of the little -country town climbing assiduously up to it. Whenever one of the -Brangwens in the fields lifted his head from his work, he saw -the church-tower at Ilkeston in the empty sky. So that as he -turned again to the horizontal land, he was aware of something -standing above him and beyond him in the distance. - -There was a look in the eyes of the Brangwens as if they were -expecting something unknown, about which they were eager. They -had that air of readiness for what would come to them, a kind of -surety, an expectancy, the look of an inheritor. - -They were fresh, blond, slow-speaking people, revealing -themselves plainly, but slowly, so that one could watch the -change in their eyes from laughter to anger, blue, lit-up -laughter, to a hard blue-staring anger; through all the -irresolute stages of the sky when the weather is changing. - -Living on rich land, on their own land, near to a growing -town, they had forgotten what it was to be in straitened -circumstances. They had never become rich, because there were -always children, and the patrimony was divided every time. But -always, at the Marsh, there was ample. - -So the Brangwens came and went without fear of necessity, -working hard because of the life that was in them, not for want -of the money. Neither were they thriftless. They were aware of -the last halfpenny, and instinct made them not waste the peeling -of their apple, for it would help to feed the cattle. But heaven -and earth was teeming around them, and how should this cease? -They felt the rush of the sap in spring, they knew the wave -which cannot halt, but every year throws forward the seed to -begetting, and, falling back, leaves the young-born on the -earth. They knew the intercourse between heaven and earth, -sunshine drawn into the breast and bowels, the rain sucked up in -the daytime, nakedness that comes under the wind in autumn, -showing the birds' nests no longer worth hiding. Their life and -interrelations were such; feeling the pulse and body of the -soil, that opened to their furrow for the grain, and became -smooth and supple after their ploughing, and clung to their feet -with a weight that pulled like desire, lying hard and -unresponsive when the crops were to be shorn away. The young -corn waved and was silken, and the lustre slid along the limbs -of the men who saw it. They took the udder of the cows, the cows -yielded milk and pulse against the hands of the men, the pulse -of the blood of the teats of the cows beat into the pulse of the -hands of the men. They mounted their horses, and held life -between the grip of their knees, they harnessed their horses at -the wagon, and, with hand on the bridle-rings, drew the heaving -of the horses after their will. - -In autumn the partridges whirred up, birds in flocks blew -like spray across the fallow, rooks appeared on the grey, watery -heavens, and flew cawing into the winter. Then the men sat by -the fire in the house where the women moved about with surety, -and the limbs and the body of the men were impregnated with the -day, cattle and earth and vegetation and the sky, the men sat by -the fire and their brains were inert, as their blood flowed -heavy with the accumulation from the living day. - -The women were different. On them too was the drowse of -blood-intimacy, calves sucking and hens running together in -droves, and young geese palpitating in the hand while the food -was pushed down their throttle. But the women looked out from -the heated, blind intercourse of farm-life, to the spoken world -beyond. They were aware of the lips and the mind of the world -speaking and giving utterance, they heard the sound in the -distance, and they strained to listen. - -It was enough for the men, that the earth heaved and opened -its furrow to them, that the wind blew to dry the wet wheat, and -set the young ears of corn wheeling freshly round about; it was -enough that they helped the cow in labour, or ferreted the rats -from under the barn, or broke the back of a rabbit with a sharp -knock of the hand. So much warmth and generating and pain and -death did they know in their blood, earth and sky and beast and -green plants, so much exchange and interchange they had with -these, that they lived full and surcharged, their senses full -fed, their faces always turned to the heat of the blood, staring -into the sun, dazed with looking towards the source of -generation, unable to turn round. - -But the woman wanted another form of life than this, -something that was not blood-intimacy. Her house faced out from -the farm-buildings and fields, looked out to the road and the -village with church and Hall and the world beyond. She stood to -see the far-off world of cities and governments and the active -scope of man, the magic land to her, where secrets were made -known and desires fulfilled. She faced outwards to where men -moved dominant and creative, having turned their back on the -pulsing heat of creation, and with this behind them, were set -out to discover what was beyond, to enlarge their own scope and -range and freedom; whereas the Brangwen men faced inwards to the -teeming life of creation, which poured unresolved into their -veins. - -Looking out, as she must, from the front of her house towards -the activity of man in the world at large, whilst her husband -looked out to the back at sky and harvest and beast and land, -she strained her eyes to see what man had done in fighting -outwards to knowledge, she strained to hear how he uttered -himself in his conquest, her deepest desire hung on the battle -that she heard, far off, being waged on the edge of the unknown. -She also wanted to know, and to be of the fighting host. - -At home, even so near as Cossethay, was the vicar, who spoke -the other, magic language, and had the other, finer bearing, -both of which she could perceive, but could never attain to. The -vicar moved in worlds beyond where her own menfolk existed. Did -she not know her own menfolk: fresh, slow, full-built men, -masterful enough, but easy, native to the earth, lacking -outwardness and range of motion. Whereas the vicar, dark and dry -and small beside her husband, had yet a quickness and a range of -being that made Brangwen, in his large geniality, seem dull and -local. She knew her husband. But in the vicar's nature was that -which passed beyond her knowledge. As Brangwen had power over -the cattle so the vicar had power over her husband. What was it -in the vicar, that raised him above the common men as man is -raised above the beast? She craved to know. She craved to -achieve this higher being, if not in herself, then in her -children. That which makes a man strong even if he be little and -frail in body, just as any man is little and frail beside a -bull, and yet stronger than the bull, what was it? It was not -money nor power nor position. What power had the vicar over Tom -Brangwen--none. Yet strip them and set them on a desert -island, and the vicar was the master. His soul was master of the -other man's. And why--why? She decided it was a question of -knowledge. - -The curate was poor enough, and not very efficacious as a -man, either, yet he took rank with those others, the superior. -She watched his children being born, she saw them running as -tiny things beside their mother. And already they were separate -from her own children, distinct. Why were her own children -marked below the others? Why should the curate's children -inevitably take precedence over her children, why should -dominance be given them from the start? It was not money, nor -even class. It was education and experience, she decided. - -It was this, this education, this higher form of being, that -the mother wished to give to her children, so that they too -could live the supreme life on earth. For her children, at least -the children of her heart, had the complete nature that should -take place in equality with the living, vital people in the -land, not be left behind obscure among the labourers. Why must -they remain obscured and stifled all their lives, why should -they suffer from lack of freedom to move? How should they learn -the entry into the finer, more vivid circle of life? - -Her imagination was fired by the squire's lady at Shelly -Hall, who came to church at Cossethay with her little children, -girls in tidy capes of beaver fur, and smart little hats, -herself like a winter rose, so fair and delicate. So fair, so -fine in mould, so luminous, what was it that Mrs. Hardy felt -which she, Mrs. Brangwen, did not feel? How was Mrs. Hardy's -nature different from that of the common women of Cossethay, in -what was it beyond them? All the women of Cossethay talked -eagerly about Mrs. Hardy, of her husband, her children, her -guests, her dress, of her servants and her housekeeping. The -lady of the Hall was the living dream of their lives, her life -was the epic that inspired their lives. In her they lived -imaginatively, and in gossiping of her husband who drank, of her -scandalous brother, of Lord William Bentley her friend, member -of Parliament for the division, they had their own Odyssey -enacting itself, Penelope and Ulysses before them, and Circe and -the swine and the endless web. - -So the women of the village were fortunate. They saw -themselves in the lady of the manor, each of them lived her own -fulfilment of the life of Mrs. Hardy. And the Brangwen wife of -the Marsh aspired beyond herself, towards the further life of -the finer woman, towards the extended being she revealed, as a -traveller in his self-contained manner reveals far-off countries -present in himself. But why should a knowledge of far-off -countries make a man's life a different thing, finer, bigger? -And why is a man more than the beast and the cattle that serve -him? It is the same thing. - -The male part of the poem was filled in by such men as the -vicar and Lord William, lean, eager men with strange movements, -men who had command of the further fields, whose lives ranged -over a great extent. Ah, it was something very desirable to -know, this touch of the wonderful men who had the power of -thought and comprehension. The women of the village might be -much fonder of Tom Brangwen, and more at their ease with him, -yet if their lives had been robbed of the vicar, and of Lord -William, the leading shoot would have been cut away from them, -they would have been heavy and uninspired and inclined to hate. -So long as the wonder of the beyond was before them, they could -get along, whatever their lot. And Mrs. Hardy, and the vicar, -and Lord William, these moved in the wonder of the beyond, and -were visible to the eyes of Cossethay in their motion. - -II - -About 1840, a canal was constructed across the meadows of the -Marsh Farm, connecting the newly-opened collieries of the -Erewash Valley. A high embankment travelled along the fields to -carry the canal, which passed close to the homestead, and, -reaching the road, went over in a heavy bridge. - -So the Marsh was shut off from Ilkeston, and enclosed in the -small valley bed, which ended in a bushy hill and the village -spire of Cossethay. - -The Brangwens received a fair sum of money from this trespass -across their land. Then, a short time afterwards, a colliery was -sunk on the other side of the canal, and in a while the Midland -Railway came down the valley at the foot of the Ilkeston hill, -and the invasion was complete. The town grew rapidly, the -Brangwens were kept busy producing supplies, they became richer, -they were almost tradesmen. - -Still the Marsh remained remote and original, on the old, -quiet side of the canal embankment, in the sunny valley where -slow water wound along in company of stiff alders, and the road -went under ash-trees past the Brangwens' garden gate. - -But, looking from the garden gate down the road to the right, -there, through the dark archway of the canal's square aqueduct, -was a colliery spinning away in the near distance, and further, -red, crude houses plastered on the valley in masses, and beyond -all, the dim smoking hill of the town. - -The homestead was just on the safe side of civilization, -outside the gate. The house stood bare from the road, approached -by a straight garden path, along which at spring the daffodils -were thick in green and yellow. At the sides of the house were -bushes of lilac and guelder-rose and privet, entirely hiding the -farm buildings behind. - -At the back a confusion of sheds spread into the home-close -from out of two or three indistinct yards. The duck-pond lay -beyond the furthest wall, littering its white feathers on the -padded earthen banks, blowing its stray soiled feathers into the -grass and the gorse bushes below the canal embankment, which -rose like a high rampart near at hand, so that occasionally a -man's figure passed in silhouette, or a man and a towing horse -traversed the sky. - -At first the Brangwens were astonished by all this commotion -around them. The building of a canal across their land made them -strangers in their own place, this raw bank of earth shutting -them off disconcerted them. As they worked in the fields, from -beyond the now familiar embankment came the rhythmic run of the -winding engines, startling at first, but afterwards a narcotic -to the brain. Then the shrill whistle of the trains re-echoed -through the heart, with fearsome pleasure, announcing the -far-off come near and imminent. - -As they drove home from town, the farmers of the land met the -blackened colliers trooping from the pit-mouth. As they gathered -the harvest, the west wind brought a faint, sulphurous smell of -pit-refuse burning. As they pulled the turnips in November, the -sharp clink-clink-clink-clink-clink of empty trucks shunting on -the line, vibrated in their hearts with the fact of other -activity going on beyond them. - -The Alfred Brangwen of this period had married a woman from -Heanor, a daughter of the "Black Horse". She was a slim, pretty, -dark woman, quaint in her speech, whimsical, so that the sharp -things she said did not hurt. She was oddly a thing to herself, -rather querulous in her manner, but intrinsically separate and -indifferent, so that her long lamentable complaints, when she -raised her voice against her husband in particular and against -everybody else after him, only made those who heard her wonder -and feel affectionately towards her, even while they were -irritated and impatient with her. She railed long and loud about -her husband, but always with a balanced, easy-flying voice and a -quaint manner of speech that warmed his belly with pride and -male triumph while he scowled with mortification at the things -she said. - -Consequently Brangwen himself had a humorous puckering at the -eyes, a sort of fat laugh, very quiet and full, and he was -spoilt like a lord of creation. He calmly did as he liked, -laughed at their railing, excused himself in a teasing tone that -she loved, followed his natural inclinations, and sometimes, -pricked too near the quick, frightened and broke her by a deep, -tense fury which seemed to fix on him and hold him for days, and -which she would give anything to placate in him. They were two -very separate beings, vitally connected, knowing nothing of each -other, yet living in their separate ways from one root. - -There were four sons and two daughters. The eldest boy ran -away early to sea, and did not come back. After this the mother -was more the node and centre of attraction in the home. The -second boy, Alfred, whom the mother admired most, was the most -reserved. He was sent to school in Ilkeston and made some -progress. But in spite of his dogged, yearning effort, he could -not get beyond the rudiments of anything, save of drawing. At -this, in which he had some power, he worked, as if it were his -hope. After much grumbling and savage rebellion against -everything, after much trying and shifting about, when his -father was incensed against him and his mother almost -despairing, he became a draughtsman in a lace-factory in -Nottingham. - -He remained heavy and somewhat uncouth, speaking with broad -Derbyshire accent, adhering with all his tenacity to his work -and to his town position, making good designs, and becoming -fairly well-off. But at drawing, his hand swung naturally in -big, bold lines, rather lax, so that it was cruel for him to -pedgill away at the lace designing, working from the tiny -squares of his paper, counting and plotting and niggling. He did -it stubbornly, with anguish, crushing the bowels within him, -adhering to his chosen lot whatever it should cost. And he came -back into life set and rigid, a rare-spoken, almost surly -man. - -He married the daughter of a chemist, who affected some -social superiority, and he became something of a snob, in his -dogged fashion, with a passion for outward refinement in the -household, mad when anything clumsy or gross occurred. Later, -when his three children were growing up, and he seemed a staid, -almost middle-aged man, he turned after strange women, and -became a silent, inscrutable follower of forbidden pleasure, -neglecting his indignant bourgeois wife without a qualm. - -Frank, the third son, refused from the first to have anything -to do with learning. From the first he hung round the -slaughter-house which stood away in the third yard at the back -of the farm. The Brangwens had always killed their own meat, and -supplied the neighbourhood. Out of this grew a regular butcher's -business in connection with the farm. - -As a child Frank had been drawn by the trickle of dark blood -that ran across the pavement from the slaughter-house to the -crew-yard, by the sight of the man carrying across to the -meat-shed a huge side of beef, with the kidneys showing, -embedded in their heavy laps of fat. - -He was a handsome lad with soft brown hair and regular -features something like a later Roman youth. He was more easily -excitable, more readily carried away than the rest, weaker in -character. At eighteen he married a little factory girl, a pale, -plump, quiet thing with sly eyes and a wheedling voice, who -insinuated herself into him and bore him a child every year and -made a fool of him. When he had taken over the butchery -business, already a growing callousness to it, and a sort of -contempt made him neglectful of it. He drank, and was often to -be found in his public house blathering away as if he knew -everything, when in reality he was a noisy fool. - -Of the daughters, Alice, the elder, married a collier and -lived for a time stormily in Ilkeston, before moving away to -Yorkshire with her numerous young family. Effie, the younger, -remained at home. - -The last child, Tom, was considerably younger than his -brothers, so had belonged rather to the company of his sisters. -He was his mother's favourite. She roused herself to -determination, and sent him forcibly away to a grammar-school in -Derby when he was twelve years old. He did not want to go, and -his father would have given way, but Mrs. Brangwen had set her -heart on it. Her slender, pretty, tightly-covered body, with -full skirts, was now the centre of resolution in the house, and -when she had once set upon anything, which was not often, the -family failed before her. - -So Tom went to school, an unwilling failure from the first. -He believed his mother was right in decreeing school for him, -but he knew she was only right because she would not acknowledge -his constitution. He knew, with a child's deep, instinctive -foreknowledge of what is going to happen to him, that he would -cut a sorry figure at school. But he took the infliction as -inevitable, as if he were guilty of his own nature, as if his -being were wrong, and his mother's conception right. If he could -have been what he liked, he would have been that which his -mother fondly but deludedly hoped he was. He would have been -clever, and capable of becoming a gentleman. It was her -aspiration for him, therefore he knew it as the true aspiration -for any boy. But you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, -as he told his mother very early, with regard to himself; much -to her mortification and chagrin. - -When he got to school, he made a violent struggle against his -physical inability to study. He sat gripped, making himself pale -and ghastly in his effort to concentrate on the book, to take in -what he had to learn. But it was no good. If he beat down his -first repulsion, and got like a suicide to the stuff, he went -very little further. He could not learn deliberately. His mind -simply did not work. - -In feeling he was developed, sensitive to the atmosphere -around him, brutal perhaps, but at the same time delicate, very -delicate. So he had a low opinion of himself. He knew his own -limitation. He knew that his brain was a slow hopeless -good-for-nothing. So he was humble. - -But at the same time his feelings were more discriminating -than those of most of the boys, and he was confused. He was more -sensuously developed, more refined in instinct than they. For -their mechanical stupidity he hated them, and suffered cruel -contempt for them. But when it came to mental things, then he -was at a disadvantage. He was at their mercy. He was a fool. He -had not the power to controvert even the most stupid argument, -so that he was forced to admit things he did not in the least -believe. And having admitted them, he did not know whether he -believed them or not; he rather thought he did. - -But he loved anyone who could convey enlightenment to him -through feeling. He sat betrayed with emotion when the teacher -of literature read, in a moving fashion, Tennyson's "Ulysses", -or Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind". His lips parted, his eyes -filled with a strained, almost suffering light. And the teacher -read on, fired by his power over the boy. Tom Brangwen was moved -by this experience beyond all calculation, he almost dreaded it, -it was so deep. But when, almost secretly and shamefully, he -came to take the book himself, and began the words "Oh wild west -wind, thou breath of autumn's being," the very fact of the print -caused a prickly sensation of repulsion to go over his skin, the -blood came to his face, his heart filled with a bursting passion -of rage and incompetence. He threw the book down and walked over -it and went out to the cricket field. And he hated books as if -they were his enemies. He hated them worse than ever he hated -any person. - -He could not voluntarily control his attention. His mind had -no fixed habits to go by, he had nothing to get hold of, nowhere -to start from. For him there was nothing palpable, nothing known -in himself, that he could apply to learning. He did not know how -to begin. Therefore he was helpless when it came to deliberate -understanding or deliberate learning. - -He had an instinct for mathematics, but if this failed him, -he was helpless as an idiot. So that he felt that the ground was -never sure under his feet, he was nowhere. His final downfall -was his complete inability to attend to a question put without -suggestion. If he had to write a formal composition on the Army, -he did at last learn to repeat the few facts he knew: "You can -join the army at eighteen. You have to be over five foot eight." -But he had all the time a living conviction that this was a -dodge and that his common-places were beneath contempt. Then he -reddened furiously, felt his bowels sink with shame, scratched -out what he had written, made an agonized effort to think of -something in the real composition style, failed, became sullen -with rage and humiliation, put the pen down and would have been -torn to pieces rather than attempt to write another word. - -He soon got used to the Grammar School, and the Grammar -School got used to him, setting him down as a hopeless duffer at -learning, but respecting him for a generous, honest nature. Only -one narrow, domineering fellow, the Latin master, bullied him -and made the blue eyes mad with shame and rage. There was a -horrid scene, when the boy laid open the master's head with a -slate, and then things went on as before. The teacher got little -sympathy. But Brangwen winced and could not bear to think of the -deed, not even long after, when he was a grown man. - -He was glad to leave school. It had not been unpleasant, he -had enjoyed the companionship of the other youths, or had -thought he enjoyed it, the time had passed very quickly, in -endless activity. But he knew all the time that he was in an -ignominious position, in this place of learning. He was aware of -failure all the while, of incapacity. But he was too healthy and -sanguine to be wretched, he was too much alive. Yet his soul was -wretched almost to hopelessness. - -He had loved one warm, clever boy who was frail in body, a -consumptive type. The two had had an almost classic friendship, -David and Jonathan, wherein Brangwen was the Jonathan, the -server. But he had never felt equal with his friend, because the -other's mind outpaced his, and left him ashamed, far in the -rear. So the two boys went at once apart on leaving school. But -Brangwen always remembered his friend that had been, kept him as -a sort of light, a fine experience to remember. - -Tom Brangwen was glad to get back to the farm, where he was -in his own again. "I have got a turnip on my shoulders, let me -stick to th' fallow," he said to his exasperated mother. He had -too low an opinion of himself. But he went about at his work on -the farm gladly enough, glad of the active labour and the smell -of the land again, having youth and vigour and humour, and a -comic wit, having the will and the power to forget his own -shortcomings, finding himself violent with occasional rages, but -usually on good terms with everybody and everything. - -When he was seventeen, his father fell from a stack and broke -his neck. Then the mother and son and daughter lived on at the -farm, interrupted by occasional loud-mouthed lamenting, -jealous-spirited visitations from the butcher Frank, who had a -grievance against the world, which he felt was always giving him -less than his dues. Frank was particularly against the young -Tom, whom he called a mardy baby, and Tom returned the hatred -violently, his face growing red and his blue eyes staring. Effie -sided with Tom against Frank. But when Alfred came, from -Nottingham, heavy jowled and lowering, speaking very little, but -treating those at home with some contempt, Effie and the mother -sided with him and put Tom into the shade. It irritated the -youth that his elder brother should be made something of a hero -by the women, just because he didn't live at home and was a -lace-designer and almost a gentleman. But Alfred was something -of a Prometheus Bound, so the women loved him. Tom came later to -understand his brother better. - -As youngest son, Tom felt some importance when the care of -the farm devolved on to him. He was only eighteen, but he was -quite capable of doing everything his father had done. And of -course, his mother remained as centre to the house. - -The young man grew up very fresh and alert, with zest for -every moment of life. He worked and rode and drove to market, he -went out with companions and got tipsy occasionally and played -skittles and went to the little travelling theatres. Once, when -he was drunk at a public house, he went upstairs with a -prostitute who seduced him. He was then nineteen. - -The thing was something of a shock to him. In the close -intimacy of the farm kitchen, the woman occupied the supreme -position. The men deferred to her in the house, on all household -points, on all points of morality and behaviour. The woman was -the symbol for that further life which comprised religion and -love and morality. The men placed in her hands their own -conscience, they said to her "Be my conscience-keeper, be the -angel at the doorway guarding my outgoing and my incoming." And -the woman fulfilled her trust, the men rested implicitly in her, -receiving her praise or her blame with pleasure or with anger, -rebelling and storming, but never for a moment really escaping -in their own souls from her prerogative. They depended on her -for their stability. Without her, they would have felt like -straws in the wind, to be blown hither and thither at random. -She was the anchor and the security, she was the restraining -hand of God, at times highly to be execrated. - -Now when Tom Brangwen, at nineteen, a youth fresh like a -plant, rooted in his mother and his sister, found that he had -lain with a prostitute woman in a common public house, he was -very much startled. For him there was until that time only one -kind of woman--his mother and sister. - -But now? He did not know what to feel. There was a slight -wonder, a pang of anger, of disappointment, a first taste of ash -and of cold fear lest this was all that would happen, lest his -relations with woman were going to be no more than this -nothingness; there was a slight sense of shame before the -prostitute, fear that she would despise him for his -inefficiency; there was a cold distaste for her, and a fear of -her; there was a moment of paralyzed horror when he felt he -might have taken a disease from her; and upon all this startled -tumult of emotion, was laid the steadying hand of common sense, -which said it did not matter very much, so long as he had no -disease. He soon recovered balance, and really it did not matter -so very much. - -But it had shocked him, and put a mistrust into his heart, -and emphasized his fear of what was within himself. He was, -however, in a few days going about again in his own careless, -happy-go-lucky fashion, his blue eyes just as clear and honest -as ever, his face just as fresh, his appetite just as keen. - -Or apparently so. He had, in fact, lost some of his buoyant -confidence, and doubt hindered his outgoing. - -For some time after this, he was quieter, more conscious when -he drank, more backward from companionship. The disillusion of -his first carnal contact with woman, strengthened by his innate -desire to find in a woman the embodiment of all his -inarticulate, powerful religious impulses, put a bit in his -mouth. He had something to lose which he was afraid of losing, -which he was not sure even of possessing. This first affair did -not matter much: but the business of love was, at the bottom of -his soul, the most serious and terrifying of all to him. - -He was tormented now with sex desire, his imagination -reverted always to lustful scenes. But what really prevented his -returning to a loose woman, over and above the natural -squeamishness, was the recollection of the paucity of the last -experience. It had been so nothing, so dribbling and functional, -that he was ashamed to expose himself to the risk of a -repetition of it. - -He made a strong, instinctive fight to retain his native -cheerfulness unimpaired. He had naturally a plentiful stream of -life and humour, a sense of sufficiency and exuberance, giving -ease. But now it tended to cause tension. A strained light came -into his eyes, he had a slight knitting of the brows. His -boisterous humour gave place to lowering silences, and days -passed by in a sort of suspense. - -He did not know there was any difference in him, exactly; for -the most part he was filled with slow anger and resentment. But -he knew he was always thinking of women, or a woman, day in, day -out, and that infuriated him. He could not get free: and he was -ashamed. He had one or two sweethearts, starting with them in -the hope of speedy development. But when he had a nice girl, he -found that he was incapable of pushing the desired development. -The very presence of the girl beside him made it impossible. He -could not think of her like that, he could not think of her -actual nakedness. She was a girl and he liked her, and dreaded -violently even the thought of uncovering her. He knew that, in -these last issues of nakedness, he did not exist to her nor she -to him. Again, if he had a loose girl, and things began to -develop, she offended him so deeply all the time, that he never -knew whether he was going to get away from her as quickly as -possible, or whether he were going to take her out of inflamed -necessity. Again he learnt his lesson: if he took her it was a -paucity which he was forced to despise. He did not despise -himself nor the girl. But he despised the net result in him of -the experience--he despised it deeply and bitterly. - -Then, when he was twenty-three, his mother died, and he was -left at home with Effie. His mother's death was another blow out -of the dark. He could not understand it, he knew it was no good -his trying. One had to submit to these unforeseen blows that -come unawares and leave a bruise that remains and hurts whenever -it is touched. He began to be afraid of all that which was up -against him. He had loved his mother. - -After this, Effie and he quarrelled fiercely. They meant a -very great deal to each other, but they were both under a -strange, unnatural tension. He stayed out of the house as much -as possible. He got a special corner for himself at the "Red -Lion" at Cossethay, and became a usual figure by the fire, a -fresh, fair young fellow with heavy limbs and head held back, -mostly silent, though alert and attentive, very hearty in his -greeting of everybody he knew, shy of strangers. He teased all -the women, who liked him extremely, and he was very attentive to -the talk of the men, very respectful. - -To drink made him quickly flush very red in the face, and -brought out the look of self-consciousness and unsureness, -almost bewilderment, in his blue eyes. When he came home in this -state of tipsy confusion his sister hated him and abused him, -and he went off his head, like a mad bull with rage. - -He had still another turn with a light-o'-love. One -Whitsuntide he went a jaunt with two other young fellows, on -horseback, to Matlock and thence to Bakewell. Matlock was at -that time just becoming a famous beauty-spot, visited from -Manchester and from the Staffordshire towns. In the hotel where -the young men took lunch, were two girls, and the parties struck -up a friendship. - -The Miss who made up to Tom Brangwen, then twenty-four years -old, was a handsome, reckless girl neglected for an afternoon by -the man who had brought her out. She saw Brangwen and liked him, -as all women did, for his warmth and his generous nature, and -for the innate delicacy in him. But she saw he was one who would -have to be brought to the scratch. However, she was roused and -unsatisfied and made mischievous, so she dared anything. It -would be an easy interlude, restoring her pride. - -She was a handsome girl with a bosom, and dark hair and blue -eyes, a girl full of easy laughter, flushed from the sun, -inclined to wipe her laughing face in a very natural and taking -manner. - -Brangwen was in a state of wonder. He treated her with his -chaffing deference, roused, but very unsure of himself, afraid -to death of being too forward, ashamed lest he might be thought -backward, mad with desire yet restrained by instinctive regard -for women from making any definite approach, feeling all the -while that his attitude was ridiculous, and flushing deep with -confusion. She, however, became hard and daring as he became -confused, it amused her to see him come on. - -"When must you get back?" she asked. - -"I'm not particular," he said. - -There the conversation again broke down. - -Brangwen's companions were ready to go on. - -"Art commin', Tom," they called, "or art for stoppin'?" - -"Ay, I'm commin'," he replied, rising reluctantly, an angry -sense of futility and disappointment spreading over him. - -He met the full, almost taunting look of the girl, and he -trembled with unusedness. - -"Shall you come an' have a look at my mare," he said to her, -with his hearty kindliness that was now shaken with -trepidation. - -"Oh, I should like to," she said, rising. - -And she followed him, his rather sloping shoulders and his -cloth riding-gaiters, out of the room. The young men got their -own horses out of the stable. - -"Can you ride?" Brangwen asked her. - -"I should like to if I could--I have never tried," she -said. - -"Come then, an' have a try," he said. - -And he lifted her, he blushing, she laughing, into the -saddle. - -"I s'll slip off--it's not a lady's saddle," she -cried. - -"Hold yer tight," he said, and he led her out of the hotel -gate. - -The girl sat very insecurely, clinging fast. He put a hand on -her waist, to support her. And he held her closely, he clasped -her as in an embrace, he was weak with desire as he strode -beside her. - -The horse walked by the river. - -"You want to sit straddle-leg," he said to her. - -"I know I do," she said. - -It was the time of very full skirts. She managed to get -astride the horse, quite decently, showing an intent concern for -covering her pretty leg. - -"It's a lot's better this road," she said, looking down at -him. - -"Ay, it is," he said, feeling the marrow melt in his bones -from the look in her eyes. "I dunno why they have that -side-saddle business, twistin' a woman in two." - -"Should us leave you then--you seem to be fixed up -there?" called Brangwen's companions from the road. - -He went red with anger. - -"Ay--don't worry," he called back. - -"How long are yer stoppin'?" they asked. - -"Not after Christmas," he said. - -And the girl gave a tinkling peal of laughter. - -"All right--by-bye!" called his friends. - -And they cantered off, leaving him very flushed, trying to be -quite normal with the girl. But presently he had gone back to -the hotel and given his horse into the charge of an ostler and -had gone off with the girl into the woods, not quite knowing -where he was or what he was doing. His heart thumped and he -thought it the most glorious adventure, and was mad with desire -for the girl. - -Afterwards he glowed with pleasure. By Jove, but that was -something like! He [stayed the afternoon with the girl, and] -wanted to stay the night. She, however, told him this was impossible: -her own man would be back by dark, and she must be with him. -He, Brangwen, must not let on that there had been anything -between them. - -She gave him an intimate smile, which made him feel confused -and gratified. - -He could not tear himself away, though he had promised not to -interfere with the girl. He stayed on at the hotel over night. -He saw the other fellow at the evening meal: a small, -middle-aged man with iron-grey hair and a curious face, like a -monkey's, but interesting, in its way almost beautiful. Brangwen -guessed that he was a foreigner. He was in company with another, -an Englishman, dry and hard. The four sat at table, two men and -two women. Brangwen watched with all his eyes. - -He saw how the foreigner treated the women with courteous -contempt, as if they were pleasing animals. Brangwen's girl had -put on a ladylike manner, but her voice betrayed her. She wanted -to win back her man. When dessert came on, however, the little -foreigner turned round from his table and calmly surveyed the -room, like one unoccupied. Brangwen marvelled over the cold, -animal intelligence of the face. The brown eyes were round, -showing all the brown pupil, like a monkey's, and just calmly -looking, perceiving the other person without referring to him at -all. They rested on Brangwen. The latter marvelled at the old -face turned round on him, looking at him without considering it -necessary to know him at all. The eyebrows of the round, -perceiving, but unconcerned eyes were rather high up, with -slight wrinkles above them, just as a monkey's had. It was an -old, ageless face. - -The man was most amazingly a gentleman all the time, an -aristocrat. Brangwen stared fascinated. The girl was pushing her -crumbs about on the cloth, uneasily, flushed and angry. - -As Brangwen sat motionless in the hall afterwards, too much -moved and lost to know what to do, the little stranger came up -to him with a beautiful smile and manner, offering a cigarette -and saying: - -"Will you smoke?" - -Brangwen never smoked cigarettes, yet he took the one -offered, fumbling painfully with thick fingers, blushing to the -roots of his hair. Then he looked with his warm blue eyes at the -almost sardonic, lidded eyes of the foreigner. The latter sat -down beside him, and they began to talk, chiefly of horses. - -Brangwen loved the other man for his exquisite graciousness, -for his tact and reserve, and for his ageless, monkey-like -self-surety. They talked of horses, and of Derbyshire, and of -farming. The stranger warmed to the young fellow with real -warmth, and Brangwen was excited. He was transported at meeting -this odd, middle-aged, dry-skinned man, personally. The talk was -pleasant, but that did not matter so much. It was the gracious -manner, the fine contact that was all. - -They talked a long while together, Brangwen flushing like a -girl when the other did not understand his idiom. Then they said -good night, and shook hands. Again the foreigner bowed and -repeated his good night. - -"Good night, and bon voyage." - -Then he turned to the stairs. - -Brangwen went up to his room and lay staring out at the stars -of the summer night, his whole being in a whirl. What was it -all? There was a life so different from what he knew it. What -was there outside his knowledge, how much? What was this that he -had touched? What was he in this new influence? What did -everything mean? Where was life, in that which he knew or all -outside him? - -He fell asleep, and in the morning had ridden away before any -other visitors were awake. He shrank from seeing any of them -again, in the morning. - -His mind was one big excitement. The girl and the foreigner: -he knew neither of their names. Yet they had set fire to the -homestead of his nature, and he would be burned out of cover. Of -the two experiences, perhaps the meeting with the foreigner was -the more significant. But the girl--he had not settled -about the girl. - -He did not know. He had to leave it there, as it was. He -could not sum up his experiences. - -The result of these encounters was, that he dreamed day and -night, absorbedly, of a voluptuous woman and of the meeting with -a small, withered foreigner of ancient breeding. No sooner was -his mind free, no sooner had he left his own companions, than he -began to imagine an intimacy with fine-textured, subtle-mannered -people such as the foreigner at Matlock, and amidst this subtle -intimacy was always the satisfaction of a voluptuous woman. - -He went about absorbed in the interest and the actuality of -this dream. His eyes glowed, he walked with his head up, full of -the exquisite pleasure of aristocratic subtlety and grace, -tormented with the desire for the girl. - -Then gradually the glow began to fade, and the cold material -of his customary life to show through. He resented it. Was he -cheated in his illusion? He balked the mean enclosure of -reality, stood stubbornly like a bull at a gate, refusing to -re-enter the well-known round of his own life. - -He drank more than usual to keep up the glow. But it faded -more and more for all that. He set his teeth at the commonplace, -to which he would not submit. It resolved itself starkly before -him, for all that. - -He wanted to marry, to get settled somehow, to get out of the -quandary he found himself in. But how? He felt unable to move -his limbs. He had seen a little creature caught in bird-lime, -and the sight was a nightmare to him. He began to feel mad with -the rage of impotency. - -He wanted something to get hold of, to pull himself out. But -there was nothing. Steadfastly he looked at the young women, to -find a one he could marry. But not one of them did he want. And -he knew that the idea of a life among such people as the -foreigner was ridiculous. - -Yet he dreamed of it, and stuck to his dreams, and would not -have the reality of Cossethay and Ilkeston. There he sat -stubbornly in his corner at the "Red Lion", smoking and musing -and occasionally lifting his beer-pot, and saying nothing, for -all the world like a gorping farm-labourer, as he said -himself. - -Then a fever of restless anger came upon him. He wanted to go -away--right away. He dreamed of foreign parts. But somehow -he had no contact with them. And it was a very strong root which -held him to the Marsh, to his own house and land. - -Then Effie got married, and he was left in the house with -only Tilly, the cross-eyed woman-servant who had been with them -for fifteen years. He felt things coming to a close. All the -time, he had held himself stubbornly resistant to the action of -the commonplace unreality which wanted to absorb him. But now he -had to do something. - -He was by nature temperate. Being sensitive and emotional, -his nausea prevented him from drinking too much. - -But, in futile anger, with the greatest of determination and -apparent good humour, he began to drink in order to get drunk. -"Damn it," he said to himself, "you must have it one road or -another--you can't hitch your horse to the shadow of a -gate-post--if you've got legs you've got to rise off your -backside some time or other." - -So he rose and went down to Ilkeston, rather awkwardly took -his place among a gang of young bloods, stood drinks to the -company, and discovered he could carry it off quite well. He had -an idea that everybody in the room was a man after his own -heart, that everything was glorious, everything was perfect. -When somebody in alarm told him his coat pocket was on fire, he -could only beam from a red, blissful face and say -"Iss-all-ri-ight--iss-al'-ri-ight--it's a' -right--let it be, let it be----" and he laughed -with pleasure, and was rather indignant that the others should -think it unnatural for his coat pocket to burn:--it was the -happiest and most natural thing in the world--what? - -He went home talking to himself and to the moon, that was -very high and small, stumbling at the flashes of moonlight from -the puddles at his feet, wondering What the Hanover! then -laughing confidently to the moon, assuring her this was first -class, this was. - -In the morning he woke up and thought about it, and for the -first time in his life, knew what it was to feel really acutely -irritable, in a misery of real bad temper. After bawling and -snarling at Tilly, he took himself off for very shame, to be -alone. And looking at the ashen fields and the putty roads, he -wondered what in the name of Hell he could do to get out of this -prickly sense of disgust and physical repulsion. And he knew -that this was the result of his glorious evening. - -And his stomach did not want any more brandy. He went -doggedly across the fields with his terrier, and looked at -everything with a jaundiced eye. - -The next evening found him back again in his place at the -"Red Lion", moderate and decent. There he sat and stubbornly -waited for what would happen next. - -Did he, or did he not believe that he belonged to this world -of Cossethay and Ilkeston? There was nothing in it he wanted. -Yet could he ever get out of it? Was there anything in himself -that would carry him out of it? Or was he a dunderheaded baby, -not man enough to be like the other young fellows who drank a -good deal and wenched a little without any question, and were -satisfied. - -He went on stubbornly for a time. Then the strain became too -great for him. A hot, accumulated consciousness was always awake -in his chest, his wrists felt swelled and quivering, his mind -became full of lustful images, his eyes seemed blood-flushed. He -fought with himself furiously, to remain normal. He did not seek -any woman. He just went on as if he were normal. Till he must -either take some action or beat his head against the wall. - -Then he went deliberately to Ilkeston, in silence, intent and -beaten. He drank to get drunk. He gulped down the brandy, and -more brandy, till his face became pale, his eyes burning. And -still he could not get free. He went to sleep in drunken -unconsciousness, woke up at four o'clock in the morning and -continued drinking. He would get free. Gradually the -tension in him began to relax. He began to feel happy. His -riveted silence was unfastened, he began to talk and babble. He -was happy and at one with all the world, he was united with all -flesh in a hot blood-relationship. So, after three days of -incessant brandy-drinking, he had burned out the youth from his -blood, he had achieved this kindled state of oneness with all -the world, which is the end of youth's most passionate desire. -But he had achieved his satisfaction by obliterating his own -individuality, that which it depended on his manhood to preserve -and develop. - -So he became a bout-drinker, having at intervals these bouts -of three or four days of brandy-drinking, when he was drunk for -the whole time. He did not think about it. A deep resentment -burned in him. He kept aloof from any women, antagonistic. - -When he was twenty-eight, a thick-limbed, stiff, fair man -with fresh complexion, and blue eyes staring very straight -ahead, he was coming one day down from Cossethay with a load of -seed out of Nottingham. It was a time when he was getting ready -for another bout of drinking, so he stared fixedly before him, -watchful yet absorbed, seeing everything and aware of nothing, -coiled in himself. It was early in the year. - -He walked steadily beside the horse, the load clanked behind -as the hill descended steeper. The road curved down-hill before -him, under banks and hedges, seen only for a few yards -ahead. - -Slowly turning the curve at the steepest part of the slope, -his horse britching between the shafts, he saw a woman -approaching. But he was thinking for the moment of the -horse. - -Then he turned to look at her. She was dressed in black, was -apparently rather small and slight, beneath her long black -cloak, and she wore a black bonnet. She walked hastily, as if -unseeing, her head rather forward. It was her curious, absorbed, -flitting motion, as if she were passing unseen by everybody, -that first arrested him. - -She had heard the cart, and looked up. Her face was pale and -clear, she had thick dark eyebrows and a wide mouth, curiously -held. He saw her face clearly, as if by a light in the air. He -saw her face so distinctly, that he ceased to coil on himself, -and was suspended. - -"That's her," he said involuntarily. As the cart passed by, -splashing through the thin mud, she stood back against the bank. -Then, as he walked still beside his britching horse, his eyes -met hers. He looked quickly away, pressing back his head, a pain -of joy running through him. He could not bear to think of -anything. - -He turned round at the last moment. He saw her bonnet, her -shape in the black cloak, the movement as she walked. Then she -was gone round the bend. - -She had passed by. He felt as if he were walking again in a -far world, not Cossethay, a far world, the fragile reality. He -went on, quiet, suspended, rarefied. He could not bear to think -or to speak, nor make any sound or sign, nor change his fixed -motion. He could scarcely bear to think of her face. He moved -within the knowledge of her, in the world that was beyond -reality. - -The feeling that they had exchanged recognition possessed him -like a madness, like a torment. How could he be sure, what -confirmation had he? The doubt was like a sense of infinite -space, a nothingness, annihilating. He kept within his breast -the will to surety. They had exchanged recognition. - -He walked about in this state for the next few days. And then -again like a mist it began to break to let through the common, -barren world. He was very gentle with man and beast, but he -dreaded the starkness of disillusion cropping through again. - -As he was standing with his back to the fire after dinner a -few days later, he saw the woman passing. He wanted to know that -she knew him, that she was aware. He wanted it said that there -was something between them. So he stood anxiously watching, -looking at her as she went down the road. He called to -Tilly. - -"Who might that be?" he asked. - -Tilly, the cross-eyed woman of forty, who adored him, ran -gladly to the window to look. She was glad when he asked her for -anything. She craned her head over the short curtain, the little -tight knob of her black hair sticking out pathetically as she -bobbed about. - -"Oh why"--she lifted her head and peered with her -twisted, keen brown eyes--"why, you know who it -is--it's her from th' vicarage--you know--" - -"How do I know, you hen-bird," he shouted. - -Tilly blushed and drew her neck in and looked at him with her -squinting, sharp, almost reproachful look. - -"Why you do--it's the new housekeeper." - -"Ay--an' what by that?" - -"Well, an' what by that?" rejoined the indignant -Tilly. - -"She's a woman, isn't she, housekeeper or no housekeeper? -She's got more to her than that! Who is she--she's got a -name?" - -"Well, if she has, I don't know," retorted Tilly, not -to be badgered by this lad who had grown up into a man. - -"What's her name?" he asked, more gently. - -"I'm sure I couldn't tell you," replied Tilly, on her -dignity. - -"An' is that all as you've gathered, as she's housekeeping at -the vicarage?" - -"I've 'eered mention of 'er name, but I couldn't remember it -for my life." - -"Why, yer riddle-skulled woman o' nonsense, what have you got -a head for?" - -"For what other folks 'as got theirs for," retorted Tilly, -who loved nothing more than these tilts when he would call her -names. - -There was a lull. - -"I don't believe as anybody could keep it in their head," the -woman-servant continued, tentatively. - -"What?" he asked. - -"Why, 'er name." - -"How's that?" - -"She's fra some foreign parts or other." - -"Who told you that?" - -"That's all I do know, as she is." - -"An' wheer do you reckon she's from, then?" - -"I don't know. They do say as she hails fra th' Pole. I don't -know," Tilly hastened to add, knowing he would attack her. - -"Fra th' Pole, why do you hail fra th' Pole? Who set -up that menagerie confabulation?" - -"That's what they say--I don't know----" - -"Who says?" - -"Mrs. Bentley says as she's fra th' Pole--else she is a -Pole, or summat." - -Tilly was only afraid she was landing herself deeper now. - -"Who says she's a Pole?" - -"They all say so." - -"Then what's brought her to these parts?" - -"I couldn't tell you. She's got a little girl with her." - -"Got a little girl with her?" - -"Of three or four, with a head like a fuzz-ball." - -"Black?" - -"White--fair as can be, an' all of a fuzz." - -"Is there a father, then?" - -"Not to my knowledge. I don't know." - -"What brought her here?" - -"I couldn't say, without th' vicar axed her." - -"Is the child her child?" - -"I s'd think so--they say so." - -"Who told you about her?" - -"Why, Lizzie--a-Monday--we seed her goin' -past." - -"You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went -past." - -Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay -to the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more. - -She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her -husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit -foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She -had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, -Mrs. Lensky. - -Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at -last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were -destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she -was a foreigner. - -A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a -new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. -Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities -before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. - -He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all -the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in -her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her -by thinking of her. - -One day he met her walking along the road with her little -girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, -and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in -straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child -clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her, -staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him -again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of her look -inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with very dark, -fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running under his -skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the surface. And he -went on walking without knowledge. - -It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to -its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would -come. - -When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went -with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere -dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a -fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held -her head lifted. She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. -She was from far away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was -not really there, sitting in Cossethay church beside her little -girl. She was not living the apparent life of her days. She -belonged to somewhere else. He felt it poignantly, as something -real and natural. But a pang of fear for his own concrete life, -that was only Cossethay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving. - -Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she -had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to -another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place -where she still lived, in spite of her body's absence. - -The child beside her watched everything with wide, black -eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth -was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, -to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, -vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like -a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark -eyes. - -The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. -And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her, -inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously -guarding something. - -When the service was over, he walked in the way of another -existence out of the church. As he went down the church-path -with his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl -suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with -quick, almost invisible movement, and was picking at something -almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and -quick, but they missed the red button. - -"Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her. - -And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and -she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her -black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. -Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift -"Mother----," and was gone down the path. - -The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the -child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at -him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign -existence. - -He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the -wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond -himself. - -"Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud, -silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her -mother to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue -now her mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready -invention, the child stumbled and ran on, "What are those -people's names?" - -Brangwen heard the abstract: - -"I don't know, dear." - -He went on down the road as if he were not living inside -himself, but somewhere outside. - -"Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked. - -"I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing. - -"She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in -condemnation. "That child's like one bewitched." - -"Bewitched--how bewitched?" he repeated. - -"You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must -say--but the child is like a changeling. She'd be about -thirty-five." - -But he took no notice. His sister talked on. - -"There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better -marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were as -they were. - -Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there -came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. -No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began -slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened -the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. - -"Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious -detached way of one speaking a foreign language. - -He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him -questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in -her very standing motionless, which affected him? - -He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the -door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the -custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. -He went into the kitchen and she followed. - -His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big -fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. -She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. - -"Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?" - -The stranger stood there like a silence in her black -cloak. - -"Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance. - -He shouted his question again. - -"We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice -out of the dairy. - -Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter -on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with -acorns and oak-leaves. - -"Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted. - -"Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking -inquisitively through the other door. - -She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but -said nothing. - -"Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, -impatiently, as if he could command some by his question. - -"I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, -impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We -haven't a morsel besides." - -There was a moment's silence. - -The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached -manner of one who must think her speech first. - -"Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to -trouble you." - -She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was -slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation -quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. -Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her -go. - -"Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to -Tilly, looking at the butter on the table. - -And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter -where it was touched. - -His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign -woman and angered Tilly. - -"Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the -insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow -mornin' first thing." - -"Yes"--the long-drawn foreign yes--"yes," said the -Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more." - -Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to -the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of -manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking -at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your -other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, -an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got -none. - -Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of -Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for -the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she -waited. - -"Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had -resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner -door. - -"I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, -looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it -was usual to do. - -He felt confused. - -"How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only -protective. - -"Do you----?" she began deliberately. But she was -not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her -eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak -the language. - -They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to -him. He bent down to it. - -"And how's your little girl?" he asked. - -"Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase -of polite speech in a foreign language merely. - -"Sit you down," he said. - -And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the -slits of her cloak, resting on her lap. - -"You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on -the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with -curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him -and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him -almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the -situation. - -Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she -thought of the meaning of his speech. - -"No," she said, understanding. "No--it is strange." - -"You find it middlin' rough?" he said. - -Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again. - -"Our ways are rough to you," he repeated. - -"Yes--yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is -strange. But I was in Yorkshire----" - -"Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they -are up there." - -She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his -sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he -was her equal, why did he behave so without formality? - -"No----" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on -him. - -She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely -beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his -fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy -body that seemed to take equality with her. She watched him -steadily. He was difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, -and confident as he was, sure on his feet as if he did not know -what it was to be unsure. What then was it that gave him this -curious stability? - -She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he -lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost -frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old -people, the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook -of his being, that she was uneasy. - -"It is already a long time that you have lived in this -house--yes?" she asked. - -"I've always lived here," he said. - -"Yes--but your people--your family?" - -"We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes -were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He -felt that he was there for her. - -"It is your own place, the house, the -farm----?" - -"Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It -disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they -had nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to -knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct. - -"You live quite alone?" - -"Yes--if you call it alone?" - -She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was -the meaning of it? - -And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time, -inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her -consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this -strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening -to her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to -assume a right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his -protection. But how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes -so certain, so full of light and confident, waiting for no -permission nor signal? - -Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At -once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman -had come back. - -"How old is your little girl?" he asked. - -"Four years," she replied. - -"Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked. - -"She was one year when he died." - -"Three years?" - -"Yes, three years that he is dead--yes." - -Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these -questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening -in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor -away from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he -was almost rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look -rise in her eyes. - -Tilly handed her the butter and she rose. - -"Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?" - -"We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do -for me goin' to church." - -"It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th' -money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to -him. - -"You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said. - -"How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen -stood by and let be. - -"Then, thank you very much," she said. - -"Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls -and horses," he said,--"if she'd like it." - -"Yes, she would like it," said the stranger. - -And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He -could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting -to be reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he -had made some invisible connection with the strange woman. - -A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of -consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his -body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong -light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to -know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between -him and her, connecting them, like a secret power. - -Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze, -scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, -in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was -happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of -himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature -evolving to a new birth. - -She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this -lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor -upon them, so that there was no active change took place. He was -almost unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he -gained her confidence, even her affection, setting her on a -horse to ride, giving her corn for the fowls. - -Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking -them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for -love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness, like a -soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills were -suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded in her lap, -and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: -it was a closed circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, it -stood for her life in which he could have no part. Nevertheless, -beyond all this, there was herself and himself which should -meet. - -As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her, he -felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands. She -belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind. But he -must care for her also. She was too living to be neglected. - -Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him -angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet. She had -no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and enraged him, -but he submitted for a long time. Then, from the accumulated -troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a fury broke out, -destructive, and he wanted to go away, to escape her. - -It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child whilst -he was in this state. Then he stood over against her, strong and -heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing, still she felt -his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of her, she was shaken -again as out of a torpor. Again her heart stirred with a quick, -out-running impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was -not a gentleman yet who insisted on coming into her life, and -the pain of a new birth in herself strung all her veins to a new -form. She would have to begin again, to find a new being, a new -form, to respond to that blind, insistent figure standing over -against her. - -A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame -leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life from -him, with him, yet she must defend herself against it, for it -was a destruction. - -As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes at -lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell -away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it came -upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life. - -Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her. He -would have liked to think of her as of something given into his -protection, like a child without parents. But it was forbidden -him. He had to come down from this pleasant view of the case. -She might refuse him. And besides, he was afraid of her. - -But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour, -looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars, he knew he -did not belong to himself. He must admit that he was only -fragmentary, something incomplete and subject. There were the -stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole host passing by -on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and submissive to the -greater ordering. - -Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a -nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her repeated -obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that he did not -exist for her, after he had raged and tried to escape, and said -he was good enough by himself, he was a man, and could stand -alone, he must, in the starry multiplicity of the night humble -himself, and admit and know that without her he was nothing. - -He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If she were -now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-shelter, -through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would -bring him completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, -that she should come to him! It should be so--it was -ordained so. - -He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry -him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really acquiesce. -She must, it could not be otherwise. - -He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone, -and had had a hard time in London, both before and after her -husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born, a -landowner's daughter. - -All these things were only words to him, the fact of her -superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant -doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost -every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic of -the soul, which connected her with him. - -One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside, came -the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands before him, -leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire, he knew almost -without thinking that he was going this evening. - -"Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly. - -"You know you've got clean shirts," she said. - -"Ay,--bring me a white one." - -Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited -from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She -loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his -arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a -quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did -anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she -spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The -deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble. - -He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness -seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his -stillness. - -"It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the -shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?" -And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he -retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless -dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to -please herself, and displease whosoever she likes." - -This streak of common sense carried him a little further. - -"Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, -having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair -beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted. - -"Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?" - -She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, -he trimmed his beard. - -"Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin' -contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair -quickly off his lips. - -He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and -donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was -falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils. -The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers -swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of -their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems -of the flowers. - -"What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the -garden gate. - -"Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen. - -And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement, -let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence -she could watch him go. - -He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind -roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch -of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only -knew that the wind was blowing. - -Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled. The -vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman in the -kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the darkest of -twilight, he went through the gate and down the path where a few -daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered crocuses made a -pale, colourless ravel. - -There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back from -the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How could he do this? -Looking through the window, he saw her seated in the -rocking-chair with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting -on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was -drooping towards the fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright -cheeks and clear skin of the child, who seemed to be musing, -almost like a grown-up person. The mother's face was dark and -still, and he saw, with a pang, that she was away back in the -life that had been. The child's hair gleamed like spun glass, -her face was illuminated till it seemed like wax lit up from the -inside. The wind boomed strongly. Mother and child sat -motionless, silent, the child staring with vacant dark eyes into -the fire, the mother looking into space. The little girl was -almost asleep. It was her will which kept her eyes so wide. - -Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook the -house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The mother began to -rock, he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair. -Then he heard the low, monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign -language. Then a great burst of wind, the mother seemed to have -drifted away, the child's eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen -looked up at the clouds which packed in great, alarming haste -across the dark sky. - -Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet imperative -voice: - -"Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it." - -The singing died away. - -"You will go to bed," said the mother. - -He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved -farawayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the -child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge: - -"I want you to tell me a story." - -The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against the -mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at the wild -waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness. He -had his fate to follow, he lingered there at the threshold. - -The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in against -her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of -hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the eyes. The -mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as if by itself. -Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall. He did not notice -the passage of time. The hand that held the daffodils was fixed -and cold. - -The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the -child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry so -large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round her -mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked over -the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and these, -wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight with -something unseen. - -When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time from -the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He -wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in -these few moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a -curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate. - -The mother came down again, and began folding the child's -clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay, -like a foreigner, uneasy. - -"Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute." - -A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She -looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window, -holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes -she again did not know him. She was almost afraid. - -But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing -the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out -of herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, -and came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black -clothes and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers -in the other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of -herself. She did not know him, only she knew he was a man come -for her. She could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing -there upon her, and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not -see the face and the living eyes. - -He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware -underneath of her presence. - -"I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward -to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled -apart and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his -advance. She had no will, no being. The wind boomed in the -chimney, and he waited. He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he -shut his fists. - -He was aware of her standing there unknown, dread, yet -related to him. - -"I came up," he said, speaking curiously matter-of-fact and -level, "to ask if you'd marry me. You are free, aren't you?" - -There was a long silence, whilst his blue eyes, strangely -impersonal, looked into her eyes to seek an answer to the truth. -He was looking for the truth out of her. And she, as if -hypnotized, must answer at length. - -"Yes, I am free to marry." - -The expression of his eyes changed, became less impersonal, -as if he were looking almost at her, for the truth of her. -Steady and intent and eternal they were, as if they would never -change. They seemed to fix and to resolve her. She quivered, -feeling herself created, will-less, lapsing into him, into a -common will with him. - -"You want me?" she said. - -A pallor came over his face. - -"Yes," he said. - -Still there was no response and silence. - -"No," she said, not of herself. "No, I don't know." - -He felt the tension breaking up in him, his fists slackened, -he was unable to move. He stood there looking at her, helpless -in his vague collapse. For the moment she had become unreal to -him. Then he saw her come to him, curiously direct and as if -without movement, in a sudden flow. She put her hand to his -coat. - -"Yes I want to," she said, impersonally, looking at him with -wide, candid, newly-opened eyes, opened now with supreme truth. -He went very white as he stood, and did not move, only his eyes -were held by hers, and he suffered. She seemed to see him with -her newly-opened, wide eyes, almost of a child, and with a -strange movement, that was agony to him, she reached slowly -forward her dark face and her breast to him, with a slow -insinuation of a kiss that made something break in his brain, -and it was darkness over him for a few moments. - -He had her in his arms, and, obliterated, was kissing her. -And it was sheer, bleached agony to him, to break away from -himself. She was there so small and light and accepting in his -arms, like a child, and yet with such an insinuation of embrace, -of infinite embrace, that he could not bear it, he could not -stand. - -He turned and looked for a chair, and keeping her still in -his arms, sat down with her close to him, to his breast. Then, -for a few seconds, he went utterly to sleep, asleep and sealed -in the darkest sleep, utter, extreme oblivion. - -From which he came to gradually, always holding her warm and -close upon him, and she as utterly silent as he, involved in the -same oblivion, the fecund darkness. - -He returned gradually, but newly created, as after a -gestation, a new birth, in the womb of darkness. Aerial and -light everything was, new as a morning, fresh and newly-begun. -Like a dawn the newness and the bliss filled in. And she sat -utterly still with him, as if in the same. - -Then she looked up at him, the wide, young eyes blazing with -light. And he bent down and kissed her on the lips. And the dawn -blazed in them, their new life came to pass, it was beyond all -conceiving good, it was so good, that it was almost like a -passing-away, a trespass. He drew her suddenly closer to -him. - -For soon the light began to fade in her, gradually, and as -she was in his arms, her head sank, she leaned it against him, -and lay still, with sunk head, a little tired, effaced because -she was tired. And in her tiredness was a certain negation of -him. - -"There is the child," she said, out of the long silence. - -He did not understand. It was a long time since he had heard -a voice. Now also he heard the wind roaring, as if it had just -begun again. - -"Yes," he said, not understanding. There was a slight -contraction of pain at his heart, a slight tension on his brows. -Something he wanted to grasp and could not. - -"You will love her?" she said. - -The quick contraction, like pain, went over him again. - -"I love her now," he said. - -She lay still against him, taking his physical warmth without -heed. It was great confirmation for him to feel her there, -absorbing the warmth from him, giving him back her weight and -her strange confidence. But where was she, that she seemed so -absent? His mind was open with wonder. He did not know her. - -"But I am much older than you," she said. - -"How old?" he asked. - -"I am thirty-four," she said. - -"I am twenty-eight," he said. - -"Six years." - -She was oddly concerned, even as if it pleased her a little. -He sat and listened and wondered. It was rather splendid, to be -so ignored by her, whilst she lay against him, and he lifted her -with his breathing, and felt her weight upon his living, so he -had a completeness and an inviolable power. He did not interfere -with her. He did not even know her. It was so strange that she -lay there with her weight abandoned upon him. He was silent with -delight. He felt strong, physically, carrying her on his -breathing. The strange, inviolable completeness of the two of -them made him feel as sure and as stable as God. Amused, he -wondered what the vicar would say if he knew. - -"You needn't stop here much longer, housekeeping," he -said. - -"I like it also, here," she said. "When one has been in many -places, it is very nice here." - -He was silent again at this. So close on him she lay, and yet -she answered him from so far away. But he did not mind. - -"What was your own home like, when you were little?" he -asked. - -"My father was a landowner," she replied. "It was near a -river." - -This did not convey much to him. All was as vague as before. -But he did not care, whilst she was so close. - -"I am a landowner--a little one," he said. - -"Yes," she said. - -He had not dared to move. He sat there with his arms round -her, her lying motionless on his breathing, and for a long time -he did not stir. Then softly, timidly, his hand settled on the -roundness of her arm, on the unknown. She seemed to lie a little -closer. A hot flame licked up from his belly to his chest. - -But it was too soon. She rose, and went across the room to a -drawer, taking out a little tray-cloth. There was something -quiet and professional about her. She had been a nurse beside -her husband, both in Warsaw and in the rebellion afterwards. She -proceeded to set a tray. It was as if she ignored Brangwen. He -sat up, unable to bear a contradiction in her. She moved about -inscrutably. - -Then, as he sat there, all mused and wondering, she came near -to him, looking at him with wide, grey eyes that almost smiled -with a low light. But her ugly-beautiful mouth was still unmoved -and sad. He was afraid. - -His eyes, strained and roused with unusedness, quailed a -little before her, he felt himself quailing and yet he rose, as -if obedient to her, he bent and kissed her heavy, sad, wide -mouth, that was kissed, and did not alter. Fear was too strong -in him. Again he had not got her. - -She turned away. The vicarage kitchen was untidy, and yet to -him beautiful with the untidiness of her and her child. Such a -wonderful remoteness there was about her, and then something in -touch with him, that made his heart knock in his chest. He stood -there and waited, suspended. - -Again she came to him, as he stood in his black clothes, with -blue eyes very bright and puzzled for her, his face tensely -alive, his hair dishevelled. She came close up to him, to his -intent, black-clothed body, and laid her hand on his arm. He -remained unmoved. Her eyes, with a blackness of memory -struggling with passion, primitive and electric away at the back -of them, rejected him and absorbed him at once. But he remained -himself. He breathed with difficulty, and sweat came out at the -roots of his hair, on his forehead. - -"Do you want to marry me?" she asked slowly, always -uncertain. - -He was afraid lest he could not speak. He drew breath hard, -saying: - -"I do." - -Then again, what was agony to him, with one hand lightly -resting on his arm, she leaned forward a little, and with a -strange, primeval suggestion of embrace, held him her mouth. It -was ugly-beautiful, and he could not bear it. He put his mouth -on hers, and slowly, slowly the response came, gathering force -and passion, till it seemed to him she was thundering at him -till he could bear no more. He drew away, white, unbreathing. -Only, in his blue eyes, was something of himself concentrated. -And in her eyes was a little smile upon a black void. - -She was drifting away from him again. And he wanted to go -away. It was intolerable. He could bear no more. He must go. Yet -he was irresolute. But she turned away from him. - -With a little pang of anguish, of denial, it was decided. - -"I'll come an' speak to the vicar to-morrow," he said, taking -his hat. - -She looked at him, her eyes expressionless and full of -darkness. He could see no answer. - -"That'll do, won't it?" he said. - -"Yes," she answered, mere echo without body or meaning. - -"Good night," he said. - -"Good night." - -He left her standing there, expressionless and void as she -was. Then she went on laying the tray for the vicar. Needing the -table, she put the daffodils aside on the dresser without -noticing them. Only their coolness, touching her hand, remained -echoing there a long while. - -They were such strangers, they must for ever be such -strangers, that his passion was a clanging torment to him. Such -intimacy of embrace, and such utter foreignness of contact! It -was unbearable. He could not bear to be near her, and know the -utter foreignness between them, know how entirely they were -strangers to each other. He went out into the wind. Big holes -were blown into the sky, the moonlight blew about. Sometimes a -high moon, liquid-brilliant, scudded across a hollow space and -took cover under electric, brown-iridescent cloud-edges. Then -there was a blot of cloud, and shadow. Then somewhere in the -night a radiance again, like a vapour. And all the sky was -teeming and tearing along, a vast disorder of flying shapes and -darkness and ragged fumes of light and a great brown circling -halo, then the terror of a moon running liquid-brilliant into -the open for a moment, hurting the eyes before she plunged under -cover of cloud again. - - - -CHAPTER II - -THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH - -She was the daughter of a Polish landowner who, deeply in -debt to the Jews, had married a German wife with money, and who -had died just before the rebellion. Quite young, she had married -Paul Lensky, an intellectual who had studied at Berlin, and had -returned to Warsaw a patriot. Her mother had married a German -merchant and gone away. - -Lydia Lensky, married to the young doctor, became with him a -patriot and an emancipee. They were poor, but they -were very conceited. She learned nursing as a mark of her -emancipation. They represented in Poland the new movement just -begun in Russia. But they were very patriotic: and, at the same -time, very "European". - -They had two children. Then came the great rebellion. Lensky, -very ardent and full of words, went about inciting his -countrymen. Little Poles flamed down the streets of Warsaw, on -the way to shoot every Muscovite. So they crossed into the south -of Russia, and it was common for six little insurgents to ride -into a Jewish village, brandishing swords and words, emphasizing -the fact that they were going to shoot every living -Muscovite. - -Lensky was something of a fire-eater also. Lydia, tempered by -her German blood, coming of a different family, was obliterated, -carried along in her husband's emphasis of declaration, and his -whirl of patriotism. He was indeed a brave man, but no bravery -could quite have equalled the vividness of his talk. He worked -very hard, till nothing lived in him but his eyes. And Lydia, as -if drugged, followed him like a shadow, serving, echoing. -Sometimes she had her two children, sometimes they were left -behind. - -She returned once to find them both dead of diphtheria. Her -husband wept aloud, unaware of everybody. But the war went on, -and soon he was back at his work. A darkness had come over -Lydia's mind. She walked always in a shadow, silenced, with a -strange, deep terror having hold of her, her desire was to seek -satisfaction in dread, to enter a nunnery, to satisfy the -instincts of dread in her, through service of a dark religion. -But she could not. - -Then came the flight to London. Lensky, the little, thin man, -had got all his life locked into a resistance and could not -relax again. He lived in a sort of insane irritability, touchy, -haughty to the last degree, fractious, so that as assistant -doctor in one of the hospitals he soon became impossible. They -were almost beggars. But he kept still his great ideas of -himself, he seemed to live in a complete hallucination, where he -himself figured vivid and lordly. He guarded his wife jealously -against the ignominy of her position, rushed round her like a -brandished weapon, an amazing sight to the English eye, had her -in his power, as if he hypnotized her. She was passive, dark, -always in shadow. - -He was wasting away. Already when the child was born he -seemed nothing but skin and bone and fixed idea. She watched him -dying, nursed him, nursed the baby, but really took no notice of -anything. A darkness was on her, like remorse, or like a -remembering of the dark, savage, mystic ride of dread, of death, -of the shadow of revenge. When her husband died, she was -relieved. He would no longer dart about her. - -England fitted her mood, its aloofness and foreignness. She -had known a little of the language before coming, and a sort of -parrot-mind made her pick it up fairly easily. But she knew -nothing of the English, nor of English life. Indeed, these did -not exist for her. She was like one walking in the Underworld, -where the shades throng intelligibly but have no connection with -one. She felt the English people as a potent, cold, slightly -hostile host amongst whom she walked isolated. - -The English people themselves were almost deferential to her, -the Church saw that she did not want. She walked without -passion, like a shade, tormented into moments of love by the -child. Her dying husband with his tortured eyes and the skin -drawn tight over his face, he was as a vision to her, not a -reality. In a vision he was buried and put away. Then the vision -ceased, she was untroubled, time went on grey, uncoloured, like -a long journey where she sat unconscious as the landscape -unrolled beside her. When she rocked her baby at evening, maybe -she fell into a Polish slumber song, or she talked sometimes to -herself in Polish. Otherwise she did not think of Poland, nor of -that life to which she had belonged. It was a great blot looming -blank in its darkness. In the superficial activity of her life, -she was all English. She even thought in English. But her long -blanks and darknesses of abstraction were Polish. - -So she lived for some time. Then, with slight uneasiness, she -used half to awake to the streets of London. She realized that -there was something around her, very foreign, she realized she -was in a strange place. And then, she was sent away into the -country. There came into her mind now the memory of her home -where she had been a child, the big house among the land, the -peasants of the village. - -She was sent to Yorkshire, to nurse an old rector in his -rectory by the sea. This was the first shake of the kaleidoscope -that brought in front of her eyes something she must see. It -hurt her brain, the open country and the moors. It hurt her and -hurt her. Yet it forced itself upon her as something living, it -roused some potency of her childhood in her, it had some -relation to her. - -There was green and silver and blue in the air about her now. -And there was a strange insistence of light from the sea, to -which she must attend. Primroses glimmered around, many of them, -and she stooped to the disturbing influence near her feet, she -even picked one or two flowers, faintly remembering in the new -colour of life, what had been. All the day long, as she sat at -the upper window, the light came off the sea, constantly, -constantly, without refusal, till it seemed to bear her away, -and the noise of the sea created a drowsiness in her, a -relaxation like sleep. Her automatic consciousness gave way a -little, she stumbled sometimes, she had a poignant, momentary -vision of her living child, that hurt her unspeakably. Her soul -roused to attention. - -Very strange was the constant glitter of the sea unsheathed -in heaven, very warm and sweet the graveyard, in a nook of the -hill catching the sunshine and holding it as one holds a bee -between the palms of the hands, when it is benumbed. Grey grass -and lichens and a little church, and snowdrops among coarse -grass, and a cupful of incredibly warm sunshine. - -She was troubled in spirit. Hearing the rushing of the beck -away down under the trees, she was startled, and wondered what -it was. Walking down, she found the bluebells around her glowing -like a presence, among the trees. - -Summer came, the moors were tangled with harebells like water -in the ruts of the roads, the heather came rosy under the skies, -setting the whole world awake. And she was uneasy. She went past -the gorse bushes shrinking from their presence, she stepped into -the heather as into a quickening bath that almost hurt. Her -fingers moved over the clasped fingers of the child, she heard -the anxious voice of the baby, as it tried to make her talk, -distraught. - -And she shrank away again, back into her darkness, and for a -long while remained blotted safely away from living. But autumn -came with the faint red glimmer of robins singing, winter -darkened the moors, and almost savagely she turned again to -life, demanding her life back again, demanding that it should be -as it had been when she was a girl, on the land at home, under -the sky. Snow lay in great expanses, the telegraph posts strode -over the white earth, away under the gloom of the sky. And -savagely her desire rose in her again, demanding that this was -Poland, her youth, that all was her own again. - -But there were no sledges nor bells, she did not see the -peasants coming out like new people, in their sheepskins and -their fresh, ruddy, bright faces, that seemed to become new and -vivid when the snow lit up the ground. It did not come to her, -the life of her youth, it did not come back. There was a little -agony of struggle, then a relapse into the darkness of the -convent, where Satan and the devils raged round the walls, and -Christ was white on the cross of victory. - -She watched from the sick-room the snow whirl past, like -flocks of shadows in haste, flying on some final mission out to -a leaden inalterable sea, beyond the final whiteness of the -curving shore, and the snow-speckled blackness of the rocks half -submerged. But near at hand on the trees the snow was soft in -bloom. Only the voice of the dying vicar spoke grey and -querulous from behind. - -By the time the snowdrops were out, however, he was dead. He -was dead. But with curious equanimity the returning woman -watched the snowdrops on the edge of the grass below, blown -white in the wind, but not to be blown away. She watched them -fluttering and bobbing, the white, shut flowers, anchored by a -thread to the grey-green grass, yet never blown away, not -drifting with the wind. - -As she rose in the morning, the dawn was beating up white, -gusts of light blown like a thin snowstorm from the east, blown -stronger and fiercer, till the rose appeared, and the gold, and -the sea lit up below. She was impassive and indifferent. Yet she -was outside the enclosure of darkness. - -There passed a space of shadow again, the familiarity of -dread-worship, during which she was moved, oblivious, to -Cossethay. There, at first, there was nothing--just grey -nothing. But then one morning there was a light from the yellow -jasmine caught her, and after that, morning and evening, the -persistent ringing of thrushes from the shrubbery, till her -heart, beaten upon, was forced to lift up its voice in rivalry -and answer. Little tunes came into her mind. She was full of -trouble almost like anguish. Resistant, she knew she was beaten, -and from fear of darkness turned to fear of light. She would -have hidden herself indoors, if she could. Above all, she craved -for the peace and heavy oblivion of her old state. She could not -bear to come to, to realize. The first pangs of this new -parturition were so acute, she knew she could not bear it. She -would rather remain out of life, than be torn, mutilated into -this birth, which she could not survive. She had not the -strength to come to life now, in England, so foreign, skies so -hostile. She knew she would die like an early, colourless, -scentless flower that the end of the winter puts forth -mercilessly. And she wanted to harbour her modicum of twinkling -life. - -But a sunshiny day came full of the scent of a mezereon tree, -when bees were tumbling into the yellow crocuses, and she -forgot, she felt like somebody else, not herself, a new person, -quite glad. But she knew it was fragile, and she dreaded it. The -vicar put pea-flower into the crocuses, for his bees to roll in, -and she laughed. Then night came, with brilliant stars that she -knew of old, from her girlhood. And they flashed so bright, she -knew they were victors. - -She could neither wake nor sleep. As if crushed between the -past and the future, like a flower that comes above-ground to -find a great stone lying above it, she was helpless. - -The bewilderment and helplessness continued, she was -surrounded by great moving masses that must crush her. And there -was no escape. Save in the old obliviousness, the cold darkness -she strove to retain. But the vicar showed her eggs in the -thrush's nest near the back door. She saw herself the -mother-thrush upon the nest, and the way her wings were spread, -so eager down upon her secret. The tense, eager, nesting wings -moved her beyond endurance. She thought of them in the morning, -when she heard the thrush whistling as he got up, and she -thought, "Why didn't I die out there, why am I brought -here?" - -She was aware of people who passed around her, not as -persons, but as looming presences. It was very difficult for her -to adjust herself. In Poland, the peasantry, the people, had -been cattle to her, they had been her cattle that she owned and -used. What were these people? Now she was coming awake, she was -lost. - -But she had felt Brangwen go by almost as if he had brushed -her. She had tingled in body as she had gone on up the road. -After she had been with him in the Marsh kitchen, the voice of -her body had risen strong and insistent. Soon, she wanted him. -He was the man who had come nearest to her for her -awakening. - -Always, however, between-whiles she lapsed into the old -unconsciousness, indifference and there was a will in her to -save herself from living any more. But she would wake in the -morning one day and feel her blood running, feel herself lying -open like a flower unsheathed in the sun, insistent and potent -with demand. - -She got to know him better, and her instinct fixed on -him--just on him. Her impulse was strong against him, -because he was not of her own sort. But one blind instinct led -her, to take him, to leave him, and then to relinquish herself -to him. It would be safety. She felt the rooted safety of him, -and the life in him. Also he was young and very fresh. The blue, -steady livingness of his eyes she enjoyed like morning. He was -very young. - -Then she lapsed again to stupor and indifference. This, -however, was bound to pass. The warmth flowed through her, she -felt herself opening, unfolding, asking, as a flower opens in -full request under the sun, as the beaks of tiny birds open -flat, to receive, to receive. And unfolded she turned to him, -straight to him. And he came, slowly, afraid, held back by -uncouth fear, and driven by a desire bigger than himself. - -When she opened and turned to him, then all that had been and -all that was, was gone from her, she was as new as a flower that -unsheathes itself and stands always ready, waiting, receptive. -He could not understand this. He forced himself, through lack of -understanding, to the adherence to the line of honourable -courtship and sanctioned, licensed marriage. Therefore, after he -had gone to the vicarage and asked for her, she remained for -some days held in this one spell, open, receptive to him, before -him. He was roused to chaos. He spoke to the vicar and gave in -the banns. Then he stood to wait. - -She remained attentive and instinctively expectant before -him, unfolded, ready to receive him. He could not act, because -of self-fear and because of his conception of honour towards -her. So he remained in a state of chaos. - -And after a few days, gradually she closed again, away from -him, was sheathed over, impervious to him, oblivious. Then a -black, bottomless despair became real to him, he knew what he -had lost. He felt he had lost it for good, he knew what it was -to have been in communication with her, and to be cast off -again. In misery, his heart like a heavy stone, he went about -unliving. - -Till gradually he became desperate, lost his understanding, -was plunged in a revolt that knew no bounds. Inarticulate, he -moved with her at the Marsh in violent, gloomy, wordless -passion, almost in hatred of her. Till gradually she became -aware of him, aware of herself with regard to him, her blood -stirred to life, she began to open towards him, to flow towards -him again. He waited till the spell was between them again, till -they were together within one rushing, hastening flame. And then -again he was bewildered, he was tied up as with cords, and could -not move to her. So she came to him, and unfastened the breast -of his waistcoat and his shirt, and put her hand on him, needing -to know him. For it was cruel to her, to be opened and offered -to him, yet not to know what he was, not even that he was there. -She gave herself to the hour, but he could not, and he bungled -in taking her. - -So that he lived in suspense, as if only half his faculties -worked, until the wedding. She did not understand. But the -vagueness came over her again, and the days lapsed by. He could -not get definitely into touch with her. For the time being, she -let him go again. - -He suffered very much from the thought of actual marriage, -the intimacy and nakedness of marriage. He knew her so little. -They were so foreign to each other, they were such strangers. -And they could not talk to each other. When she talked, of -Poland or of what had been, it was all so foreign, she scarcely -communicated anything to him. And when he looked at her, an -over-much reverence and fear of the unknown changed the nature -of his desire into a sort of worship, holding her aloof from his -physical desire, self-thwarting. - -She did not know this, she did not understand. They had -looked at each other, and had accepted each other. It was so, -then there was nothing to balk at, it was complete between -them. - -At the wedding, his face was stiff and expressionless. He -wanted to drink, to get rid of his forethought and afterthought, -to set the moment free. But he could not. The suspense only -tightened at his heart. The jesting and joviality and jolly, -broad insinuation of the guests only coiled him more. He could -not hear. That which was impending obsessed him, he could not -get free. - -She sat quiet, with a strange, still smile. She was not -afraid. Having accepted him, she wanted to take him, she -belonged altogether to the hour, now. No future, no past, only -this, her hour. She did not even notice him, as she sat beside -him at the head of the table. He was very near, their coming -together was close at hand. What more! - -As the time came for all the guests to go, her dark face was -softly lighted, the bend of her head was proud, her grey eyes -clear and dilated, so that the men could not look at her, and -the women were elated by her, they served her. Very wonderful -she was, as she bade farewell, her ugly wide mouth smiling with -pride and recognition, her voice speaking softly and richly in -the foreign accent, her dilated eyes ignoring one and all the -departing guests. Her manner was gracious and fascinating, but -she ignored the being of him or her to whom she gave her -hand. - -And Brangwen stood beside her, giving his hearty handshake to -his friends, receiving their regard gratefully, glad of their -attention. His heart was tormented within him, he did not try to -smile. The time of his trial and his admittance, his Gethsemane -and his Triumphal Entry in one, had come now. - -Behind her, there was so much unknown to him. When he -approached her, he came to such a terrible painful unknown. How -could he embrace it and fathom it? How could he close his arms -round all this darkness and hold it to his breast and give -himself to it? What might not happen to him? If he stretched and -strained for ever he would never be able to grasp it all, and to -yield himself naked out of his own hands into the unknown power! -How could a man be strong enough to take her, put his arms round -her and have her, and be sure he could conquer this awful -unknown next his heart? What was it then that she was, to which -he must also deliver himself up, and which at the same time he -must embrace, contain? - -He was to be her husband. It was established so. And he -wanted it more than he wanted life, or anything. She stood -beside him in her silk dress, looking at him strangely, so that -a certain terror, horror took possession of him, because she was -strange and impending and he had no choice. He could not bear to -meet her look from under her strange, thick brows. - -"Is it late?" she said. - -He looked at his watch. - -"No--half-past eleven," he said. And he made an excuse -to go into the kitchen, leaving her standing in the room among -the disorder and the drinking-glasses. - -Tilly was seated beside the fire in the kitchen, her head in -her hands. She started up when he entered. - -"Why haven't you gone to bed?" he said. - -"I thought I'd better stop an' lock up an' do," she said. Her -agitation quietened him. He gave her some little order, then -returned, steadied now, almost ashamed, to his wife. She stood a -moment watching him, as he moved with averted face. Then she -said: - -"You will be good to me, won't you?" - -She was small and girlish and terrible, with a queer, wide -look in her eyes. His heart leaped in him, in anguish of love -and desire, he went blindly to her and took her in his arms. - -"I want to," he said as he drew her closer and closer in. She -was soothed by the stress of his embrace, and remained quite -still, relaxed against him, mingling in to him. And he let -himself go from past and future, was reduced to the moment with -her. In which he took her and was with her and there was nothing -beyond, they were together in an elemental embrace beyond their -superficial foreignness. But in the morning he was uneasy again. -She was still foreign and unknown to him. Only, within the fear -was pride, belief in himself as mate for her. And she, -everything forgotten in her new hour of coming to life, radiated -vigour and joy, so that he quivered to touch her. - -It made a great difference to him, marriage. Things became so -remote and of so little significance, as he knew the powerful -source of his life, his eyes opened on a new universe, and he -wondered in thinking of his triviality before. A new, calm -relationship showed to him in the things he saw, in the cattle -he used, the young wheat as it eddied in a wind. - -And each time he returned home, he went steadily, -expectantly, like a man who goes to a profound, unknown -satisfaction. At dinner-time, he appeared in the doorway, -hanging back a moment from entering, to see if she was there. He -saw her setting the plates on the white-scrubbed table. Her arms -were slim, she had a slim body and full skirts, she had a dark, -shapely head with close-banded hair. Somehow it was her head, so -shapely and poignant, that revealed her his woman to him. As she -moved about clothed closely, full-skirted and wearing her little -silk apron, her dark hair smoothly parted, her head revealed -itself to him in all its subtle, intrinsic beauty, and he knew -she was his woman, he knew her essence, that it was his to -possess. And he seemed to live thus in contact with her, in -contact with the unknown, the unaccountable and -incalculable. - -They did not take much notice of each other, consciously. - -"I'm betimes," he said. - -"Yes," she answered. - -He turned to the dogs, or to the child if she was there. The -little Anna played about the farm, flitting constantly in to -call something to her mother, to fling her arms round her -mother's skirts, to be noticed, perhaps caressed, then, -forgetting, to slip out again. - -Then Brangwen, talking to the child, or to the dog between -his knees, would be aware of his wife, as, in her tight, dark -bodice and her lace fichu, she was reaching up to the corner -cupboard. He realized with a sharp pang that she belonged to -him, and he to her. He realized that he lived by her. Did he own -her? Was she here for ever? Or might she go away? She was not -really his, it was not a real marriage, this marriage between -them. She might go away. He did not feel like a master, husband, -father of her children. She belonged elsewhere. Any moment, she -might be gone. And he was ever drawn to her, drawn after her, -with ever-raging, ever-unsatisfied desire. He must always turn -home, wherever his steps were taking him, always to her, and he -could never quite reach her, he could never quite be satisfied, -never be at peace, because she might go away. - -At evening, he was glad. Then, when he had finished in the -yard, and come in and washed himself, when the child was put to -bed, he could sit on the other side of the fire with his beer on -the hob and his long white pipe in his fingers, conscious of her -there opposite him, as she worked at her embroidery, or as she -talked to him, and he was safe with her now, till morning. She -was curiously self-sufficient and did not say very much. -Occasionally she lifted her head, her grey eyes shining with a -strange light, that had nothing to do with him or with this -place, and would tell him about herself. She seemed to be back -again in the past, chiefly in her childhood or her girlhood, -with her father. She very rarely talked of her first husband. -But sometimes, all shining-eyed, she was back at her own home, -telling him about the riotous times, the trip to Paris with her -father, tales of the mad acts of the peasants when a burst of -religious, self-hurting fervour had passed over the country. - -She would lift her head and say: - -"When they brought the railway across the country, they made -afterwards smaller railways, of shorter width, to come down to -our town-a hundred miles. When I was a girl, Gisla, my German -gouvernante, was very shocked and she would not tell me. But I -heard the servants talking. I remember, it was Pierre, the -coachman. And my father, and some of his friends, landowners, -they had taken a wagon, a whole railway wagon--that you -travel in----" - -"A railway-carriage," said Brangwen. - -She laughed to herself. - -"I know it was a great scandal: yes--a whole wagon, and -they had girls, you know, filles, naked, all the -wagon-full, and so they came down to our village. They came -through villages of the Jews, and it was a great scandal. Can -you imagine? All the countryside! And my mother, she did not -like it. Gisla said to me, 'Madame, she must not know that you -have heard such things.' - -"My mother, she used to cry, and she wished to beat my -father, plainly beat him. He would say, when she cried because -he sold the forest, the wood, to jingle money in his pocket, and -go to Warsaw or Paris or Kiev, when she said he must take back -his word, he must not sell the forest, he would stand and say, -'I know, I know, I have heard it all, I have heard it all -before. Tell me some new thing. I know, I know, I know.' Oh, but -can you understand, I loved him when he stood there under the -door, saying only, 'I know, I know, I know it all already.' She -could not change him, no, not if she killed herself for it. And -she could change everybody else, but him, she could not change -him----" - -Brangwen could not understand. He had pictures of a -cattle-truck full of naked girls riding from nowhere to nowhere, -of Lydia laughing because her father made great debts and said, -"I know, I know"; of Jews running down the street shouting in -Yiddish, "Don't do it, don't do it," and being cut down by -demented peasants--she called them "cattle"--whilst -she looked on interested and even amused; of tutors and -governesses and Paris and a convent. It was too much for him. -And there she sat, telling the tales to the open space, not to -him, arrogating a curious superiority to him, a distance between -them, something strange and foreign and outside his life, -talking, rattling, without rhyme or reason, laughing when he was -shocked or astounded, condemning nothing, confounding his mind -and making the whole world a chaos, without order or stability -of any kind. Then, when they went to bed, he knew that he had -nothing to do with her. She was back in her childhood, he was a -peasant, a serf, a servant, a lover, a paramour, a shadow, a -nothing. He lay still in amazement, staring at the room he knew -so well, and wondering whether it was really there, the window, -the chest of drawers, or whether it was merely a figment in the -atmosphere. And gradually he grew into a raging fury against -her. But because he was so much amazed, and there was as yet -such a distance between them, and she was such an amazing thing -to him, with all wonder opening out behind her, he made no -retaliation on her. Only he lay still and wide-eyed with rage, -inarticulate, not understanding, but solid with hostility. - -And he remained wrathful and distinct from her, unchanged -outwardly to her, but underneath a solid power of antagonism to -her. Of which she became gradually aware. And it irritated her -to be made aware of him as a separate power. She lapsed into a -sort of sombre exclusion, a curious communion with mysterious -powers, a sort of mystic, dark state which drove him and the -child nearly mad. He walked about for days stiffened with -resistance to her, stiff with a will to destroy her as she was. -Then suddenly, out of nowhere, there was connection between them -again. It came on him as he was working in the fields. The -tension, the bond, burst, and the passionate flood broke forward -into a tremendous, magnificent rush, so that he felt he could -snap off the trees as he passed, and create the world -afresh. - -And when he arrived home, there was no sign between them. He -waited and waited till she came. And as he waited, his limbs -seemed strong and splendid to him, his hands seemed like -passionate servants to him, goodly, he felt a stupendous power -in himself, of life, and of urgent, strong blood. - -She was sure to come at last, and touch him. Then he burst -into flame for her, and lost himself. They looked at each other, -a deep laugh at the bottom of their eyes, and he went to take of -her again, wholesale, mad to revel in the inexhaustible wealth -of her, to bury himself in the depths of her in an inexhaustible -exploration, she all the while revelling in that he revelled in -her, tossed all her secrets aside and plunged to that which was -secret to her as well, whilst she quivered with fear and the -last anguish of delight. - -What did it matter who they were, whether they knew each -other or not? - -The hour passed away again, there was severance between them, -and rage and misery and bereavement for her, and deposition and -toiling at the mill with slaves for him. But no matter. They had -had their hour, and should it chime again, they were ready for -it, ready to renew the game at the point where it was left off, -on the edge of the outer darkness, when the secrets within the -woman are game for the man, hunted doggedly, when the secrets of -the woman are the man's adventure, and they both give themselves -to the adventure. - -She was with child, and there was again the silence and -distance between them. She did not want him nor his secrets nor -his game, he was deposed, he was cast out. He seethed with fury -at the small, ugly-mouthed woman who had nothing to do with him. -Sometimes his anger broke on her, but she did not cry. She -turned on him like a tiger, and there was battle. - -He had to learn to contain himself again, and he hated it. He -hated her that she was not there for him. And he took himself -off, anywhere. - -But an instinct of gratitude and a knowledge that she would -receive him back again, that later on she would be there for him -again, prevented his straying very far. He cautiously did not go -too far. He knew she might lapse into ignorance of him, lapse -away from him, farther, farther, farther, till she was lost to -him. He had sense enough, premonition enough in himself, to be -aware of this and to measure himself accordingly. For he did not -want to lose her: he did not want her to lapse away. - -Cold, he called her, selfish, only caring about herself, a -foreigner with a bad nature, caring really about nothing, having -no proper feelings at the bottom of her, and no proper niceness. -He raged, and piled up accusations that had some measure of -truth in them all. But a certain grace in him forbade him from -going too far. He knew, and he quivered with rage and hatred, -that she was all these vile things, that she was everything vile -and detestable. But he had grace at the bottom of him, which -told him that, above all things, he did not want to lose her, he -was not going to lose her. - -So he kept some consideration for her, he preserved some -relationship. He went out more often, to the "Red Lion" again, -to escape the madness of sitting next to her when she did not -belong to him, when she was as absent as any woman in -indifference could be. He could not stay at home. So he went to -the "Red Lion". And sometimes he got drunk. But he preserved his -measure, some things between them he never forfeited. - -A tormented look came into his eyes, as if something were -always dogging him. He glanced sharp and quick, he could not -bear to sit still doing nothing. He had to go out, to find -company, to give himself away there. For he had no other outlet, -he could not work to give himself out, he had not the -knowledge. - -As the months of her pregnancy went on, she left him more and -more alone, she was more and more unaware of him, his existence -was annulled. And he felt bound down, bound, unable to stir, -beginning to go mad, ready to rave. For she was quiet and -polite, as if he did not exist, as one is quiet and polite to a -servant. - -Nevertheless she was great with his child, it was his turn to -submit. She sat opposite him, sewing, her foreign face -inscrutable and indifferent. He felt he wanted to break her into -acknowledgment of him, into awareness of him. It was -insufferable that she had so obliterated him. He would smash her -into regarding him. He had a raging agony of desire to do -so. - -But something bigger in him withheld him, kept him -motionless. So he went out of the house for relief. Or he turned -to the little girl for her sympathy and her love, he appealed -with all his power to the small Anna. So soon they were like -lovers, father and child. - -For he was afraid of his wife. As she sat there with bent -head, silent, working or reading, but so unutterably silent that -his heart seemed under the millstone of it, she became herself -like the upper millstone lying on him, crushing him, as -sometimes a heavy sky lies on the earth. - -Yet he knew he could not tear her away from the heavy -obscurity into which she was merged. He must not try to tear her -into recognition of himself, and agreement with himself. It were -disastrous, impious. So, let him rage as he might, he must -withhold himself. But his wrists trembled and seemed mad, seemed -as if they would burst. - -When, in November, the leaves came beating against the window -shutters, with a lashing sound, he started, and his eyes -flickered with flame. The dog looked up at him, he sunk his head -to the fire. But his wife was startled. He was aware of her -listening. - -"They blow up with a rattle," he said. - -"What?" she asked. - -"The leaves." - -She sank away again. The strange leaves beating in the wind -on the wood had come nearer than she. The tension in the room -was overpowering, it was difficult for him to move his head. He -sat with every nerve, every vein, every fibre of muscle in his -body stretched on a tension. He felt like a broken arch thrust -sickeningly out from support. For her response was gone, he -thrust at nothing. And he remained himself, he saved himself -from crashing down into nothingness, from being squandered into -fragments, by sheer tension, sheer backward resistance. - -During the last months of her pregnancy, he went about in a -surcharged, imminent state that did not exhaust itself. She was -also depressed, and sometimes she cried. It needed so much life -to begin afresh, after she had lost so lavishly. Sometimes she -cried. Then he stood stiff, feeling his heart would burst. For -she did not want him, she did not want even to be made aware of -him. By the very puckering of her face he knew that he must -stand back, leave her intact, alone. For it was the old grief -come back in her, the old loss, the pain of the old life, the -dead husband, the dead children. This was sacred to her, and he -must not violate her with his comfort. For what she wanted she -would come to him. He stood aloof with turgid heart. - -He had to see her tears come, fall over her scarcely moving -face, that only puckered sometimes, down on to her breast, that -was so still, scarcely moving. And there was no noise, save now -and again, when, with a strange, somnambulant movement, she took -her handkerchief and wiped her face and blew her nose, and went -on with the noiseless weeping. He knew that any offer of comfort -from himself would be worse than useless, hateful to her, -jangling her. She must cry. But it drove him insane. His heart -was scalded, his brain hurt in his head, he went away, out of -the house. - -His great and chiefest source of solace was the child. She -had been at first aloof from him, reserved. However friendly she -might seem one day, the next she would have lapsed to her -original disregard of him, cold, detached, at her distance. - -The first morning after his marriage he had discovered it -would not be so easy with the child. At the break of dawn he had -started awake hearing a small voice outside the door saying -plaintively: - -"Mother!" - -He rose and opened the door. She stood on the threshold in -her night-dress, as she had climbed out of bed, black eyes -staring round and hostile, her fair hair sticking out in a wild -fleece. The man and child confronted each other. - -"I want my mother," she said, jealously accenting the -"my". - -"Come on then," he said gently. - -"Where's my mother?" - -"She's here--come on." - -The child's eyes, staring at the man with ruffled hair and -beard, did not change. The mother's voice called softly. The -little bare feet entered the room with trepidation. - -"Mother!" - -"Come, my dear." - -The small bare feet approached swiftly. - -"I wondered where you were," came the plaintive voice. The -mother stretched out her arms. The child stood beside the high -bed. Brangwen lightly lifted the tiny girl, with an -"up-a-daisy", then took his own place in the bed again. - -"Mother!" cried the child, as in anguish. - -"What, my pet?" - -Anna wriggled close into her mother's arms, clinging tight, -hiding from the fact of the man. Brangwen lay still, and waited. -There was a long silence. - -Then suddenly, Anna looked round, as if she thought he would -be gone. She saw the face of the man lying upturned to the -ceiling. Her black eyes stared antagonistic from her exquisite -face, her arms clung tightly to her mother, afraid. He did not -move for some time, not knowing what to say. His face was smooth -and soft-skinned with love, his eyes full of soft light. He -looked at her, scarcely moving his head, his eyes smiling. - -"Have you just wakened up?" he said. - -"Go away," she retorted, with a little darting forward of the -head, something like a viper. - -"Nay," he answered, "I'm not going. You can go." - -"Go away," came the sharp little command. - -"There's room for you," he said. - -"You can't send your father from his own bed, my little -bird," said her mother, pleasantly. - -The child glowered at him, miserable in her impotence. - -"There's room for you as well," he said. "It's a big bed -enough." - -She glowered without answering, then turned and clung to her -mother. She would not allow it. - -During the day she asked her mother several times: - -"When are we going home, mother?" - -"We are at home, darling, we live here now. This is our -house, we live here with your father." - -The child was forced to accept it. But she remained against -the man. As night came on, she asked: - -"Where are you going to sleep, mother?" - -"I sleep with the father now." - -And when Brangwen came in, the child asked fiercely: - -"Why do you sleep with my mother? My mother -sleeps with me," her voice quivering. - -"You come as well, an' sleep with both of us," he coaxed. - -"Mother!" she cried, turning, appealing against him. - -"But I must have a husband, darling. All women must have a -husband." - -"And you like to have a father with your mother, don't you?" -said Brangwen. - -Anna glowered at him. She seemed to cogitate. - -"No," she cried fiercely at length, "no, I don't -want." And slowly her face puckered, she sobbed bitterly. -He stood and watched her, sorry. But there could be no altering -it. - -Which, when she knew, she became quiet. He was easy with her, -talking to her, taking her to see the live creatures, bringing -her the first chickens in his cap, taking her to gather the -eggs, letting her throw crusts to the horse. She would easily -accompany him, and take all he had to give, but she remained -neutral still. - -She was curiously, incomprehensibly jealous of her mother, -always anxiously concerned about her. If Brangwen drove with his -wife to Nottingham, Anna ran about happily enough, or -unconcerned, for a long time. Then, as afternoon came on, there -was only one cry--"I want my mother, I want my -mother----" and a bitter, pathetic sobbing that soon -had the soft-hearted Tilly sobbing too. The child's anguish was -that her mother was gone, gone. - -Yet as a rule, Anna seemed cold, resenting her mother, -critical of her. It was: - -"I don't like you to do that, mother," or, "I don't like you -to say that." She was a sore problem to Brangwen and to all the -people at the Marsh. As a rule, however, she was active, lightly -flitting about the farmyard, only appearing now and again to -assure herself of her mother. Happy she never seemed, but quick, -sharp, absorbed, full of imagination and changeability. Tilly -said she was bewitched. But it did not matter so long as she did -not cry. There was something heart-rending about Anna's crying, -her childish anguish seemed so utter and so timeless, as if it -were a thing of all the ages. - -She made playmates of the creatures of the farmyard, talking -to them, telling them the stories she had from her mother, -counselling them and correcting them. Brangwen found her at the -gate leading to the paddock and to the duckpond. She was peering -through the bars and shouting to the stately white geese, that -stood in a curving line: - -"You're not to call at people when they want to come. You -must not do it." - -The heavy, balanced birds looked at the fierce little face -and the fleece of keen hair thrust between the bars, and they -raised their heads and swayed off, producing the long, -can-canking, protesting noise of geese, rocking their ship-like, -beautiful white bodies in a line beyond the gate. - -"You're naughty, you're naughty," cried Anna, tears of dismay -and vexation in her eyes. And she stamped her slipper. - -"Why, what are they doing?" said Brangwen. - -"They won't let me come in," she said, turning her flushed -little face to him. - -"Yi, they will. You can go in if you want to," and he pushed -open the gate for her. - -She stood irresolute, looking at the group of bluey-white -geese standing monumental under the grey, cold day. - -"Go on," he said. - -She marched valiantly a few steps in. Her little body started -convulsively at the sudden, derisive can-cank-ank of the geese. -A blankness spread over her. The geese trailed away with -uplifted heads under the low grey sky. - -"They don't know you," said Brangwen. "You should tell 'em -what your name is." - -"They're naughty to shout at me," she flashed. - -"They think you don't live here," he said. - -Later he found her at the gate calling shrilly and -imperiously: - -"My name is Anna, Anna Lensky, and I live here, because Mr. -Brangwen's my father now. He is, yes he is. And I -live here." - -This pleased Brangwen very much. And gradually, without -knowing it herself, she clung to him, in her lost, childish, -desolate moments, when it was good to creep up to something big -and warm, and bury her little self in his big, unlimited being. -Instinctively he was careful of her, careful to recognize her -and to give himself to her disposal. - -She was difficult of her affections. For Tilly, she had a -childish, essential contempt, almost dislike, because the poor -woman was such a servant. The child would not let the -serving-woman attend to her, do intimate things for her, not for -a long time. She treated her as one of an inferior race. -Brangwen did not like it. - -"Why aren't you fond of Tilly?" he asked. - -"Because--because--because she looks at me with her -eyes bent." - -Then gradually she accepted Tilly as belonging to the -household, never as a person. - -For the first weeks, the black eyes of the child were for -ever on the watch. Brangwen, good-humoured but impatient, -spoiled by Tilly, was an easy blusterer. If for a few minutes he -upset the household with his noisy impatience, he found at the -end the child glowering at him with intense black eyes, and she -was sure to dart forward her little head, like a serpent, with -her biting: - -"Go away." - -"I'm not going away," he shouted, irritated at last. -"Go yourself--hustle--stir thysen--hop." And he -pointed to the door. The child backed away from him, pale with -fear. Then she gathered up courage, seeing him become -patient. - -"We don't live with you," she said, thrusting forward -her little head at him. "You--you're--you're a -bomakle." - -"A what?" he shouted. - -Her voice wavered--but it came. - -"A bomakle." - -"Ay, an' you're a comakle." - -She meditated. Then she hissed forwards her head. - -"I'm not." - -"Not what?" - -"A comakle." - -"No more am I a bomakle." - -He was really cross. - -Other times she would say: - -"My mother doesn't live here." - -"Oh, ay?" - -"I want her to go away." - -"Then want's your portion," he replied laconically. - -So they drew nearer together. He would take her with him when -he went out in the trap. The horse ready at the gate, he came -noisily into the house, which seemed quiet and peaceful till he -appeared to set everything awake. - -"Now then, Topsy, pop into thy bonnet." - -The child drew herself up, resenting the indignity of the -address. - -"I can't fasten my bonnet myself," she said haughtily. - -"Not man enough yet," he said, tying the ribbons under her -chin with clumsy fingers. - -She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved -as he fumbled under her chin. - -"You talk--nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his -phrases. - -"That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking -out a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, -began wiping round her mouth. - -"Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked. - -"Ay," he said. "Let's finish wiping your face--it'll -pass wi' a cat-lick." - -She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began -to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her. - -"Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. "Slippy!" - -She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set off. -She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly, -feeling his big body sway, against her, very splendid. She loved -the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed upon her, -against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill laugh, and -her black eyes glowed. - -She was curiously hard, and then passionately tenderhearted. -Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe in the -bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing thoughtfully -and diligently. Another day, her mother was unhappy. Anna would -stand with her legs apart, glowering, balancing on the sides of -her slippers. She laughed when the goslings wriggled in Tilly's -hand, as the pellets of food were rammed down their throats with -a skewer, she laughed nervously. She was hard and imperious with -the animals, squandering no love, running about amongst them -like a cruel mistress. - -Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite -dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she -loved her. - -But always in the child was some anxious connection with the -mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the little girl -played about and took very little notice of her. But -corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the mother, the -later months of her pregnancy beginning, was strange and -detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows, the old, unhealthy -uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility came on the child -again. If she went to the fields with her father, then, instead -of playing about carelessly, it was: - -"I want to go home." - -"Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come." - -"I want to go home." - -"What for? What ails thee?" - -"I want my mother." - -"Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee." - -"I want to go home." - -There would be tears in a moment. - -"Can ter find t'road, then?" - -And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the -hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and was -gone through the gateway. Then he saw her two fields off, still -pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was clouded as he -turned to plough up the stubble. - -The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and -twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves of -birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared, black -and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he pulled the -turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud. Then the turnips -were pitted and work was slack. - -Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted -uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled -cry: - -"Mother!" - -Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. -Brangwen went on working out of doors. - -At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run -behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors shut and -the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern, above -the branching horns of the cows, she would stand watching his -hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast, -watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk, watch his hand -sometimes rubbing slowly, understandingly, upon a hanging udder. -So they kept each other company, but at a distance, rarely -speaking. - -The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fretful, -sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither and -thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at his work, -heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth. - -The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before -tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into the -room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went early to -bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the -emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, scarcely conscious -even of his own misery. And very often he went out to escape -it. - -Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January -recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of blue -flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal, -when every sound rang again, and the birds were many and sudden -and brusque in the hedges. Then an elation came over him in -spite of everything, whether his wife were strange or sad, or -whether he craved for her to be with him, it did not matter, the -air rang with clear noises, the sky was like crystal, like a -bell, and the earth was hard. Then he worked and was happy, his -eyes shining, his cheeks flushed. And the zest of life was -strong in him. - -The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh and -ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a -man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated off into the -clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it all. And if -his wife were heavy, separated from him, extinguished, then, let -her be, let him remain himself. Things would be as they would -be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the -distance, he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue -sky. - -So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving into -Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping, -he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked her up. Then -he was glad to have her near him, his eyes shone, his voice, -laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made the poise of her head -more beautiful, her blood ran quicker. They were both -stimulated, the morning was fine. - -What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care -and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom. His -wife, her suffering, her coming pain--well, it must be so. -She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it -would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist -on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to town, -with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth. Well he was -happy, if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the -other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him. And -Woman was immortal, whatever happened, whoever turned towards -death. Let the misery come when it could not be resisted. - -The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush -hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and -lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky, and -in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant. It -was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon, on a -road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and -lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across the light. -But what was the end of the journey? The pain came right enough, -later on, when his heart and his feet were heavy, his brain -dead, his life stopped. - -One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, -the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed, Brangwen -came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot, the child, -silent and quivering, playing with glass beads, the house, -empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night, as if it had -no walls. - -Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house, -vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman in -labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His lower, -deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But the big -shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly -round the farmstead when he was a boy. He was back in his youth, -a boy, haunted by the sound of the owls, waking up his brother -to speak to him. And his mind drifted away to the birds, their -solemn, dignified faces, their flight so soft and broad-winged. -And then to the birds his brother had shot, fluffy, -dust-coloured, dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly -asleep. It was a queer thing, a dead owl. - -He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the -beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the atmosphere -of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Elsewhere, -fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child was being -brought forth out of their one flesh. He and she, one flesh, out -of which life must be put forth. The rent was not in his body, -but it was of his body. On her the blows fell, but the quiver -ran through to him, to his last fibre. She must be torn asunder -for life to come forth, yet still they were one flesh, and -still, from further back, the life came out of him to her, and -still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms, -their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed, out of her -who was smitten and rent, from him who quivered and yielded. - -He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke -to him in Polish. - -"Is it very bad?" he asked. - -She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the -effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing -him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there -fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of -him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her -eyes. - -He turned away, white to the gills. - -"It's not so very bad," said the midwife. - -He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs. - -The child glanced up at him, frightened. - -"I want my mother," she quavered. - -"Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding. - -She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes. - -"Has she got a headache?" - -"No--she's going to have a baby." - -The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone -again in terror. - -"I want my mother," came the cry of panic. - -"Let Tilly undress you," he said. "You're tired." - -There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour. - -"I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing, -panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of -desolation. - -Tilly came forward, her heart wrung. - -"Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she crooned. -"You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret, my -duckie; never mind, angel." - -But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall. - -"I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering, and -the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling. - -"She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll be -better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she doesn't -want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't." - -Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched -back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria: - -"No, you're not to undress me--I want my -mother,"--and her child's face was running with grief and -tears, her body shaken. - -"Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you, who -loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly, she -doesn't want you to cry." - -The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear. - -"I want--my--mother," she wept. - -"When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your -mother--when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly -undress you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. -Oh, don't you cry, don't you--" - -Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going -tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening -sobbing. - -"Don't make a noise," he said. - -And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice. -She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her -tears, in terror, alert to what might happen. - -"I want--my--mother," quavered the sobbing, blind -voice. - -A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was the -utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of the voice -and the crying. - -"You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet voice -that was thin with anger. - -And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her body -catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and intent, -irritated into mechanical action. He began to unfasten her -little apron. She would have shrunk from him, but could not. So -her small body remained in his grasp, while he fumbled at the -little buttons and tapes, unthinking, intent, unaware of -anything but the irritation of her. Her body was held taut and -resistant, he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, -revealing the white arms. She kept stiff, overpowered, violated, -he went on with his task. And all the while she sobbed, -choking: - -"I want my mother." - -He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was now -incapable of understanding, she had become a little, mechanical -thing of fixed will. She wept, her body convulsed, her voice -repeating the same cry. - -"Eh, dear o' me!" cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself. -Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little -garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the -sofa. - -"Where's her nightie?" he asked. - -Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move her -limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place. She stood, -with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, convulsed, -unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the same phrase. -He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off slippers and -socks. She was ready. - -"Do you want a drink?" he asked. - -She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on the -sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half lifted, her -face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the sobbing and -choking came the broken: - -"I--want--my--mother." - -"Do you want a drink?" he said again. - -There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body -between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage go -through him. He would like to break it. - -He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair -beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going on -near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or -anything, not aware. - -A new degree of anger came over him. What did it all matter? -What did it matter if the mother talked Polish and cried in -labour, if this child were stiff with resistance, and crying? -Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry in labour, let the -child cry in resistance, since they would do so. Why should he -fight against it, why resist? Let it be, if it were so. Let them -be as they were, if they insisted. - -And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried on, -the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him. - -It was some little time before he came to, and turned to -attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded -face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a living -statue of grief, her blind face cried on. - -"Nay," he said, "not as bad as that. It's not as bad as that, -Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so much? Come, -stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you dry, don't wet your -face any more. Don't cry any more wet tears, don't, it's better -not to. Don't cry--it's not so bad as all that. Hush now, -hush--let it be enough." - -His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at the -child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to stop, he -wanted it all to stop, to become natural. - -"Come," he said, rising to turn away, "we'll go an' supper-up -the beast." - -He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the -kitchen for a lantern. - -"You're never taking the child out, of a night like this," -said Tilly. - -"Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered. - -It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, -finding the rain on its face, the darkness. - -"We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they -go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and -sure. - -There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of -rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the -lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a -wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness: one breathed -darkness. - -He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into -the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm. -He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in -another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, -on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments -cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a -loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the -softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn. - -Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food -for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains -and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A -new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, -a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook -her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She -was silent, quite still. - -In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the -surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of -food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the -other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains -and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage -behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of -the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the -pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this -cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as -the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a -contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in -silence. - -The journey had to be performed several times. There was the -rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned -walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child -peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped, -she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and -warm, making all easier. - -The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to -arrange the child. - -"Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her -breath as she spoke. - -"Yes." - -"Will they eat all their stuff up first?" - -"Yes. Hark at them." - -And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing -of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn. -The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside -was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the -paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to -church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and -security, a boy at home. - -The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance, seemed -to become more and more vague. He held the child close to him. A -quivering little shudder, re-echoing from her sobbing, went down -her limbs. He held her closer. Gradually she relaxed, the -eyelids began to sink over her dark, watchful eyes. As she sank -to sleep, his mind became blank. - -When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting in -a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He seemed to be -listening for some sound a long way off, from beyond life. He -remembered his wife. He must go back to her. The child was -asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, showing a slight film of -black pupil between. Why did she not shut her eyes? Her mouth -was also a little open. - -He rose quickly and went back to the house. - -"Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly. - -He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child who -slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a -whiteness, a wanness round the eyes. - -"God-a-mercy!" whispered Tilly, shaking her head. - -He pushed off his boots and went upstairs with the child. He -became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart, because -of his wife. But he remained still. The house was silent save -for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and splattering of -water in the water-butts. There was a slit of light under his -wife's door. - -He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl, -for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she might -not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The black eyes -opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again. He covered her -up. The last little quiver from the sobbing shook her -breathing. - -This was his room, the room he had had before he married. It -was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young man, -untouched. - -He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her small -fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her child was -asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He started. There -was the sound of the owls--the moaning of the woman. What -an uncanny sound! It was not human--at least to a man. - -He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying -still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing she -was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He saw the way -her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth was shut with -suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful to him--but -it was not human. He had a dread of her as she lay there. What -had she to do with him? She was other than himself. - -Something made him go and touch her fingers that were still -grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and looked at -him. She did not know him as himself. But she knew him as the -man. She looked at him as a woman in childbirth looks at the man -who begot the child in her: an impersonal look, in the extreme -hour, female to male. Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding -peace went over him, burning his heart and his entrails, passing -off into the infinite. - -When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside, -and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace, his -bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door, outside, -lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness striking -unseen and steadily upon him. - -The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced -him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly. There -was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as the -world of life. - - - -CHAPTER III - -CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY - -Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as he loved his -stepchild Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he had a thrill -of pleasure. He liked the confirmation of fatherhood. It gave -him satisfaction to know he had a son. But he felt not very much -outgoing to the baby itself. He was its father, that was -enough. - -He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She was -serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted. In -the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with her -former self. She became now really English, really Mrs. -Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered. - -She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She was -still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame was not -robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but -like some flower opened in the shade, that could not bear the -full light. She loved the baby. But even this, with a sort of -dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowiness even in her -mother-love. When Brangwen saw her nursing his child, happy, -absorbed in it, a pain went over him like a thin flame. For he -perceived how he must subdue himself in his approach to her. And -he wanted again the robust, moral exchange of love and passion -such as he had had at first with her, at one time and another, -when they were matched at their highest intensity. This was the -one experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with -remorseless craving. - -She came to him again, with the same lifting of her mouth as -had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first. She -came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight and -readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before. - -Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know -perfection, it established in him a constant eternal -knowledge. - -But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She was -finished, she could take no more. And he was not exhausted, he -wanted to go on. But it could not be. - -So he had to begin the bitter lesson, to abate himself, to -take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all other -women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him. And he wanted -it to go on. And it could not. However he raged, and, filled -with suppression that became hot and bitter, hated her in his -soul that she did not want him, however he had mad outbursts, -and drank and made ugly scenes, still he knew, he was only -kicking against the pricks. It was not, he had to learn, that -she would not want him enough, as much as he demanded that she -should want him. It was that she could not. She could only want -him in her own way, and to her own measure. And she had spent -much life before he found her as she was, the woman who could -take him and give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given -him fulfilment. She still could do so, in her own times and -ways. But he must control himself, measure himself to her. - -He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his -essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other things -than her, other centres of living. She sat close and impregnable -with the child. And he was jealous of the child. - -But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course -to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and -flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in her -child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was diverted -to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife. Also he -sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and again. - -The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother after -the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy, delighted -and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled, then gradually -she became indignant, and at last her little life settled on its -own swivel, she was no more strained and distorted to support -her mother. She became more childish, not so abnormal, not -charged with cares she could not understand. The charge of the -mother, the satisfying of the mother, had devolved elsewhere -than on her. Gradually the child was freed. She became an -independent, forgetful little soul, loving from her own -centre. - -Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most -obviously. For these two made a little life together, they had a -joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to -count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the -little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at -the bottom of his brain. - -At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she -laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she -thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was -the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a -frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years -with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from -her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul. - -She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a -complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in -it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant -with laughter. The baby was dark-skinned and dark-haired, like -the mother, and had hazel eyes. Brangwen called him the -blackbird. - -"Hallo," Brangwen would cry, starting as he heard the wail of -the child announcing it wanted to be taken out of the cradle, -"there's the blackbird tuning up." - -"The blackbird's singing," Anna would shout with delight, -"the blackbird's singing." - -"When the pie was opened," Brangwen shouted in his bawling -bass voice, going over to the cradle, "the bird began to -sing." - -"Wasn't it a dainty dish to set before a king?" cried Anna, -her eyes flashing with joy as she uttered the cryptic words, -looking at Brangwen for confirmation. He sat down with the baby, -saying loudly: - -"Sing up, my lad, sing up." - -And the baby cried loudly, and Anna shouted lustily, dancing -in wild bliss: - - "Sing a song of sixpence - Pocketful of posies, - Ascha! Ascha!----" - -Then she stopped suddenly in silence and looked at Brangwen -again, her eyes flashing, as she shouted loudly and -delightedly: - -"I've got it wrong, I've got it wrong." - -"Oh, my sirs," said Tilly entering, "what a racket!" - -Brangwen hushed the child and Anna flipped and danced on. She -loved her wild bursts of rowdiness with her father. Tilly hated -it, Mrs. Brangwen did not mind. - -Anna did not care much for other children. She domineered -them, she treated them as if they were extremely young and -incapable, to her they were little people, they were not her -equals. So she was mostly alone, flying round the farm, -entertaining the farm-hands and Tilly and the servant-girl, -whirring on and never ceasing. - -She loved driving with Brangwen in the trap. Then, sitting -high up and bowling along, her passion for eminence and -dominance was satisfied. She was like a little savage in her -arrogance. She thought her father important, she was installed -beside him on high. And they spanked along, beside the high, -flourishing hedge-tops, surveying the activity of the -countryside. When people shouted a greeting to him from the road -below, and Brangwen shouted jovially back, her little voice was -soon heard shrilling along with his, followed by her chuckling -laugh, when she looked up at her father with bright eyes, and -they laughed at each other. And soon it was the custom for the -passerby to sing out: "How are ter, Tom? Well, my lady!" or -else, "Mornin', Tom, mornin', my Lass!" or else, "You're off -together then?" or else, "You're lookin' rarely, you two." - -Anna would respond, with her father: "How are you, John! -Good mornin', William! Ay, makin' for Derby," shrilling -as loudly as she could. Though often, in response to "You're off -out a bit then," she would reply, "Yes, we are," to the great -joy of all. She did not like the people who saluted him and did -not salute her. - -She went into the public-house with him, if he had to call, -and often sat beside him in the bar-parlour as he drank his beer -or brandy. The landladies paid court to her, in the obsequious -way landladies have. - -"Well, little lady, an' what's your name?" - -"Anna Brangwen," came the immediate, haughty answer. - -"Indeed it is! An' do you like driving in a trap with your -father?" - -"Yes," said Anna, shy, but bored by these inanities. She had -a touch-me-not way of blighting the inane inquiries of grown-up -people. - -"My word, she's a fawce little thing," the landlady would say -to Brangwen. - -"Ay," he answered, not encouraging comments on the child. -Then there followed the present of a biscuit, or of cake, which -Anna accepted as her dues. - -"What does she say, that I'm a fawce little thing?" the small -girl asked afterwards. - -"She means you're a sharp-shins." - -Anna hesitated. She did not understand. Then she laughed at -some absurdity she found. - -Soon he took her every week to market with him. "I can come, -can't I?" she asked every Saturday, or Thursday morning, when he -made himself look fine in his dress of a gentleman farmer. And -his face clouded at having to refuse her. - -So at last, he overcame his own shyness, and tucked her -beside him. They drove into Nottingham and put up at the "Black -Swan". So far all right. Then he wanted to leave her at the inn. -But he saw her face, and knew it was impossible. So he mustered -his courage, and set off with her, holding her hand, to the -cattle-market. - -She stared in bewilderment, flitting silent at his side. But -in the cattle-market she shrank from the press of men, all men, -all in heavy, filthy boots, and leathern leggins. And the road -underfoot was all nasty with cow-muck. And it frightened her to -see the cattle in the square pens, so many horns, and so little -enclosure, and such a madness of men and a yelling of drovers. -Also she felt her father was embarrassed by her, and -ill-at-ease. - -He brought her a cake at the refreshment-booth, and set her -on a seat. A man hailed him. - -"Good morning, Tom. That thine, then?"--and the -bearded farmer jerked his head at Anna. - -"Ay," said Brangwen, deprecating. - -"I did-na know tha'd one that old." - -"No, it's my missis's." - -"Oh, that's it!" And the man looked at Anna as if she were -some odd little cattle. She glowered with black eyes. - -Brangwen left her there, in charge of the barman, whilst he -went to see about the selling of some young stirks. Farmers, -butchers, drovers, dirty, uncouth men from whom she shrank -instinctively stared down at her as she sat on her seat, then -went to get their drink, talking in unabated tones. All was big -and violent about her. - -"Whose child met that be?" they asked of the barman. - -"It belongs to Tom Brangwen." - -The child sat on in neglect, watching the door for her -father. He never came; many, many men came, but not he, and she -sat like a shadow. She knew one did not cry in such a place. And -every man looked at her inquisitively, she shut herself away -from them. - -A deep, gathering coldness of isolation took hold on her. He -was never coming back. She sat on, frozen, unmoving. - -When she had become blank and timeless he came, and she -slipped off her seat to him, like one come back from the dead. -He had sold his beast as quickly as he could. But all the -business was not finished. He took her again through the -hurtling welter of the cattle-market. - -Then at last they turned and went out through the gate. He -was always hailing one man or another, always stopping to gossip -about land and cattle and horses and other things she did not -understand, standing in the filth and the smell, among the legs -and great boots of men. And always she heard the questions: - -"What lass is that, then? I didn't know tha'd one o' that -age." - -"It belongs to my missis." - -Anna was very conscious of her derivation from her mother, in -the end, and of her alienation. - -But at last they were away, and Brangwen went with her into a -little dark, ancient eating-house in the Bridlesmith-Gate. They -had cow's-tail soup, and meat and cabbage and potatoes. Other -men, other people, came into the dark, vaulted place, to eat. -Anna was wide-eyed and silent with wonder. - -Then they went into the big market, into the corn exchange, -then to shops. He bought her a little book off a stall. He loved -buying things, odd things that he thought would be useful. Then -they went to the "Black Swan", and she drank milk and he brandy, -and they harnessed the horse and drove off, up the Derby -Road. - -She was tired out with wonder and marvelling. But the next -day, when she thought of it, she skipped, flipping her leg in -the odd dance she did, and talked the whole time of what had -happened to her, of what she had seen. It lasted her all the -week. And the next Saturday she was eager to go again. - -She became a familiar figure in the cattle-market, sitting -waiting in the little booth. But she liked best to go to Derby. -There her father had more friends. And she liked the familiarity -of the smaller town, the nearness of the river, the strangeness -that did not frighten her, it was so much smaller. She liked the -covered-in market, and the old women. She liked the "George -Inn", where her father put up. The landlord was Brangwen's old -friend, and Anna was made much of. She sat many a day in the -cosy parlour talking to Mr. Wigginton, a fat man with red hair, -the landlord. And when the farmers all gathered at twelve -o'clock for dinner, she was a little heroine. - -At first she would only glower or hiss at these strange men -with their uncouth accent. But they were good-humoured. She was -a little oddity, with her fierce, fair hair like spun glass -sticking out in a flamy halo round the apple-blossom face and -the black eyes, and the men liked an oddity. She kindled their -attention. - -She was very angry because Marriott, a gentleman-farmer from -Ambergate, called her the little pole-cat. - -"Why, you're a pole-cat," he said to her. - -"I'm not," she flashed. - -"You are. That's just how a pole-cat goes." - -She thought about it. - -"Well, you're--you're----" she began. - -"I'm what?" - -She looked him up and down. - -"You're a bow-leg man." - -Which he was. There was a roar of laughter. They loved her -that she was indomitable. - -"Ah," said Marriott. "Only a pole-cat says that." - -"Well, I am a pole-cat," she flamed. - -There was another roar of laughter from the men. - -They loved to tease her. - -"Well, me little maid," Braithwaite would say to her, "an' -how's th' lamb's wool?" - -He gave a tug at a glistening, pale piece of her hair. - -"It's not lamb's wool," said Anna, indignantly putting back -her offended lock. - -"Why, what'st ca' it then?" - -"It's hair." - -"Hair! Wheriver dun they rear that sort?" - -"Wheriver dun they?" she asked, in dialect, her curiosity -overcoming her. - -Instead of answering he shouted with joy. It was the triumph, -to make her speak dialect. - -She had one enemy, the man they called Nut-Nat, or Nat-Nut, a -cretin, with inturned feet, who came flap-lapping along, -shoulder jerking up at every step. This poor creature sold nuts -in the public-houses where he was known. He had no roof to his -mouth, and the men used to mock his speech. - -The first time he came into the "George" when Anna was there, -she asked, after he had gone, her eyes very round: - -"Why does he do that when he walks?" - -"'E canna 'elp 'isself, Duckie, it's th' make o' th' -fellow." - -She thought about it, then she laughed nervously. And then -she bethought herself, her cheeks flushed, and she cried: - -"He's a horrid man." - -"Nay, he's non horrid; he canna help it if he wor struck that -road." - -But when poor Nat came wambling in again, she slid away. And -she would not eat his nuts, if the men bought them for her. And -when the farmers gambled at dominoes for them, she was -angry. - -"They are dirty-man's nuts," she cried. - -So a revulsion started against Nat, who had not long after to -go to the workhouse. - -There grew in Brangwen's heart now a secret desire to make -her a lady. His brother Alfred, in Nottingham, had caused a -great scandal by becoming the lover of an educated woman, a -lady, widow of a doctor. Very often, Alfred Brangwen went down -as a friend to her cottage, which was in Derbyshire, leaving his -wife and family for a day or two, then returning to them. And -no-one dared gainsay him, for he was a strong-willed, direct -man, and he said he was a friend of this widow. - -One day Brangwen met his brother on the station. - -"Where are you going to, then?" asked the younger -brother. - -"I'm going down to Wirksworth." - -"You've got friends down there, I'm told." - -"Yes." - -"I s'll have to be lookin' in when I'm down that road." - -"You please yourself." - -Tom Brangwen was so curious about the woman that the next -time he was in Wirksworth he asked for her house. - -He found a beautiful cottage on the steep side of a hill, -looking clean over the town, that lay in the bottom of the -basin, and away at the old quarries on the opposite side of the -space. Mrs. Forbes was in the garden. She was a tall woman with -white hair. She came up the path taking off her thick gloves, -laying down her shears. It was autumn. She wore a wide-brimmed -hat. - -Brangwen blushed to the roots of his hair, and did not know -what to say. - -"I thought I might look in," he said, "knowing you were -friends of my brother's. I had to come to Wirksworth." - -She saw at once that he was a Brangwen. - -"Will you come in?" she said. "My father is lying down." - -She took him into a drawing-room, full of books, with a piano -and a violin-stand. And they talked, she simply and easily. She -was full of dignity. The room was of a kind Brangwen had never -known; the atmosphere seemed open and spacious, like a -mountain-top to him. - -"Does my brother like reading?" he asked. - -"Some things. He has been reading Herbert Spencer. And we -read Browning sometimes." - -Brangwen was full of admiration, deep thrilling, almost -reverential admiration. He looked at her with lit-up eyes when -she said, "we read". At last he burst out, looking round the -room: - -"I didn't know our Alfred was this way inclined." - -"He is quite an unusual man." - -He looked at her in amazement. She evidently had a new idea -of his brother: she evidently appreciated him. He looked again -at the woman. She was about forty, straight, rather hard, a -curious, separate creature. Himself, he was not in love with -her, there was something chilling about her. But he was filled -with boundless admiration. - -At tea-time he was introduced to her father, an invalid who -had to be helped about, but who was ruddy and well-favoured, -with snowy hair and watery blue eyes, and a courtly naive manner -that again was new and strange to Brangwen, so suave, so merry, -so innocent. - -His brother was this woman's lover! It was too amazing. -Brangwen went home despising himself for his own poor way of -life. He was a clod-hopper and a boor, dull, stuck in the mud. -More than ever he wanted to clamber out, to this visionary -polite world. - -He was well off. He was as well off as Alfred, who could not -have above six hundred a year, all told. He himself made about -four hundred, and could make more. His investments got better -every day. Why did he not do something? His wife was a lady -also. - -But when he got to the Marsh, he realized how fixed -everything was, how the other form of life was beyond him, and -he regretted for the first time that he had succeeded to the -farm. He felt a prisoner, sitting safe and easy and -unadventurous. He might, with risk, have done more with himself. -He could neither read Browning nor Herbert Spencer, nor have -access to such a room as Mrs. Forbes's. All that form of life -was outside him. - -But then, he said he did not want it. The excitement of the -visit began to pass off. The next day he was himself, and if he -thought of the other woman, there was something about her and -her place that he did not like, something cold something alien, -as if she were not a woman, but an inhuman being who used up -human life for cold, unliving purposes. - -The evening came on, he played with Anna, and then sat alone -with his own wife. She was sewing. He sat very still, smoking, -perturbed. He was aware of his wife's quiet figure, and quiet -dark head bent over her needle. It was too quiet for him. It was -too peaceful. He wanted to smash the walls down, and let the -night in, so that his wife should not be so secure and quiet, -sitting there. He wished the air were not so close and narrow. -His wife was obliterated from him, she was in her own world, -quiet, secure, unnoticed, unnoticing. He was shut down by -her. - -He rose to go out. He could not sit still any longer. He must -get out of this oppressive, shut-down, woman-haunt. - -His wife lifted her head and looked at him. - -"Are you going out?" she asked. - -He looked down and met her eyes. They were darker than -darkness, and gave deeper space. He felt himself retreating -before her, defensive, whilst her eyes followed and tracked him -own. - -"I was just going up to Cossethay," he said. - -She remained watching him. - -"Why do you go?" she said. - -His heart beat fast, and he sat down, slowly. - -"No reason particular," he said, beginning to fill his pipe -again, mechanically. - -"Why do you go away so often?" she said. - -"But you don't want me," he replied. - -She was silent for a while. - -"You do not want to be with me any more," she said. - -It startled him. How did she know this truth? He thought it -was his secret. - -"Yi," he said. - -"You want to find something else," she said. - -He did not answer. "Did he?" he asked himself. - -"You should not want so much attention," she said. "You are -not a baby." - -"I'm not grumbling," he said. Yet he knew he was. - -"You think you have not enough," she said. - -"How enough?" - -"You think you have not enough in me. But how do you know me? -What do you do to make me love you?" - -He was flabbergasted. - -"I never said I hadn't enough in you," he replied. "I didn't -know you wanted making to love me. What do you want?" - -"You don't make it good between us any more, you are not -interested. You do not make me want you." - -"And you don't make me want you, do you now?" There was a -silence. They were such strangers. - -"Would you like to have another woman?" she asked. - -His eyes grew round, he did not know where he was. How could -she, his own wife, say such a thing? But she sat there, small -and foreign and separate. It dawned upon him she did not -consider herself his wife, except in so far as they agreed. She -did not feel she had married him. At any rate, she was willing -to allow he might want another woman. A gap, a space opened -before him. - -"No," he said slowly. "What other woman should I want?" - -"Like your brother," she said. - -He was silent for some time, ashamed also. - -"What of her?" he said. "I didn't like the woman." - -"Yes, you liked her," she answered persistently. - -He stared in wonder at his own wife as she told him his own -heart so callously. And he was indignant. What right had she to -sit there telling him these things? She was his wife, what right -had she to speak to him like this, as if she were a -stranger. - -"I didn't," he said. "I want no woman." - -"Yes, you would like to be like Alfred." - -His silence was one of angry frustration. He was astonished. -He had told her of his visit to Wirksworth, but briefly, without -interest, he thought. - -As she sat with her strange dark face turned towards him, her -eyes watched him, inscrutable, casting him up. He began to -oppose her. She was again the active unknown facing him. Must he -admit her? He resisted involuntarily. - -"Why should you want to find a woman who is more to you than -me?" she said. - -The turbulence raged in his breast. - -"I don't," he said. - -"Why do you?" she repeated. "Why do you want to deny me?" - -Suddenly, in a flash, he saw she might be lonely, isolated, -unsure. She had seemed to him the utterly certain, satisfied, -absolute, excluding him. Could she need anything? - -"Why aren't you satisfied with me?--I'm not satisfied -with you. Paul used to come to me and take me like a man does. -You only leave me alone or take me like your cattle, quickly, to -forget me again--so that you can forget me again." - -"What am I to remember about you?" said Brangwen. - -"I want you to know there is somebody there besides -yourself." - -"Well, don't I know it?" - -"You come to me as if it was for nothing, as if I was nothing -there. When Paul came to me, I was something to him--a -woman, I was. To you I am nothing--it is like -cattle--or nothing----" - -"You make me feel as if I was nothing," he said. - -They were silent. She sat watching him. He could not move, -his soul was seething and chaotic. She turned to her sewing -again. But the sight of her bent before him held him and would -not let him be. She was a strange, hostile, dominant thing. Yet -not quite hostile. As he sat he felt his limbs were strong and -hard, he sat in strength. - -She was silent for a long time, stitching. He was aware, -poignantly, of the round shape of her head, very intimate, -compelling. She lifted her head and sighed. The blood burned in -him, her voice ran to him like fire. - -"Come here," she said, unsure. - -For some moments he did not move. Then he rose slowly and -went across the hearth. It required an almost deathly effort of -volition, or of acquiescence. He stood before her and looked -down at her. Her face was shining again, her eyes were shining -again like terrible laughter. It was to him terrible, how she -could be transfigured. He could not look at her, it burnt his -heart. - -"My love!" she said. - -And she put her arms round him as he stood before her round -his thighs, pressing him against her breast. And her hands on -him seemed to reveal to him the mould of his own nakedness, he -was passionately lovely to himself. He could not bear to look at -her. - -"My dear!" she said. He knew she spoke a foreign language. -The fear was like bliss in his heart. He looked down. Her face -was shining, her eyes were full of light, she was awful. He -suffered from the compulsion to her. She was the awful unknown. -He bent down to her, suffering, unable to let go, unable to let -himself go, yet drawn, driven. She was now the transfigured, she -was wonderful, beyond him. He wanted to go. But he could not as -yet kiss her. He was himself apart. Easiest he could kiss her -feet. But he was too ashamed for the actual deed, which were -like an affront. She waited for him to meet her, not to bow -before her and serve her. She wanted his active participation, -not his submission. She put her fingers on him. And it was -torture to him, that he must give himself to her actively, -participate in her, that he must meet and embrace and know her, -who was other than himself. There was that in him which shrank -from yielding to her, resisted the relaxing towards her, opposed -the mingling with her, even while he most desired it. He was -afraid, he wanted to save himself. - -There were a few moments of stillness. Then gradually, the -tension, the withholding relaxed in him, and he began to flow -towards her. She was beyond him, the unattainable. But he let go -his hold on himself, he relinquished himself, and knew the -subterranean force of his desire to come to her, to be with her, -to mingle with her, losing himself to find her, to find himself -in her. He began to approach her, to draw near. - -His blood beat up in waves of desire. He wanted to come to -her, to meet her. She was there, if he could reach her. The -reality of her who was just beyond him absorbed him. Blind and -destroyed, he pressed forward, nearer, nearer, to receive the -consummation of himself, he received within the darkness which -should swallow him and yield him up to himself. If he could come -really within the blazing kernel of darkness, if really he could -be destroyed, burnt away till he lit with her in one -consummation, that were supreme, supreme. - -Their coming together now, after two years of married life, -was much more wonderful to them than it had been before. It was -the entry into another circle of existence, it was the baptism -to another life, it was the complete confirmation. Their feet -trod strange ground of knowledge, their footsteps were lit-up -with discovery. Wherever they walked, it was well, the world -re-echoed round them in discovery. They went gladly and -forgetful. Everything was lost, and everything was found. The -new world was discovered, it remained only to be explored. - -They had passed through the doorway into the further space, -where movement was so big, that it contained bonds and -constraints and labours, and still was complete liberty. She was -the doorway to him, he to her. At last they had thrown open the -doors, each to the other, and had stood in the doorways facing -each other, whilst the light flooded out from behind on to each -of their faces, it was the transfiguration, glorification, the -admission. - -And always the light of the transfiguration burned on in -their hearts. He went his way, as before, she went her way, to -the rest of the world there seemed no change. But to the two of -them, there was the perpetual wonder of the transfiguration. - -He did not know her any better, any more precisely, now that -he knew her altogether. Poland, her husband, the war--he -understood no more of this in her. He did not understand her -foreign nature, half German, half Polish, nor her foreign -speech. But he knew her, he knew her meaning, without -understanding. What she said, what she spoke, this was a blind -gesture on her part. In herself she walked strong and clear, he -knew her, he saluted her, was with her. What was memory after -all, but the recording of a number of possibilities which had -never been fulfilled? What was Paul Lensky to her, but an -unfulfilled possibility to which he, Brangwen, was the reality -and the fulfilment? What did it matter, that Anna Lensky was -born of Lydia and Paul? God was her father and her mother. He -had passed through the married pair without fully making Himself -known to them. - -Now He was declared to Brangwen and to Lydia Brangwen, as -they stood together. When at last they had joined hands, the -house was finished, and the Lord took up his abode. And they -were glad. - -The days went on as before, Brangwen went out to his work, -his wife nursed her child and attended in some measure to the -farm. They did not think of each other-why should they? Only -when she touched him, he knew her instantly, that she was with -him, near him, that she was the gateway and the way out, that -she was beyond, and that he was travelling in her through the -beyond. Whither?--What does it matter? He responded always. -When she called, he answered, when he asked, her response came -at once, or at length. - -Anna's soul was put at peace between them. She looked from -one to the other, and she saw them established to her safety, -and she was free. She played between the pillar of fire and the -pillar of cloud in confidence, having the assurance on her right -hand and the assurance on her left. She was no longer called -upon to uphold with her childish might the broken end of the -arch. Her father and her mother now met to the span of the -heavens, and she, the child, was free to play in the space -beneath, between. - - - -CHAPTER IV - -GIRLHOOD OF ANNE BRANGWEN - -When Anna was nine years old, Brangwen sent her to the dames' -school in Cossethay. There she went, flipping and dancing in her -inconsequential fashion, doing very much as she liked, -disconcerting old Miss Coates by her indifference to -respectability and by her lack of reverence. Anna only laughed -at Miss Coates, liked her, and patronized her in superb, -childish fashion. - -The girl was at once shy and wild. She had a curious contempt -for ordinary people, a benevolent superiority. She was very shy, -and tortured with misery when people did not like her. On the -other hand, she cared very little for anybody save her mother, -whom she still rather resentfully worshipped, and her father, -whom she loved and patronized, but upon whom she depended. These -two, her mother and father, held her still in fee. But she was -free of other people, towards whom, on the whole, she took the -benevolent attitude. She deeply hated ugliness or intrusion or -arrogance, however. As a child, she was as proud and shadowy as -a tiger, and as aloof. She could confer favours, but, save from -her mother and father, she could receive none. She hated people -who came too near to her. Like a wild thing, she wanted her -distance. She mistrusted intimacy. - -In Cossethay and Ilkeston she was always an alien. She had -plenty of acquaintances, but no friends. Very few people whom -she met were significant to her. They seemed part of a herd, -undistinguished. She did not take people very seriously. - -She had two brothers, Tom, dark-haired, small, volatile, whom -she was intimately related to but whom she never mingled with, -and Fred, fair and responsive, whom she adored but did not -consider as a real, separate thing. She was too much the centre -of her own universe, too little aware of anything outside. - -The first person she met, who affected her as a real, -living person, whom she regarded as having definite existence, -was Baron Skrebensky, her mother's friend. He also was a Polish -exile, who had taken orders, and had received from Mr. Gladstone -a small country living in Yorkshire. - -When Anna was about ten years old, she went with her mother -to spend a few days with the Baron Skrebensky. He was very -unhappy in his red-brick vicarage. He was vicar of a country -church, a living worth a little over two hundred pounds a year, -but he had a large parish containing several collieries, with a -new, raw, heathen population. He went to the north of England -expecting homage from the common people, for he was an -aristocrat. He was roughly, even cruelly received. But he never -understood it. He remained a fiery aristocrat. Only he had to -learn to avoid his parishioners. - -Anna was very much impressed by him. He was a smallish man -with a rugged, rather crumpled face and blue eyes set very deep -and glowing. His wife was a tall thin woman, of noble Polish -family, mad with pride. He still spoke broken English, for he -had kept very close to his wife, both of them forlorn in this -strange, inhospitable country, and they always spoke in Polish -together. He was disappointed with Mrs. Brangwen's soft, natural -English, very disappointed that her child spoke no Polish. - -Anna loved to watch him. She liked the big, new, rambling -vicarage, desolate and stark on its hill. It was so exposed, so -bleak and bold after the Marsh. The Baron talked endlessly in -Polish to Mrs. Brangwen; he made furious gestures with his -hands, his blue eyes were full of fire. And to Anna, there was a -significance about his sharp, flinging movements. Something in -her responded to his extravagance and his exuberant manner. She -thought him a very wonderful person. She was shy of him, she -liked him to talk to her. She felt a sense of freedom near -him. - -She never could tell how she knew it, but she did know that -he was a knight of Malta. She could never remember whether she -had seen his star, or cross, of his order or not, but it flashed -in her mind, like a symbol. He at any rate represented to the -child the real world, where kings and lords and princes moved -and fulfilled their shining lives, whilst queens and ladies and -princesses upheld the noble order. - -She had recognized the Baron Skrebensky as a real person, he -had had some regard for her. But when she did not see him any -more, he faded and became a memory. But as a memory he was -always alive to her. - -Anna became a tall, awkward girl. Her eyes were still very -dark and quick, but they had grown careless, they had lost their -watchful, hostile look. Her fierce, spun hair turned brown, it -grew heavier and was tied back. She was sent to a young ladies' -school in Nottingham. - -And at this period she was absorbed in becoming a young lady. -She was intelligent enough, but not interested in learning. At -first, she thought all the girls at school very ladylike and -wonderful, and she wanted to be like them. She came to a speedy -disillusion: they galled and maddened her, they were petty and -mean. After the loose, generous atmosphere of her home, where -little things did not count, she was always uneasy in the world, -that would snap and bite at every trifle. - -A quick change came over her. She mistrusted herself, she -mistrusted the outer world. She did not want to go on, she did -not want to go out into it, she wanted to go no further. - -"What do I care about that lot of girls?" she would -say to her father, contemptuously; "they are nobody." - -The trouble was that the girls would not accept Anna at her -measure. They would have her according to themselves or not at -all. So she was confused, seduced, she became as they were for a -time, and then, in revulsion, she hated them furiously. - -"Why don't you ask some of your girls here?" her father would -say. - -"They're not coming here," she cried. - -"And why not?" - -"They're bagatelle," she said, using one of her mother's rare -phrases. - -"Bagatelles or billiards, it makes no matter, they're nice -young lasses enough." - -But Anna was not to be won over. She had a curious shrinking -from commonplace people, and particularly from the young lady of -her day. She would not go into company because of the -ill-at-ease feeling other people brought upon her. And she never -could decide whether it were her fault or theirs. She half -respected these other people, and continuous disillusion -maddened her. She wanted to respect them. Still she thought the -people she did not know were wonderful. Those she knew seemed -always to be limiting her, tying her up in little falsities that -irritated her beyond bearing. She would rather stay at home and -avoid the rest of the world, leaving it illusory. - -For at the Marsh life had indeed a certain freedom and -largeness. There was no fret about money, no mean little -precedence, nor care for what other people thought, because -neither Mrs. Brangwen nor Brangwen could be sensible of any -judgment passed on them from outside. Their lives were too -separate. - -So Anna was only easy at home, where the common sense and the -supreme relation between her parents produced a freer standard -of being than she could find outside. Where, outside the Marsh, -could she find the tolerant dignity she had been brought up in? -Her parents stood undiminished and unaware of criticism. The -people she met outside seemed to begrudge her her very -existence. They seemed to want to belittle her also. She was -exceedingly reluctant to go amongst them. She depended upon her -mother and her father. And yet she wanted to go out. - -At school, or in the world, she was usually at fault, she -felt usually that she ought to be slinking in disgrace. She -never felt quite sure, in herself, whether she were wrong, or -whether the others were wrong. She had not done her lessons: -well, she did not see any reason why she should do her -lessons, if she did not want to. Was there some occult reason -why she should? Were these people, schoolmistresses, -representatives of some mystic Right, some Higher Good? They -seemed to think so themselves. But she could not for her life -see why a woman should bully and insult her because she did not -know thirty lines of As You Like It. After all, what did -it matter if she knew them or not? Nothing could persuade her -that it was of the slightest importance. Because she despised -inwardly the coarsely working nature of the mistress. Therefore -she was always at outs with authority. From constant telling, -she came almost to believe in her own badness, her own intrinsic -inferiority. She felt that she ought always to be in a state of -slinking disgrace, if she fulfilled what was expected of her. -But she rebelled. She never really believed in her own badness. -At the bottom of her heart she despised the other people, who -carped and were loud over trifles. She despised them, and wanted -revenge on them. She hated them whilst they had power over -her. - -Still she kept an ideal: a free, proud lady absolved from the -petty ties, existing beyond petty considerations. She would see -such ladies in pictures: Alexandra, Princess of Wales, was one -of her models. This lady was proud and royal, and stepped -indifferently over all small, mean desires: so thought Anna, in -her heart. And the girl did up her hair high under a little -slanting hat, her skirts were fashionably bunched up, she wore -an elegant, skin-fitting coat. - -Her father was delighted. Anna was very proud in her bearing, -too naturally indifferent to smaller bonds to satisfy Ilkeston, -which would have liked to put her down. But Brangwen was having -no such thing. If she chose to be royal, royal she should be. He -stood like a rock between her and the world. - -After the fashion of his family, he grew stout and handsome. -His blue eyes were full of light, twinkling and sensitive, his -manner was deliberate, but hearty, warm. His capacity for living -his own life without attention from his neighbours made them -respect him. They would run to do anything for him. He did not -consider them, but was open-handed towards them, so they made -profit of their willingness. He liked people, so long as they -remained in the background. - -Mrs. Brangwen went on in her own way, following her own -devices. She had her husband, her two sons and Anna. These -staked out and marked her horizon. The other people were -outsiders. Inside her own world, her life passed along like a -dream for her, it lapsed, and she lived within its lapse, active -and always pleased, intent. She scarcely noticed the outer -things at all. What was outside was outside, non-existent. She -did not mind if the boys fought, so long as it was out of her -presence. But if they fought when she was by, she was angry, and -they were afraid of her. She did not care if they broke a window -of a railway carriage or sold their watches to have a revel at -the Goose Fair. Brangwen was perhaps angry over these things. To -the mother they were insignificant. It was odd little things -that offended her. She was furious if the boys hung around the -slaughter-house, she was displeased when the school reports were -bad. It did not matter how many sins her boys were accused of, -so long as they were not stupid, or inferior. If they seemed to -brook insult, she hated them. And it was only a certain -gaucherie, a gawkiness on Anna's part that irritated her -against the girl. Certain forms of clumsiness, grossness, made -the mother's eyes glow with curious rage. Otherwise she was -pleased, indifferent. - -Pursuing her splendid-lady ideal, Anna became a lofty -demoiselle of sixteen, plagued by family shortcomings. She was -very sensitive to her father. She knew if he had been drinking, -were he ever so little affected, and she could not bear it. He -flushed when he drank, the veins stood out on his temples, there -was a twinkling, cavalier boisterousness in his eye, his manner -was jovially overbearing and mocking. And it angered her. When -she heard his loud, roaring, boisterous mockery, an anger of -resentment filled her. She was quick to forestall him, the -moment he came in. - -"You look a sight, you do, red in the face," she cried. - -"I might look worse if I was green," he answered. - -"Boozing in Ilkeston." - -"And what's wrong wi' Il'son?" - -She flounced away. He watched her with amused, twinkling -eyes, yet in spite of himself said that she flouted him. - -They were a curious family, a law to themselves, separate -from the world, isolated, a small republic set in invisible -bounds. The mother was quite indifferent to Ilkeston and -Cossethay, to any claims made on her from outside, she was very -shy of any outsider, exceedingly courteous, winning even. But -the moment the visitor had gone, she laughed and dismissed him, -he did not exist. It had been all a game to her. She was still a -foreigner, unsure of her ground. But alone with her own children -and husband at the Marsh, she was mistress of a little native -land that lacked nothing. - -She had some beliefs somewhere, never defined. She had been -brought up a Roman Catholic. She had gone to the Church of -England for protection. The outward form was a matter of -indifference to her. Yet she had some fundamental religion. It -was as if she worshipped God as a mystery, never seeking in the -least to define what He was. - -And inside her, the subtle sense of the Great Absolute -wherein she had her being was very strong. The English dogma -never reached her: the language was too foreign. Through it all -she felt the great Separator who held life in His hands, -gleaming, imminent, terrible, the Great Mystery, immediate -beyond all telling. - -She shone and gleamed to the Mystery, Whom she knew through -all her senses, she glanced with strange, mystic superstitions -that never found expression in the English language, never -mounted to thought in English. But so she lived, within a -potent, sensuous belief that included her family and contained -her destiny. - -To this she had reduced her husband. He existed with her -entirely indifferent to the general values of the world. Her -very ways, the very mark of her eyebrows were symbols and -indication to him. There, on the farm with her, he lived through -a mystery of life and death and creation, strange, profound -ecstasies and incommunicable satisfactions, of which the rest of -the world knew nothing; which made the pair of them apart and -respected in the English village, for they were also -well-to-do. - -But Anna was only half safe within her mother's unthinking -knowledge. She had a mother-of-pearl rosary that had been her -own father's. What it meant to her she could never say. But the -string of moonlight and silver, when she had it between her -fingers, filled her with strange passion. She learned at school -a little Latin, she learned an Ave Maria and a Pater Noster, she -learned how to say her rosary. But that was no good. "Ave Maria, -gratia plena, Dominus tecum, Benedicta tu in mulieribus et -benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. Ave Maria, Sancta Maria, -ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae, -Amen." - -It was not right, somehow. What these words meant when -translated was not the same as the pale rosary meant. There was -a discrepancy, a falsehood. It irritated her to say, "Dominus -tecum," or, "benedicta tu in mulieribus." She loved the mystic -words, "Ave Maria, Sancta Maria;" she was moved by "benedictus -fructus ventris tui Jesus," and by "nunc et in hora mortis -nostrae." But none of it was quite real. It was not -satisfactory, somehow. - -She avoided her rosary, because, moving her with curious -passion as it did, it meant only these not very -significant things. She put it away. It was her instinct to put -all these things away. It was her instinct to avoid thinking, to -avoid it, to save herself. - -She was seventeen, touchy, full of spirits, and very moody: -quick to flush, and always uneasy, uncertain. For some reason or -other, she turned more to her father, she felt almost flashes of -hatred for her mother. Her mother's dark muzzle and curiously -insidious ways, her mother's utter surety and confidence, her -strange satisfaction, even triumph, her mother's way of laughing -at things and her mother's silent overriding of vexatious -propositions, most of all her mother's triumphant power maddened -the girl. - -She became sudden and incalculable. Often she stood at the -window, looking out, as if she wanted to go. Sometimes she went, -she mixed with people. But always she came home in anger, as if -she were diminished, belittled, almost degraded. - -There was over the house a kind of dark silence and -intensity, in which passion worked its inevitable conclusions. -There was in the house a sort of richness, a deep, inarticulate -interchange which made other places seem thin and unsatisfying. -Brangwen could sit silent, smoking in his chair, the mother -could move about in her quiet, insidious way, and the sense of -the two presences was powerful, sustaining. The whole -intercourse was wordless, intense and close. - -But Anna was uneasy. She wanted to get away. Yet wherever she -went, there came upon her that feeling of thinness, as if she -were made smaller, belittled. She hastened home. - -There she raged and interrupted the strong, settled -interchange. Sometimes her mother turned on her with a fierce, -destructive anger, in which was no pity or consideration. And -Anna shrank, afraid. She went to her father. - -He would still listen to the spoken word, which fell sterile -on the unheeding mother. Sometimes Anna talked to her father. -She tried to discuss people, she wanted to know what was meant. -But her father became uneasy. He did not want to have things -dragged into consciousness. Only out of consideration for her he -listened. And there was a kind of bristling rousedness in the -room. The cat got up and stretching itself, went uneasily to the -door. Mrs. Brangwen was silent, she seemed ominous. Anna could -not go on with her fault-finding, her criticism, her expression -of dissatisfactions. She felt even her father against her. He -had a strong, dark bond with her mother, a potent intimacy that -existed inarticulate and wild, following its own course, and -savage if interrupted, uncovered. - -Nevertheless Brangwen was uneasy about the girl, the whole -house continued to be disturbed. She had a pathetic, baffled -appeal. She was hostile to her parents, even whilst she lived -entirely with them, within their spell. - -Many ways she tried, of escape. She became an assiduous -church-goer. But the language meant nothing to her: it -seemed false. She hated to hear things expressed, put into -words. Whilst the religious feelings were inside her they were -passionately moving. In the mouth of the clergyman, they were -false, indecent. She tried to read. But again the tedium and the -sense of the falsity of the spoken word put her off. She went to -stay with girl friends. At first she thought it splendid. But -then the inner boredom came on, it seemed to her all -nothingness. And she felt always belittled, as if never, never -could she stretch her length and stride her stride. - -Her mind reverted often to the torture cell of a certain -Bishop of France, in which the victim could neither stand nor -lie stretched out, never. Not that she thought of herself in any -connection with this. But often there came into her mind the -wonder, how the cell was built, and she could feel the horror of -the crampedness, as something very real. - -She was, however, only eighteen when a letter came from Mrs. -Alfred Brangwen, in Nottingham, saying that her son William was -coming to Ilkeston to take a place as junior draughtsman, -scarcely more than apprentice, in a lace factory. He was twenty -years old, and would the Marsh Brangwens be friendly with -him. - -Tom Brangwen at once wrote offering the young man a home at -the Marsh. This was not accepted, but the Nottingham Brangwens -expressed gratitude. - -There had never been much love lost between the Nottingham -Brangwens and the Marsh. Indeed, Mrs. Alfred, having inherited -three thousand pounds, and having occasion to be dissatisfied -with her husband, held aloof from all the Brangwens whatsoever. -She affected, however, some esteem of Mrs. Tom, as she called -the Polish woman, saying that at any rate she was a lady. - -Anna Brangwen was faintly excited at the news of her Cousin -Will's coming to Ilkeston. She knew plenty of young men, but -they had never become real to her. She had seen in this young -gallant a nose she liked, in that a pleasant moustache, in the -other a nice way of wearing clothes, in one a ridiculous fringe -of hair, in another a comical way of talking. They were objects -of amusement and faint wonder to her, rather than real beings, -the young men. - -The only man she knew was her father; and, as he was -something large, looming, a kind of Godhead, he embraced all -manhood for her, and other men were just incidental. - -She remembered her cousin Will. He had town clothes and was -thin, with a very curious head, black as jet, with hair like -sleek, thin fur. It was a curious head: it reminded her she knew -not of what: of some animal, some mysterious animal that lived -in the darkness under the leaves and never came out, but which -lived vividly, swift and intense. She always thought of him with -that black, keen, blind head. And she considered him odd. - -He appeared at the Marsh one Sunday morning: a rather long, -thin youth with a bright face and a curious self-possession -among his shyness, a native unawareness of what other people -might be, since he was himself. - -When Anna came downstairs in her Sunday clothes, ready for -church, he rose and greeted her conventionally, shaking hands. -His manners were better than hers. She flushed. She noticed that -he now had a thick fledge on his upper lip, a black, -finely-shapen line marking his wide mouth. It rather repelled -her. It reminded her of the thin, fine fur of his hair. She was -aware of something strange in him. - -His voice had rather high upper notes, and very resonant -middle notes. It was queer. She wondered why he did it. But he -sat very naturally in the Marsh living-room. He had some -uncouthness, some natural self-possession of the Brangwens, that -made him at home there. - -Anna was rather troubled by the strangely intimate, -affectionate way her father had towards this young man. He -seemed gentle towards him, he put himself aside in order to fill -out the young man. This irritated Anna. - -"Father," she said abruptly, "give me some collection." - -"What collection?" asked Brangwen. - -"Don't be ridiculous," she cried, flushing. - -"Nay," he said, "what collection's this?" - -"You know it's the first Sunday of the month." - -Anna stood confused. Why was he doing this, why was he making -her conspicuous before this stranger? - -"I want some collection," she reasserted. - -"So tha says," he replied indifferently, looking at her, then -turning again to this nephew. - -She went forward, and thrust her hand into his breeches -pocket. He smoked steadily, making no resistance, talking to his -nephew. Her hand groped about in his pocket, and then drew out -his leathern purse. Her colour was bright in her clear cheeks, -her eyes shone. Brangwen's eyes were twinkling. The nephew sat -sheepishly. Anna, in her finery, sat down and slid all the money -into her lap. There was silver and gold. The youth could not -help watching her. She was bent over the heap of money, -fingering the different coins. - -"I've a good mind to take half a sovereign," she said, and -she looked up with glowing dark eyes. She met the light-brown -eyes of her cousin, close and intent upon her. She was startled. -She laughed quickly, and turned to her father. - -"I've a good mind to take half a sovereign, our Dad," she -said. - -"Yes, nimble fingers," said her father. "You take what's your -own." - -"Are you coming, our Anna?" asked her brother from the -door. - -She suddenly chilled to normal, forgetting both her father -and her cousin. - -"Yes, I'm ready," she said, taking sixpence from the heap of -money and sliding the rest back into the purse, which she laid -on the table. - -"Give it here," said her father. - -Hastily she thrust the purse into his pocket and was going -out. - -"You'd better go wi' 'em, lad, hadn't you?" said the father -to the nephew. - -Will Brangwen rose uncertainly. He had golden-brown, quick, -steady eyes, like a bird's, like a hawk's, which cannot look -afraid. - -"Your Cousin Will 'll come with you," said the father. - -Anna glanced at the strange youth again. She felt him waiting -there for her to notice him. He was hovering on the edge of her -consciousness, ready to come in. She did not want to look at -him. She was antagonistic to him. - -She waited without speaking. Her cousin took his hat and -joined her. It was summer outside. Her brother Fred was plucking -a sprig of flowery currant to put in his coat, from the bush at -the angle of the house. She took no notice. Her cousin followed -just behind her. - -They were on the high road. She was aware of a strangeness in -her being. It made her uncertain. She caught sight of the -flowering currant in her brother's buttonhole. - -"Oh, our Fred," she cried. "Don't wear that stuff to go to -church." - -Fred looked down protectively at the pink adornment on his -breast. - -"Why, I like it," he said. - -"Then you're the only one who does, I'm sure," she said. - -And she turned to her cousin. - -"Do you like the smell of it?" she asked. - -He was there beside her, tall and uncouth and yet -self-possessed. It excited her. - -"I can't say whether I do or not," he replied. - -"Give it here, Fred, don't have it smelling in church," she -said to the little boy, her page. - -Her fair, small brother handed her the flower dutifully. She -sniffed it and gave it without a word to her cousin, for his -judgment. He smelled the dangling flower curiously. - -"It's a funny smell," he said. - -And suddenly she laughed, and a quick light came on all their -faces, there was a blithe trip in the small boy's walk. - -The bells were ringing, they were going up the summery hill -in their Sunday clothes. Anna was very fine in a silk frock of -brown and white stripes, tight along the arms and the body, -bunched up very elegantly behind the skirt. There was something -of the cavalier about Will Brangwen, and he was well -dressed. - -He walked along with the sprig of currant-blossom dangling -between his fingers, and none of them spoke. The sun shone -brightly on little showers of buttercup down the bank, in the -fields the fool's-parsley was foamy, held very high and proud -above a number of flowers that flitted in the greenish twilight -of the mowing-grass below. - -They reached the church. Fred led the way to the pew, -followed by the cousin, then Anna. She felt very conspicuous and -important. Somehow, this young man gave her away to other -people. He stood aside and let her pass to her place, then sat -next to her. It was a curious sensation, to sit next to him. - -The colour came streaming from the painted window above her. -It lit on the dark wood of the pew, on the stone, worn aisle, on -the pillar behind her cousin, and on her cousin's hands, as they -lay on his knees. She sat amid illumination, illumination and -luminous shadow all around her, her soul very bright. She sat, -without knowing it, conscious of the hands and motionless knees -of her cousin. Something strange had entered into her world, -something entirely strange and unlike what she knew. - -She was curiously elated. She sat in a glowing world of -unreality, very delightful. A brooding light, like laughter, was -in her eyes. She was aware of a strange influence entering in to -her, which she enjoyed. It was a dark enrichening influence she -had not known before. She did not think of her cousin. But she -was startled when his hands moved. - -She wished he would not say the responses so plainly. It -diverted her from her vague enjoyment. Why would he obtrude, and -draw notice to himself? It was bad taste. But she went on all -right till the hymn came. He stood up beside her to sing, and -that pleased her. Then suddenly, at the very first word, his -voice came strong and over-riding, filling the church. He was -singing the tenor. Her soul opened in amazement. His voice -filled the church! It rang out like a trumpet, and rang out -again. She started to giggle over her hymn-book. But he went on, -perfectly steady. Up and down rang his voice, going its own way. -She was helplessly shocked into laughter. Between moments of -dead silence in herself she shook with laughter. On came the -laughter, seized her and shook her till the tears were in her -eyes. She was amazed, and rather enjoyed it. And still the hymn -rolled on, and still she laughed. She bent over her hymn-book -crimson with confusion, but still her sides shook with laughter. -She pretended to cough, she pretended to have a crumb in her -throat. Fred was gazing up at her with clear blue eyes. She was -recovering herself. And then a slur in the strong, blind voice -at her side brought it all on again, in a gust of mad -laughter. - -She bent down to prayer in cold reproof of herself. And yet, -as she knelt, little eddies of giggling went over her. The very -sight of his knees on the praying cushion sent the little shock -of laughter over her. - -She gathered herself together and sat with prim, pure face, -white and pink and cold as a Christmas rose, her hands in her -silk gloves folded on her lap, her dark eyes all vague, -abstracted in a sort of dream, oblivious of everything. - -The sermon rolled on vaguely, in a tide of pregnant -peace. - -Her cousin took out his pocket-handkerchief. He seemed to be -drifted absorbed into the sermon. He put his handkerchief to his -face. Then something dropped on to his knee. There lay the bit -of flowering currant! He was looking down at it in real -astonishment. A wild snort of laughter came from Anna. Everybody -heard: it was torture. He had shut the crumpled flower in his -hand and was looking up again with the same absorbed attention -to the sermon. Another snort of laughter from Anna. Fred nudged -her remindingly. - -Her cousin sat motionless. Somehow he was aware that his face -was red. She could feel him. His hand, closed over the flower, -remained quite still, pretending to be normal. Another wild -struggle in Anna's breast, and the snort of laughter. She bent -forward shaking with laughter. It was now no joke. Fred was -nudge-nudging at her. She nudged him back fiercely. Then another -vicious spasm of laughter seized her. She tried to ward it off -in a little cough. The cough ended in a suppressed whoop. She -wanted to die. And the closed hand crept away to the pocket. -Whilst she sat in taut suspense, the laughter rushed back at -her, knowing he was fumbling in his pocket to shove the flower -away. - -In the end, she felt weak, exhausted and thoroughly -depressed. A blankness of wincing depression came over her. She -hated the presence of the other people. Her face became quite -haughty. She was unaware of her cousin any more. - -When the collection arrived with the last hymn, her cousin -was again singing resoundingly. And still it amused her. In -spite of the shameful exhibition she had made of herself, it -amused her still. She listened to it in a spell of amusement. -And the bag was thrust in front of her, and her sixpence was -mingled in the folds of her glove. In her haste to get it out, -it flipped away and went twinkling in the next pew. She stood -and giggled. She could not help it: she laughed outright, a -figure of shame. - -"What were you laughing about, our Anna?" asked Fred, the -moment they were out of the church. - -"Oh, I couldn't help it," she said, in her careless, -half-mocking fashion. "I don't know why Cousin Will's -singing set me off." - -"What was there in my singing to make you laugh?" he -asked. - -"It was so loud," she said. - -They did not look at each other, but they both laughed again, -both reddening. - -"What were you snorting and laughing for, our Anna?" asked -Tom, the elder brother, at the dinner table, his hazel eyes -bright with joy. "Everybody stopped to look at you." Tom was in -the choir. - -She was aware of Will's eyes shining steadily upon her, -waiting for her to speak. - -"It was Cousin Will's singing," she said. - -At which her cousin burst into a suppressed, chuckling laugh, -suddenly showing all his small, regular, rather sharp teeth, and -just as quickly closing his mouth again. - -"Has he got such a remarkable voice on him then?" asked -Brangwen. - -"No, it's not that," said Anna. "Only it tickled me--I -couldn't tell you why." - -And again a ripple of laughter went down the table. - -Will Brangwen thrust forward his dark face, his eyes dancing, -and said: - -"I'm in the choir of St. Nicholas." - -"Oh, you go to church then!" said Brangwen. - -"Mother does--father doesn't," replied the youth. - -It was the little things, his movement, the funny tones of -his voice, that showed up big to Anna. The matter-of-fact things -he said were absurd in contrast. The things her father said -seemed meaningless and neutral. - -During the afternoon they sat in the parlour, that smelled of -geranium, and they ate cherries, and talked. Will Brangwen was -called on to give himself forth. And soon he was drawn out. - -He was interested in churches, in church architecture. The -influence of Ruskin had stimulated him to a pleasure in the -medieval forms. His talk was fragmentary, he was only half -articulate. But listening to him, as he spoke of church after -church, of nave and chancel and transept, of rood-screen and -font, of hatchet-carving and moulding and tracery, speaking -always with close passion of particular things, particular -places, there gathered in her heart a pregnant hush of churches, -a mystery, a ponderous significance of bowed stone, a -dim-coloured light through which something took place obscurely, -passing into darkness: a high, delighted framework of the mystic -screen, and beyond, in the furthest beyond, the altar. It was a -very real experience. She was carried away. And the land seemed -to be covered with a vast, mystic church, reserved in gloom, -thrilled with an unknown Presence. - -Almost it hurt her, to look out of the window and see the -lilacs towering in the vivid sunshine. Or was this the jewelled -glass? - -He talked of Gothic and Renaissance and Perpendicular, and -Early English and Norman. The words thrilled her. - -"Have you been to Southwell?" he said. "I was there at twelve -o'clock at midday, eating my lunch in the churchyard. And the -bells played a hymn. - -"Ay, it's a fine Minster, Southwell, heavy. It's got heavy, -round arches, rather low, on thick pillars. It's grand, the way -those arches travel forward. - -"There's a sedilia as well--pretty. But I like the main -body of the church--and that north porch--" - -He was very much excited and filled with himself that -afternoon. A flame kindled round him, making his experience -passionate and glowing, burningly real. - -His uncle listened with twinkling eyes, half-moved. His aunt -bent forward her dark face, half-moved, but held by other -knowledge. Anna went with him. - -He returned to his lodging at night treading quick, his eyes -glittering, and his face shining darkly as if he came from some -passionate, vital tryst. - -The glow remained in him, the fire burned, his heart was -fierce like a sun. He enjoyed his unknown life and his own self. -And he was ready to go back to the Marsh. - -Without knowing it, Anna was wanting him to come. In him she -had escaped. In him the bounds of her experience were -transgressed: he was the hole in the wall, beyond which the -sunshine blazed on an outside world. - -He came. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, talking again, -there recurred the strange, remote reality which carried -everything before it. Sometimes, he talked of his father, whom -he hated with a hatred that was burningly close to love, of his -mother, whom he loved, with a love that was keenly close to -hatred, or to revolt. His sentences were clumsy, he was only -half articulate. But he had the wonderful voice, that could ring -its vibration through the girl's soul, transport her into his -feeling. Sometimes his voice was hot and declamatory, sometimes -it had a strange, twanging, almost cat-like sound, sometimes it -hesitated, puzzled, sometimes there was the break of a little -laugh. Anna was taken by him. She loved the running flame that -coursed through her as she listened to him. And his mother and -his father became to her two separate people in her life. - -For some weeks the youth came frequently, and was received -gladly by them all. He sat amongst them, his dark face glowing, -an eagerness and a touch of derisiveness on his wide mouth, -something grinning and twisted, his eyes always shining like a -bird's, utterly without depth. There was no getting hold of the -fellow, Brangwen irritably thought. He was like a grinning young -tom-cat, that came when he thought he would, and without -cognizance of the other person. - -At first the youth had looked towards Tom Brangwen when he -talked; and then he looked towards his aunt, for her -appreciation, valuing it more than his uncle's; and then he -turned to Anna, because from her he got what he wanted, which -was not in the elder people. - -So that the two young people, from being always attendant on -the elder, began to draw apart and establish a separate kingdom. -Sometimes Tom Brangwen was irritated. His nephew irritated him. -The lad seemed to him too special, self-contained. His nature -was fierce enough, but too much abstracted, like a separate -thing, like a cat's nature. A cat could lie perfectly peacefully -on the hearthrug whilst its master or mistress writhed in agony -a yard away. It had nothing to do with other people's affairs. -What did the lad really care about anything, save his own -instinctive affairs? - -Brangwen was irritated. Nevertheless he liked and respected -his nephew. Mrs. Brangwen was irritated by Anna, who was -suddenly changed, under the influence of the youth. The mother -liked the boy: he was not quite an outsider. But she did not -like her daughter to be so much under the spell. - -So that gradually the two young people drew apart, escaped -from the elders, to create a new thing by themselves. He worked -in the garden to propitiate his uncle. He talked churches to -propitiate his aunt. He followed Anna like a shadow: like a -long, persistent, unswerving black shadow he went after the -girl. It irritated Brangwen exceedingly. It exasperated him -beyond bearing, to see the lit-up grin, the cat-grin as he -called it, on his nephew's face. - -And Anna had a new reserve, a new independence. Suddenly she -began to act independently of her parents, to live beyond them. -Her mother had flashes of anger. - -But the courtship went on. Anna would find occasion to go -shopping in Ilkeston at evening. She always returned with her -cousin; he walking with his head over her shoulder, a little bit -behind her, like the Devil looking over Lincoln, as Brangwen -noted angrily and yet with satisfaction. - -To his own wonder, Will Brangwen found himself in an electric -state of passion. To his wonder, he had stopped her at the gate -as they came home from Ilkeston one night, and had kissed her, -blocking her way and kissing her whilst he felt as if some blow -were struck at him in the dark. And when they went indoors, he -was acutely angry that her parents looked up scrutinizing at him -and her. What right had they there: why should they look up! Let -them remove themselves, or look elsewhere. - -And the youth went home with the stars in heaven whirling -fiercely about the blackness of his head, and his heart fierce, -insistent, but fierce as if he felt something baulking him. He -wanted to smash through something. - -A spell was cast over her. And how uneasy her parents were, -as she went about the house unnoticing, not noticing them, -moving in a spell as if she were invisible to them. She was -invisible to them. It made them angry. Yet they had to submit. -She went about absorbed, obscured for a while. - -Over him too the darkness of obscurity settled. He seemed to -be hidden in a tense, electric darkness, in which his soul, his -life was intensely active, but without his aid or attention. His -mind was obscured. He worked swiftly and mechanically, and he -produced some beautiful things. - -His favourite work was wood-carving. The first thing he made -for her was a butter-stamper. In it he carved a mythological -bird, a phoenix, something like an eagle, rising on symmetrical -wings, from a circle of very beautiful flickering flames that -rose upwards from the rim of the cup. - -Anna thought nothing of the gift on the evening when he gave -it to her. In the morning, however, when the butter was made, -she fetched his seal in place of the old wooden stamper of -oak-leaves and acorns. She was curiously excited to see how it -would turn out. Strange, the uncouth bird moulded there, in the -cup-like hollow, with curious, thick waverings running inwards -from a smooth rim. She pressed another mould. Strange, to lift -the stamp and see that eagle-beaked bird raising its breast to -her. She loved creating it over and over again. And every time -she looked, it seemed a new thing come to life. Every piece of -butter became this strange, vital emblem. - -She showed it to her mother and father. - -"That is beautiful," said her mother, a little light coming -on to her face. - -"Beautiful!" exclaimed the father, puzzled, fretted. "Why, -what sort of a bird does he call it?" - -And this was the question put by the customers during the -next weeks. - -"What sort of a bird do you call that, as you've got -on th' butter?" - -When he came in the evening, she took him into the dairy to -show him. - -"Do you like it?" he asked, in his loud, vibrating voice that -always sounded strange, re-echoing in the dark places of her -being. - -They very rarely touched each other. They liked to be alone -together, near to each other, but there was still a distance -between them. - -In the cool dairy the candle-light lit on the large, white -surfaces of the cream pans. He turned his head sharply. It was -so cool and remote in there, so remote. His mouth was open in a -little, strained laugh. She stood with her head bent, turned -aside. He wanted to go near to her. He had kissed her once. -Again his eye rested on the round blocks of butter, where the -emblematic bird lifted its breast from the shadow cast by the -candle flame. What was restraining him? Her breast was near him; -his head lifted like an eagle's. She did not move. Suddenly, -with an incredibly quick, delicate movement, he put his arms -round her and drew her to him. It was quick, cleanly done, like -a bird that swoops and sinks close, closer. - -He was kissing her throat. She turned and looked at him. Her -eyes were dark and flowing with fire. His eyes were hard and -bright with a fierce purpose and gladness, like a hawk's. She -felt him flying into the dark space of her flames, like a brand, -like a gleaming hawk. - -They had looked at each other, and seen each other strange, -yet near, very near, like a hawk stooping, swooping, dropping -into a flame of darkness. So she took the candle and they went -back to the kitchen. - -They went on in this way for some time, always coming -together, but rarely touching, very seldom did they kiss. And -then, often, it was merely a touch of the lips, a sign. But her -eyes began to waken with a constant fire, she paused often in -the midst of her transit, as if to recollect something, or to -discover something. - -And his face became sombre, intent, he did not really hear -what was said to him. - -One evening in August he came when it was raining. He came in -with his jacket collar turned up, his jacket buttoned close, his -face wet. And he looked so slim and definite, coming out of the -chill rain, she was suddenly blinded with love for him. Yet he -sat and talked with her father and mother, meaninglessly, whilst -her blood seethed to anguish in her. She wanted to touch him -now, only to touch him. - -There was the queer, abstract look on her silvery radiant -face that maddened her father, her dark eyes were hidden. But -she raised them to the youth. And they were dark with a flare -that made him quail for a moment. - -She went into the second kitchen and took a lantern. Her -father watched her as she returned. - -"Come with me, Will," she said to her cousin. "I want to see -if I put the brick over where that rat comes in." - -"You've no need to do that," retorted her father. She took no -notice. The youth was between the two wills. The colour mounted -into the father's face, his blue eyes stared. The girl stood -near the door, her head held slightly back, like an indication -that the youth must come. He rose, in his silent, intent way, -and was gone with her. The blood swelled in Brangwen's forehead -veins. - -It was raining. The light of the lantern flashed on the -cobbled path and the bottom of the wall. She came to a small -ladder, and climbed up. He reached her the lantern, and -followed. Up there in the fowl-loft, the birds sat in fat -bunches on the perches, the red combs shining like fire. Bright, -sharp eyes opened. There was a sharp crawk of expostulation as -one of the hens shifted over. The cock sat watching, his yellow -neck-feathers bright as glass. Anna went across the dirty floor. -Brangwen crouched in the loft watching. The light was soft under -the red, naked tiles. The girl crouched in a corner. There was -another explosive bustle of a hen springing from her perch. - -Anna came back, stooping under the perches. He was waiting -for her near the door. Suddenly she had her arms round him, was -clinging close to him, cleaving her body against his, and -crying, in a whispering, whimpering sound. - -"Will, I love you, I love you, Will, I love you." It sounded -as if it were tearing her. - -He was not even very much surprised. He held her in his arms, -and his bones melted. He leaned back against the wall. The door -of the loft was open. Outside, the rain slanted by in fine, -steely, mysterious haste, emerging out of the gulf of darkness. -He held her in his arms, and he and she together seemed to be -swinging in big, swooping oscillations, the two of them clasped -together up in the darkness. Outside the open door of the loft -in which they stood, beyond them and below them, was darkness, -with a travelling veil of rain. - -"I love you, Will, I love you," she moaned, "I love you, -Will." - -He held her as thought they were one, and was silent. - -In the house, Tom Brangwen waited a while. Then he got up and -went out. He went down the yard. He saw the curious misty shaft -coming from the loft door. He scarcely knew it was the light in -the rain. He went on till the illumination fell on him dimly. -Then looking up, through the blurr, he saw the youth and the -girl together, the youth with his back against the wall, his -head sunk over the head of the girl. The elder man saw them, -blurred through the rain, but lit up. They thought themselves so -buried in the night. He even saw the lighted dryness of the loft -behind, and shadows and bunches of roosting fowls, up in the -night, strange shadows cast from the lantern on the floor. - -And a black gloom of anger, and a tenderness of -self-effacement, fought in his heart. She did not understand -what she was doing. She betrayed herself. She was a child, a -mere child. She did not know how much of herself she was -squandering. And he was blackly and furiously miserable. Was he -then an old man, that he should be giving her away in marriage? -Was he old? He was not old. He was younger than that young -thoughtless fellow in whose arms she lay. Who knew her--he -or that blind-headed youth? To whom did she belong, if not to -himself? - -He thought again of the child he had carried out at night -into the barn, whilst his wife was in labour with the young Tom. -He remembered the soft, warm weight of the little girl on his -arm, round his neck. Now she would say he was finished. She was -going away, to deny him, to leave an unendurable emptiness in -him, a void that he could not bear. Almost he hated her. How -dared she say he was old. He walked on in the rain, sweating -with pain, with the horror of being old, with the agony of -having to relinquish what was life to him. - -Will Brangwen went home without having seen his uncle. He -held his hot face to the rain, and walked on in a trance. "I -love you, Will, I love you." The words repeated themselves -endlessly. The veils had ripped and issued him naked into the -endless space, and he shuddered. The walls had thrust him out -and given him a vast space to walk in. Whither, through this -darkness of infinite space, was he walking blindly? Where, at -the end of all the darkness, was God the Almighty still darkly, -seated, thrusting him on? "I love you, Will, I love you." He -trembled with fear as the words beat in his heart again. And he -dared not think of her face, of her eyes which shone, and of her -strange, transfigured face. The hand of the Hidden Almighty, -burning bright, had thrust out of the darkness and gripped him. -He went on subject and in fear, his heart gripped and burning -from the touch. - -The days went by, they ran on dark-padded feet in silence. He -went to see Anna, but again there had come a reserve between -them. Tom Brangwen was gloomy, his blue eyes sombre. Anna was -strange and delivered up. Her face in its delicate colouring was -mute, touched dumb and poignant. The mother bowed her head and -moved in her own dark world, that was pregnant again with -fulfilment. - -Will Brangwen worked at his wood-carving. It was a passion, a -passion for him to have the chisel under his grip. Verily the -passion of his heart lifted the fine bite of steel. He was -carving, as he had always wanted, the Creation of Eve. It was a -panel in low relief, for a church. Adam lay asleep as if -suffering, and God, a dim, large figure, stooped towards him, -stretching forward His unveiled hand; and Eve, a small vivid, -naked female shape, was issuing like a flame towards the hand of -God, from the torn side of Adam. - -Now, Will Brangwen was working at the Eve. She was thin, a -keen, unripe thing. With trembling passion, fine as a breath of -air, he sent the chisel over her belly, her hard, unripe, small -belly. She was a stiff little figure, with sharp lines, in the -throes and torture and ecstasy of her creation. But he trembled -as he touched her. He had not finished any of his figures. There -was a bird on a bough overhead, lifting its wings for flight, -and a serpent wreathing up to it. It was not finished yet. He -trembled with passion, at last able to create the new, sharp -body of his Eve. - -At the sides, at the far sides, at either end, were two -Angels covering their faces with their wings. They were like -trees. As he went to the Marsh, in the twilight, he felt that -the Angels, with covered faces, were standing back as he went -by. The darkness was of their shadows and the covering of their -faces. When he went through the Canal bridge, the evening glowed -in its last deep colours, the sky was dark blue, the stars -glittered from afar, very remote and approaching above the -darkening cluster of the farm, above the paths of crystal along -the edge of the heavens. - -She waited for him like the glow of light, and as if his face -were covered. And he dared not lift his face to look at her. - -Corn harvest came on. One evening they walked out through the -farm buildings at nightfall. A large gold moon hung heavily to -the grey horizon, trees hovered tall, standing back in the dusk, -waiting. Anna and the young man went on noiselessly by the -hedge, along where the farm-carts had made dark ruts in the -grass. They came through a gate into a wide open field where -still much light seemed to spread against their faces. In the -under-shadow the sheaves lay on the ground where the reapers had -left them, many sheaves like bodies prostrate in shadowy bulk; -others were riding hazily in shocks, like ships in the haze of -moonlight and of dusk, farther off. - -They did not want to turn back, yet whither were they to go, -towards the moon? For they were separate, single. - -"We will put up some sheaves," said Anna. So they could -remain there in the broad, open place. - -They went across the stubble to where the long rows of -upreared shocks ended. Curiously populous that part of the field -looked, where the shocks rode erect; the rest was open and -prostrate. - -The air was all hoary silver. She looked around her. Trees -stood vaguely at their distance, as if waiting like heralds, for -the signal to approach. In this space of vague crystal her heart -seemed like a bell ringing. She was afraid lest the sound should -be heard. - -"You take this row," she said to the youth, and passing on, -she stooped in the next row of lying sheaves, grasping her hands -in the tresses of the oats, lifting the heavy corn in either -hand, carrying it, as it hung heavily against her, to the -cleared space, where she set the two sheaves sharply down, -bringing them together with a faint, keen clash. Her two bulks -stood leaning together. He was coming, walking shadowily with -the gossamer dusk, carrying his two sheaves. She waited near-by. -He set his sheaves with a keen, faint clash, next to her -sheaves. They rode unsteadily. He tangled the tresses of corn. -It hissed like a fountain. He looked up and laughed. - -Then she turned away towards the moon, which seemed glowingly -to uncover her bosom every time she faced it. He went to the -vague emptiness of the field opposite, dutifully. - -They stooped, grasped the wet, soft hair of the corn, lifted -the heavy bundles, and returned. She was always first. She set -down her sheaves, making a pent-house with those others. He was -coming shadowy across the stubble, carrying his bundles, She -turned away, hearing only the sharp hiss of his mingling corn. -She walked between the moon and his shadowy figure. - -She took her two new sheaves and walked towards him, as he -rose from stooping over the earth. He was coming out of the near -distance. She set down her sheaves to make a new stook. They -were unsure. Her hands fluttered. Yet she broke away, and turned -to the moon, which laid bare her bosom, so she felt as if her -bosom were heaving and panting with moonlight. And he had to put -up her two sheaves, which had fallen down. He worked in silence. -The rhythm of the work carried him away again, as she was coming -near. - -They worked together, coming and going, in a rhythm, which -carried their feet and their bodies in tune. She stooped, she -lifted the burden of sheaves, she turned her face to the dimness -where he was, and went with her burden over the stubble. She -hesitated, set down her sheaves, there was a swish and hiss of -mingling oats, he was drawing near, and she must turn again. And -there was the flaring moon laying bare her bosom again, making -her drift and ebb like a wave. - -He worked steadily, engrossed, threading backwards and -forwards like a shuttle across the strip of cleared stubble, -weaving the long line of riding shocks, nearer and nearer to the -shadowy trees, threading his sheaves with hers. - -And always, she was gone before he came. As he came, she drew -away, as he drew away, she came. Were they never to meet? -Gradually a low, deep-sounding will in him vibrated to her, -tried to set her in accord, tried to bring her gradually to him, -to a meeting, till they should be together, till they should -meet as the sheaves that swished together. - -And the work went on. The moon grew brighter, clearer, the -corn glistened. He bent over the prostrate bundles, there was a -hiss as the sheaves left the ground, a trailing of heavy bodies -against him, a dazzle of moonlight on his eyes. And then he was -setting the corn together at the stook. And she was coming -near. - -He waited for her, he fumbled at the stook. She came. But she -stood back till he drew away. He saw her in shadow, a dark -column, and spoke to her, and she answered. She saw the -moonlight flash question on his face. But there was a space -between them, and he went away, the work carried them, -rhythmic. - -Why was there always a space between them, why were they -apart? Why, as she came up from under the moon, would she halt -and stand off from him? Why was he held away from her? His will -drummed persistently, darkly, it drowned everything else. - -Into the rhythm of his work there came a pulse and a steadied -purpose. He stooped, he lifted the weight, he heaved it towards -her, setting it as in her, under the moonlit space. And he went -back for more. Ever with increasing closeness he lifted the -sheaves and swung striding to the centre with them, ever he -drove her more nearly to the meeting, ever he did his share, and -drew towards her, overtaking her. There was only the moving to -and fro in the moonlight, engrossed, the swinging in the -silence, that was marked only by the splash of sheaves, and -silence, and a splash of sheaves. And ever the splash of his -sheaves broke swifter, beating up to hers, and ever the splash -of her sheaves recurred monotonously, unchanging, and ever the -splash of his sheaves beat nearer. - -Till at last, they met at the shock, facing each other, -sheaves in hand. And he was silvery with moonlight, with a -moonlit, shadowy face that frightened her. She waited for -him. - -"Put yours down," she said. - -"No, it's your turn." His voice was twanging and -insistent. - -She set her sheaves against the shock. He saw her hands -glisten among the spray of grain. And he dropped his sheaves and -he trembled as he took her in his arms. He had over-taken her, -and it was his privilege to kiss her. She was sweet and fresh -with the night air, and sweet with the scent of grain. And the -whole rhythm of him beat into his kisses, and still he pursued -her, in his kisses, and still she was not quite overcome. He -wondered over the moonlight on her nose! All the moonlight upon -her, all the darkness within her! All the night in his arms, -darkness and shine, he possessed of it all! All the night for -him now, to unfold, to venture within, all the mystery to be -entered, all the discovery to be made. - -Trembling with keen triumph, his heart was white as a star as -he drove his kisses nearer. - -"My love!" she called, in a low voice, from afar. The low -sound seemed to call to him from far off, under the moon, to him -who was unaware. He stopped, quivered, and listened. - -"My love," came again the low, plaintive call, like a bird -unseen in the night. - -He was afraid. His heart quivered and broke. He was -stopped. - -"Anna," he said, as if he answered her from a distance, -unsure. - -"My love." - -And he drew near, and she drew near. - -"Anna," he said, in wonder and the birthpain of love. - -"My love," she said, her voice growing rapturous. And they -kissed on the mouth, in rapture and surprise, long, real kisses. -The kiss lasted, there among the moonlight. He kissed her again, -and she kissed him. And again they were kissing together. Till -something happened in him, he was strange. He wanted her. He -wanted her exceedingly. She was something new. They stood there -folded, suspended in the night. And his whole being quivered -with surprise, as from a blow. He wanted her, and he wanted to -tell her so. But the shock was too great to him. He had never -realized before. He trembled with irritation and unusedness, he -did not know what to do. He held her more gently, gently, much -more gently. The conflict was gone by. And he was glad, and -breathless, and almost in tears. But he knew he wanted her. -Something fixed in him for ever. He was hers. And he was very -glad and afraid. He did not know what to do, as they stood there -in the open, moonlit field. He looked through her hair at the -moon, which seemed to swim liquid-bright. - -She sighed, and seemed to wake up, then she kissed him again. -Then she loosened herself away from him and took his hand. It -hurt him when she drew away from his breast. It hurt him with a -chagrin. Why did she draw away from him? But she held his -hand. - -"I want to go home," she said, looking at him in a way he -could not understand. - -He held close to her hand. He was dazed and he could not -move, he did not know how to move. She drew him away. - -He walked helplessly beside her, holding her hand. She went -with bent head. Suddenly he said, as the simple solution stated -itself to him: - -"We'll get married, Anna." - -She was silent. - -"We'll get married, Anna, shall we?" - -She stopped in the field again and kissed him, clinging to -him passionately, in a way he could not understand. He could not -understand. But he left it all now, to marriage. That was the -solution now, fixed ahead. He wanted her, he wanted to be -married to her, he wanted to have her altogether, as his own for -ever. And he waited, intent, for the accomplishment. But there -was all the while a slight tension of irritation. - -He spoke to his uncle and aunt that night. - -"Uncle," he said, "Anna and me think of getting married." - -"Oh ay!" said Brangwen. - -"But how, you have no money?" said the mother. - -The youth went pale. He hated these words. But he was like a -gleaming, bright pebble, something bright and inalterable. He -did not think. He sat there in his hard brightness, and did not -speak. - -"Have you mentioned it to your own mother?" asked -Brangwen. - -"No--I'll tell her on Saturday." - -"You'll go and see her?" - -"Yes." - -There was a long pause. - -"And what are you going to marry on--your pound a -week?" - -Again the youth went pale, as if the spirit were being -injured in him. - -"I don't know," he said, looking at his uncle with his bright -inhuman eyes, like a hawk's. - -Brangwen stirred in hatred. - -"It needs knowing," he said. - -"I shall have the money later on," said the nephew. "I will -raise some now, and pay it back then." - -"Oh ay!--And why this desperate hurry? She's a child of -eighteen, and you're a boy of twenty. You're neither of you of -age to do as you like yet." - -Will Brangwen ducked his head and looked at his uncle with -swift, mistrustful eyes, like a caged hawk. - -"What does it matter how old she is, and how old I am?" he -said. "What's the difference between me now and when I'm -thirty?" - -"A big difference, let us hope." - -"But you have no experience--you have no experience, and -no money. Why do you want to marry, without experience or -money?" asked the aunt. - -"What experience do I want, Aunt?" asked the boy. - -And if Brangwen's heart had not been hard and intact with -anger, like a precious stone, he would have agreed. - -Will Brangwen went home strange and untouched. He felt he -could not alter from what he was fixed upon, his will was set. -To alter it he must be destroyed. And he would not be destroyed. -He had no money. But he would get some from somewhere, it did -not matter. He lay awake for many hours, hard and clear and -unthinking, his soul crystallizing more inalterably. Then he -went fast asleep. - -It was as if his soul had turned into a hard crystal. He -might tremble and quiver and suffer, it did not alter. - -The next morning Tom Brangwen, inhuman with anger spoke to -Anna. - -"What's this about wanting to get married?" he said. - -She stood, paling a little, her dark eyes springing to the -hostile, startled look of a savage thing that will defend -itself, but trembles with sensitiveness. - -"I do," she said, out of her unconsciousness. - -His anger rose, and he would have liked to break her. - -"You do-you do-and what for?" he sneered with contempt. The -old, childish agony, the blindness that could recognize nobody, -the palpitating antagonism as of a raw, helpless, undefended -thing came back on her. - -"I do because I do," she cried, in the shrill, hysterical way -of her childhood. "You are not my father--my father -is dead--you are not my father." - -She was still a stranger. She did not recognize him. The cold -blade cut down, deep into Brangwen's soul. It cut him off from -her. - -"And what if I'm not?" he said. - -But he could not bear it. It had been so passionately dear to -him, her "Father--Daddie." - -He went about for some days as if stunned. His wife was -bemused. She did not understand. She only thought the marriage -was impeded for want of money and position. - -There was a horrible silence in the house. Anna kept out of -sight as much as possible. She could be for hours alone. - -Will Brangwen came back, after stupid scenes at Nottingham. -He too was pale and blank, but unchanging. His uncle hated him. -He hated this youth, who was so inhuman and obstinate. -Nevertheless, it was to Will Brangwen that the uncle, one -evening, handed over the shares which he had transferred to Anna -Lensky. They were for two thousand five hundred pounds. Will -Brangwen looked at his uncle. It was a great deal of the Marsh -capital here given away. The youth, however, was only colder and -more fixed. He was abstract, purely a fixed will. He gave the -shares to Anna. - -After which she cried for a whole day, sobbing her eyes out. -And at night, when she had heard her mother go to bed, she -slipped down and hung in the doorway. Her father sat in his -heavy silence, like a monument. He turned his head slowly. - -"Daddy," she cried from the doorway, and she ran to him -sobbing as if her heart would break. -"Daddy--daddy--daddy." - -She crouched on the hearthrug with her arms round him and her -face against him. His body was so big and comfortable. But -something hurt her head intolerably. She sobbed almost with -hysteria. - -He was silent, with his hand on her shoulder. His heart was -bleak. He was not her father. That beloved image she had broken. -Who was he then? A man put apart with those whose life has no -more developments. He was isolated from her. There was a -generation between them, he was old, he had died out from hot -life. A great deal of ash was in his fire, cold ash. He felt the -inevitable coldness, and in bitterness forgot the fire. He sat -in his coldness of age and isolation. He had his own wife. And -he blamed himself, he sneered at himself, for this clinging to -the young, wanting the young to belong to him. - -The child who clung to him wanted her child-husband. As was -natural. And from him, Brangwen, she wanted help, so that her -life might be properly fitted out. But love she did not want. -Why should there be love between them, between the stout, -middle-aged man and this child? How could there be anything -between them, but mere human willingness to help each other? He -was her guardian, no more. His heart was like ice, his face cold -and expressionless. She could not move him any more than a -statue. - -She crept to bed, and cried. But she was going to be married -to Will Brangwen, and then she need not bother any more. -Brangwen went to bed with a hard, cold heart, and cursed -himself. He looked at his wife. She was still his wife. Her dark -hair was threaded with grey, her face was beautiful in its -gathering age. She was just fifty. How poignantly he saw her! -And he wanted to cut out some of his own heart, which was -incontinent, and demanded still to share the rapid life of -youth. How he hated himself. - -His wife was so poignant and timely. She was still young and -naive, with some girl's freshness. But she did not want any more -the fight, the battle, the control, as he, in his incontinence, -still did. She was so natural, and he was ugly, unnatural, in -his inability to yield place. How hideous, this greedy -middle-age, which must stand in the way of life, like a large -demon. - -What was missing in his life, that, in his ravening soul, he -was not satisfied? He had had that friend at school, his mother, -his wife, and Anna? What had he done? He had failed with his -friend, he had been a poor son; but he had known satisfaction -with his wife, let it be enough; he loathed himself for the -state he was in over Anna. Yet he was not satisfied. It was -agony to know it. - -Was his life nothing? Had he nothing to show, no work? He did -not count his work, anybody could have done it. What had he -known, but the long, marital embrace with his wife! Curious, -that this was what his life amounted to! At any rate, it was -something, it was eternal. He would say so to anybody, and be -proud of it. He lay with his wife in his arms, and she was still -his fulfilment, just the same as ever. And that was the be-all -and the end-all. Yes, and he was proud of it. - -But the bitterness, underneath, that there still remained an -unsatisfied Tom Brangwen, who suffered agony because a girl -cared nothing for him. He loved his sons--he had them also. -But it was the further, the creative life with the girl, he -wanted as well. Oh, and he was ashamed. He trampled himself to -extinguish himself. - -What weariness! There was no peace, however old one grew! One -was never right, never decent, never master of oneself. It was -as if his hope had been in the girl. - -Anna quickly lapsed again into her love for the youth. Will -Brangwen had fixed his marriage for the Saturday before -Christmas. And he waited for her, in his bright, unquestioning -fashion, until then. He wanted her, she was his, he suspended -his being till the day should come. The wedding day, December -the twenty-third, had come into being for him as an absolute -thing. He lived in it. - -He did not count the days. But like a man who journeys in a -ship, he was suspended till the coming to port. - -He worked at his carving, he worked in his office, he came to -see her; all was but a form of waiting, without thought or -question. - -She was much more alive. She wanted to enjoy courtship. He -seemed to come and go like the wind, without asking why or -whither. But she wanted to enjoy his presence. For her, he was -the kernel of life, to touch him alone was bliss. But for him, -she was the essence of life. She existed as much when he was at -his carving in his lodging in Ilkeston, as when she sat looking -at him in the Marsh kitchen. In himself, he knew her. But his -outward faculties seemed suspended. He did not see her with his -eyes, nor hear her with his voice. - -And yet he trembled, sometimes into a kind of swoon, holding -her in his arms. They would stand sometimes folded together in -the barn, in silence. Then to her, as she felt his young, tense -figure with her hands, the bliss was intolerable, intolerable -the sense that she possessed him. For his body was so keen and -wonderful, it was the only reality in her world. In her world, -there was this one tense, vivid body of a man, and then many -other shadowy men, all unreal. In him, she touched the centre of -reality. And they were together, he and she, at the heart of the -secret. How she clutched him to her, his body the central body -of all life. Out of the rock of his form the very fountain of -life flowed. - -But to him, she was a flame that consumed him. The flame -flowed up his limbs, flowed through him, till he was consumed, -till he existed only as an unconscious, dark transit of flame, -deriving from her. - -Sometimes, in the darkness, a cow coughed. There was, in the -darkness, a slow sound of cud chewing. And it all seemed to flow -round them and upon them as the hot blood flows through the -womb, laving the unborn young. - -Sometimes, when it was cold, they stood to be lovers in the -stables, where the air was warm and sharp with ammonia. And -during these dark vigils, he learned to know her, her body -against his, they drew nearer and nearer together, the kisses -came more subtly close and fitting. So when in the thick -darkness a horse suddenly scrambled to its feet, with a dull, -thunderous sound, they listened as one person listening, they -knew as one person, they were conscious of the horse. - -Tom Brangwen had taken them a cottage at Cossethay, on a -twenty-one years' lease. Will Brangwen's eyes lit up as he saw -it. It was the cottage next the church, with dark yew-trees, -very black old trees, along the side of the house and the grassy -front garden; a red, squarish cottage with a low slate roof, and -low windows. It had a long dairy-scullery, a big flagged -kitchen, and a low parlour, that went up one step from the -kitchen. There were whitewashed beams across the ceilings, and -odd corners with cupboards. Looking out through the windows, -there was the grassy garden, the procession of black yew trees -down one side, and along the other sides, a red wall with ivy -separating the place from the high-road and the churchyard. The -old, little church, with its small spire on a square tower, -seemed to be looking back at the cottage windows. - -"There'll be no need to have a clock," said Will Brangwen, -peeping out at the white clock-face on the tower, his -neighbour. - -At the back of the house was a garden adjoining the paddock, -a cowshed with standing for two cows, pig-cotes and fowl-houses. -Will Brangwen was very happy. Anna was glad to think of being -mistress of her own place. - -Tom Brangwen was now the fairy godfather. He was never happy -unless he was buying something. Will Brangwen, with his interest -in all wood-work, was getting the furniture. He was left to buy -tables and round-staved chairs and the dressers, quite ordinary -stuff, but such as was identified with his cottage. - -Tom Brangwen, with more particular thought, spied out what he -called handy little things for her. He appeared with a set of -new-fangled cooking-pans, with a special sort of hanging lamp, -though the rooms were so low, with canny little machines for -grinding meat or mashing potatoes or whisking eggs. - -Anna took a sharp interest in what he bought, though she was -not always pleased. Some of the little contrivances, which he -thought so canny, left her doubtful. Nevertheless she was always -expectant, on market days there was always a long thrill of -anticipation. He arrived with the first darkness, the copper -lamps of his cart glowing. And she ran to the gate, as he, a -dark, burly figure up in the cart, was bending over his -parcels. - -"It's cupboard love as brings you out so sharp," he said, his -voice resounding in the cold darkness. Nevertheless he was -excited. And she, taking one of the cart lamps, poked and peered -among the jumble of things he had brought, pushing aside the oil -or implements he had got for himself. - -She dragged out a pair of small, strong bellows, registered -them in her mind, and then pulled uncertainly at something else. -It had a long handle, and a piece of brown paper round the -middle of it, like a waistcoat. - -"What's this?" she said, poking. - -He stopped to look at her. She went to the lamp-light by the -horse, and stood there bent over the new thing, while her hair -was like bronze, her apron white and cheerful. Her fingers -plucked busily at the paper. She dragged forth a little wringer, -with clean indiarubber rollers. She examined it critically, not -knowing quite how it worked. - -She looked up at him. He stood a shadowy presence beyond the -light. - -"How does it go?" she asked. - -"Why, it's for pulpin' turnips," he replied. - -She looked at him. His voice disturbed her. - -"Don't be silly. It's a little mangle," she said. "How do you -stand it, though?" - -"You screw it on th' side o' your wash-tub." He came and held -it out to her. - -"Oh, yes!" she cried, with one of her little skipping -movements, which still came when she was suddenly glad. - -And without another thought she ran off into the house, -leaving him to untackle the horse. And when he came into the -scullery, he found her there, with the little wringer fixed on -the dolly-tub, turning blissfully at the handle, and Tilly -beside her, exclaiming: - -"My word, that's a natty little thing! That'll save you -luggin' your inside out. That's the latest contraption, that -is." - -And Anna turned away at the handle, with great gusto of -possession. Then she let Tilly have a turn. - -"It fair runs by itself," said Tilly, turning on and on. -"Your clothes'll nip out on to th' line." - - - -CHAPTER V - -WEDDING AT THE MARSH - -It was a beautiful sunny day for the wedding, a muddy earth -but a bright sky. They had three cabs and two big closed-in -vehicles. Everybody crowded in the parlour in excitement. Anna -was still upstairs. Her father kept taking a nip of brandy. He -was handsome in his black coat and grey trousers. His voice was -hearty but troubled. His wife came down in dark grey silk with -lace, and a touch of peacock-blue in her bonnet. Her little body -was very sure and definite. Brangwen was thankful she was there, -to sustain him among all these people. - -The carriages! The Nottingham Mrs. Brangwen, in silk brocade, -stands in the doorway saying who must go with whom. There is a -great bustle. The front door is opened, and the wedding guests -are walking down the garden path, whilst those still waiting -peer through the window, and the little crowd at the gate gorps -and stretches. How funny such dressed-up people look in the -winter sunshine! - -They are gone--another lot! There begins to be more -room. Anna comes down blushing and very shy, to be viewed in her -white silk and her veil. Her mother-in-law surveys her -objectively, twitches the white train, arranges the folds of the -veil and asserts herself. - -Loud exclamations from the window that the bridegroom's -carriage has just passed. - -"Where's your hat, father, and your gloves?" cries the bride, -stamping her white slipper, her eyes flashing through her veil. -He hunts round--his hair is ruffled. Everybody has gone but -the bride and her father. He is ready--his face very red -and daunted. Tilly dithers in the little porch, waiting to open -the door. A waiting woman walks round Anna, who asks: - -"Am I all right?" - -She is ready. She bridles herself and looks queenly. She -waves her hand sharply to her father: - -"Come here!" - -He goes. She puts her hand very lightly on his arm, and -holding her bouquet like a shower, stepping, oh, very -graciously, just a little impatient with her father for being so -red in the face, she sweeps slowly past the fluttering Tilly, -and down the path. There are hoarse shouts at the gate, and all -her floating foamy whiteness passes slowly into the cab. - -Her father notices her slim ankle and foot as she steps up: a -child's foot. His heart is hard with tenderness. But she is in -ecstasies with herself for making such a lovely spectacle. All -the way she sat flamboyant with bliss because it was all so -lovely. She looked down solicitously at her bouquet: white roses -and lilies-of-the-valley and tube-roses and maidenhair -fern--very rich and cascade-like. - -Her father sat bewildered with all this strangeness, his -heart was so full it felt hard, and he couldn't think of -anything. - -The church was decorated for Christmas, dark with evergreens, -cold and snowy with white flowers. He went vaguely down to the -altar. How long was it since he had gone to be married himself? -He was not sure whether he was going to be married now, or what -he had come for. He had a troubled notion that he had to do -something or other. He saw his wife's bonnet, and wondered why -she wasn't there with him. - -They stood before the altar. He was staring up at the east -window, that glowed intensely, a sort of blue purple: it was -deep blue glowing, and some crimson, and little yellow flowers -held fast in veins of shadow, in a heavy web of darkness. How it -burned alive in radiance among its black web. - -"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" He felt -somebody touch him. He started. The words still re-echoed in his -memory, but were drawing off. - -"Me," he said hastily. - -Ann bent her head and smiled in her veil. How absurd he -was. - -Brangwen was staring away at the burning blue window at the -back of the altar, and wondering vaguely, with pain, if he ever -should get old, if he ever should feel arrived and established. -He was here at Anna's wedding. Well, what right had he to feel -responsible, like a father? He was still as unsure and unfixed -as when he had married himself. His wife and he! With a pang of -anguish he realized what uncertainties they both were. He was a -man of forty-five. Forty-five! In five more years fifty. Then -sixty--then seventy--then it was finished. My -God--and one still was so unestablished! - -How did one grow old-how could one become confident? He -wished he felt older. Why, what difference was there, as far as -he felt matured or completed, between him now and him at his own -wedding? He might be getting married over again--he and his -wife. He felt himself tiny, a little, upright figure on a plain -circled round with the immense, roaring sky: he and his wife, -two little, upright figures walking across this plain, whilst -the heavens shimmered and roared about them. When did one come -to an end? In which direction was it finished? There was no end, -no finish, only this roaring vast space. Did one never get old, -never die? That was the clue. He exulted strangely, with -torture. He would go on with his wife, he and she like two -children camping in the plains. What was sure but the endless -sky? But that was so sure, so boundless. - -Still the royal blue colour burned and blazed and sported -itself in the web of darkness before him, unwearyingly rich and -splendid. How rich and splendid his own life was, red and -burning and blazing and sporting itself in the dark meshes of -his body: and his wife, how she glowed and burned dark within -her meshes! Always it was so unfinished and unformed! - -There was a loud noise of the 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 swallow-tail 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 tomb-stones, -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 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 would have gone out, but Tilly came with his hat and -coat. The youth was helped on. - -"Well, here's luck, my boy," shouted his father. - -"When th' fat's in th' fire, let it frizzle," admonished his -uncle Frank. - -"Fair and softly does it, fair an' softly does -it," cried his aunt, Frank's wife, contrary. - -"You don't want to fall over yourself," said his uncle by -marriage. "You're not a bull at a gate." - -"Let a man have his own road," said Tom Brangwen testily. -"Don't be so free of your advice--it's his wedding this -time, not yours." - -"'E don't want many sign-posts," said his father. "There's -some roads a man has to be led, an' there's some roads a -boss-eyed man can only follow wi' one eye shut. But this road -can't be lost by a blind man nor a boss-eyed man nor a -cripple--and he's neither, thank God." - -"Don't you be so sure o' your walkin' powers," cried Frank's -wife. "There's many a man gets no further than half-way, nor -can't to save his life, let him live for ever." - -"Why, how do you know?" said Alfred. - -"It's plain enough in th' looks o' some," retorted Lizzie, -his sister-in-law. - -The youth stood with a faint, half-hearing smile on his face. -He was tense and abstracted. These things, or anything, scarcely -touched him. - -Anna came down, in her day dress, very elusive. She kissed -everybody, men and women, Will Brangwen shook hands with -everybody, kissed his mother, who began to cry, and the whole -party went surging out to the cab. - -The young couple were shut up, last injunctions shouted at -them. - -"Drive on," shouted Tom Brangwen. - -The cab rolled off. They saw the light diminish under the ash -trees. Then the whole party, quietened, went indoors. - -"They'll have three good fires burning," said Tom Brangwen, -looking at his watch. "I told Emma to make 'em up at nine, an' -then leave the door on th' latch. It's only half-past. They'll -have three fires burning, an' lamps lighted, an' Emma will ha' -warmed th' bed wi' th' warmin' pan. So I s'd think they'll be -all right." - -The party was much quieter. They talked of the young -couple. - -"She said she didn't want a servant in," said Tom Brangwen. -"The house isn't big enough, she'd always have the creature -under her nose. Emma'll do what is wanted of her, an' they'll be -to themselves." - -"It's best," said Lizzie, "you're more free." - -The party talked on slowly. Brangwen looked at his watch. - -"Let's go an' give 'em a carol," he said. "We s'll find th' -fiddles at the 'Cock an' Robin'." - -"Ay, come on," said Frank. - -Alfred rose in silence. The brother-in-law and one of Will's -brothers rose also. - -The five men went out. The night was flashing with stars. -Sirius blazed like a signal at the side of the hill, Orion, -stately and magnificent, was sloping along. - -Tom walked with his brother, Alfred. The men's heels rang on -the ground. - -"It's a fine night," said Tom. - -"Ay," said Alfred. - -"Nice to get out." - -"Ay." - -The brothers walked close together, the bond of blood strong -between them. Tom always felt very much the junior to -Alfred. - -"It's a long while since you left home," he said. - -"Ay," said Alfred. "I thought I was getting a bit -oldish--but I'm not. It's the things you've got as gets -worn out, it's not you yourself." - -"Why, what's worn out?" - -"Most folks as I've anything to do with--as has anything -to do with me. They all break down. You've got to go on by -yourself, if it's only to perdition. There's nobody going -alongside even there." - -Tom Brangwen meditated this. - -"Maybe you was never broken in," he said. - -"No, I never was," said Alfred proudly. - -And Tom felt his elder brother despised him a little. He -winced under it. - -"Everybody's got a way of their own," he said, stubbornly. -"It's only a dog as hasn't. An' them as can't take what they -give an' give what they take, they must go by themselves, or get -a dog as'll follow 'em." - -"They can do without the dog," said his brother. And again -Tom Brangwen was humble, thinking his brother was bigger than -himself. But if he was, he was. And if it were finer to go -alone, it was: he did not want to go for all that. - -They went over the field, where a thin, keen wind blew round -the ball of the hill, in the starlight. They came to the stile, -and to the side of Anna's house. The lights were out, only on -the blinds of the rooms downstairs, and of a bedroom upstairs, -firelight flickered. - -"We'd better leave 'em alone," said Alfred Brangwen. - -"Nay, nay," said Tom. "We'll carol 'em, for th' last -time." - -And in a quarter of an hour's time, eleven silent, rather -tipsy men scrambled over the wall, and into the garden by the -yew trees, outside the windows where faint firelight glowered on -the blinds. There came a shrill sound, two violins and a piccolo -shrilling on the frosty air. - -"In the fields with their flocks abiding." A commotion of -men's voices broke out singing in ragged unison. - -Anna Brangwen had started up, listening, when the music -began. She was afraid. - -"It's the wake," he whispered. - -She remained tense, her heart beating heavily, possessed with -strange, strong fear. Then there came the burst of men's -singing, rather uneven. She strained still, listening. - -"It's Dad," she said, in a low voice. They were silent, -listening. - -"And my father," he said. - -She listened still. But she was sure. She sank down again -into bed, into his arms. He held her very close, kissing her. -The hymn rambled on outside, all the men singing their best, -having forgotten everything else under the spell of the fiddles -and the tune. The firelight glowed against the darkness in the -room. Anna could hear her father singing with gusto. - -"Aren't they silly," she whispered. - -And they crept closer, closer together, hearts beating to one -another. And even as the hymn rolled on, they ceased to hear -it. - - - -CHAPTER VI - -ANNA VICTRIX - -Will Brangwen had some weeks of holiday after his marriage, -so the two took their honeymoon in full hands, alone in their -cottage together. - -And to him, as the days went by, it was as if the heavens had -fallen, and he were sitting with her among the ruins, in a new -world, everybody else buried, themselves two blissful survivors, -with everything to squander as they would. At first, he could -not get rid of a culpable sense of licence on his part. Wasn't -there some duty outside, calling him and he did not come? - -It was all very well at night, when the doors were locked and -the darkness drawn round the two of them. Then they were the -only inhabitants of the visible earth, the rest were under the -flood. And being alone in the world, they were a law unto -themselves, they could enjoy and squander and waste like -conscienceless gods. - -But in the morning, as the carts clanked by, and children -shouted down the lane; as the hucksters came calling their -wares, and the church clock struck eleven, and he and she had -not got up yet, even to breakfast, he could not help feeling -guilty, as if he were committing a breach of the -law--ashamed that he was not up and doing. - -"Doing what?" she asked. "What is there to do? You will only -lounge about." - -Still, even lounging about was respectable. One was at least -in connection with the world, then. Whereas now, lying so still -and peacefully, while the daylight came obscurely through the -drawn blind, one was severed from the world, one shut oneself -off in tacit denial of the world. And he was troubled. - -But it was so sweet and satisfying lying there talking -desultorily with her. It was sweeter than sunshine, and not so -evanescent. It was even irritating the way the church-clock kept -on chiming: there seemed no space between the hours, just a -moment, golden and still, whilst she traced his features with -her finger-tips, utterly careless and happy, and he loved her to -do it. - -But he was strange and unused. So suddenly, everything that -had been before was shed away and gone. One day, he was a -bachelor, living with the world. The next day, he was with her, -as remote from the world as if the two of them were buried like -a seed in darkness. Suddenly, like a chestnut falling out of a -burr, he was shed naked and glistening on to a soft, fecund -earth, leaving behind him the hard rind of worldly knowledge and -experience. He heard it in the huckster's cries, the noise of -carts, the calling of children. And it was all like the hard, -shed rind, discarded. Inside, in the softness and stillness of -the room, was the naked kernel, that palpitated in silent -activity, absorbed in reality. - -Inside the room was a great steadiness, a core of living -eternity. Only far outside, at the rim, went on the noise and -the destruction. Here at the centre the great wheel was -motionless, centred upon itself. Here was a poised, unflawed -stillness that was beyond time, because it remained the same, -inexhaustible, unchanging, unexhausted. - -As they lay close together, complete and beyond the touch of -time or change, it was as if they were at the very centre of all -the slow wheeling of space and the rapid agitation of life, -deep, deep inside them all, at the centre where there is utter -radiance, and eternal being, and the silence absorbed in praise: -the steady core of all movements, the unawakened sleep of all -wakefulness. They found themselves there, and they lay still, in -each other's arms; for their moment they were at the heart of -eternity, whilst time roared far off, for ever far off, towards -the rim. - -Then gradually they were passed away from the supreme centre, -down the circles of praise and joy and gladness, further and -further out, towards the noise and the friction. But their -hearts had burned and were tempered by the inner reality, they -were unalterably glad. - -Gradually they began to wake up, the noises outside became -more real. They understood and answered the call outside. They -counted the strokes of the bell. And when they counted midday, -they understood that it was midday, in the world, and for -themselves also. - -It dawned upon her that she was hungry. She had been getting -hungrier for a lifetime. But even yet it was not sufficiently -real to rouse her. A long way off she could hear the words, "I -am dying of hunger." Yet she lay still, separate, at peace, and -the words were unuttered. There was still another lapse. - -And then, quite calmly, even a little surprised, she was in -the present, and was saying: - -"I am dying with hunger." - -"So am I," he said calmly, as if it were of not the slightest -significance. And they relapsed into the warm, golden stillness. -And the minutes flowed unheeded past the window outside. - -Then suddenly she stirred against him. - -"My dear, I am dying of hunger," she said. - -It was a slight pain to him to be brought to. - -"We'll get up," he said, unmoving. - -And she sank her head on to him again, and they lay still, -lapsing. Half consciously, he heard the clock chime the hour. -She did not hear. - -"Do get up," she murmured at length, "and give me something -to eat." - -"Yes," he said, and he put his arms round her, and she lay -with her face on him. They were faintly astonished that they did -not move. The minutes rustled louder at the window. - -"Let me go then," he said. - -She lifted her head from him, relinquishingly. With a little -breaking away, he moved out of bed, and was taking his clothes. -She stretched out her hand to him. - -"You are so nice," she said, and he went back for a moment or -two. - -Then actually he did slip into some clothes, and, looking -round quickly at her, was gone out of the room. She lay -translated again into a pale, clearer peace. As if she were a -spirit, she listened to the noise of him downstairs, as if she -were no longer of the material world. - -It was half-past one. He looked at the silent kitchen, -untouched from last night, dim with the drawn blind. And he -hastened to draw up the blind, so people should know they were -not in bed any later. Well, it was his own house, it did not -matter. Hastily he put wood in the grate and made a fire. He -exulted in himself, like an adventurer on an undiscovered -island. The fire blazed up, he put on the kettle. How happy he -felt! How still and secluded the house was! There were only he -and she in the world. - -But when he unbolted the door, and, half-dressed, looked out, -he felt furtive and guilty. The world was there, after all. And -he had felt so secure, as though this house were the Ark in the -flood, and all the rest was drowned. The world was there: and it -was afternoon. The morning had vanished and gone by, the day was -growing old. Where was the bright, fresh morning? He was -accused. Was the morning gone, and he had lain with blinds -drawn, let it pass by unnoticed? - -He looked again round the chill, grey afternoon. And he -himself so soft and warm and glowing! There were two sprigs of -yellow jasmine in the saucer that covered the milk-jug. He -wondered who had been and left the sign. Taking the jug, he -hastily shut the door. Let the day and the daylight drop out, -let it go by unseen. He did not care. What did one day more or -less matter to him. It could fall into oblivion unspent if it -liked, this one course of daylight. - -"Somebody has been and found the door locked," he said when -he went upstairs with the tray. He gave her the two sprigs of -jasmine. She laughed as she sat up in bed, childishly threading -the flowers in the breast of her nightdress. Her brown hair -stuck out like a nimbus, all fierce, round her softly glowing -face. Her dark eyes watched the tray eagerly. - -"How good!" she cried, sniffing the cold air. "I'm glad you -did a lot." And she stretched out her hands eagerly for her -plate--"Come back to bed, quick--it's cold." She -rubbed her hands together sharply. - -He [put off what little clothing he had on, and] sat beside her -in the bed. - -"You look like a lion, with your mane sticking out, and your -nose pushed over your food," he said. - -She tinkled with laughter, and gladly ate her breakfast. - -The morning was sunk away unseen, the afternoon was steadily -going too, and he was letting it go. One bright transit of -daylight gone by unacknowledged! There was something unmanly, -recusant in it. He could not quite reconcile himself to the -fact. He felt he ought to get up, go out quickly into the -daylight, and work or spend himself energetically in the open -air of the afternoon, retrieving what was left to him of the -day. - -But he did not go. Well, one might as well be hung for a -sheep as for a lamb. If he had lost this day of his life, he had -lost it. He gave it up. He was not going to count his losses. -She didn't care. She didn't care in the least. -Then why should he? Should he be behind her in recklessness and -independence? She was superb in her indifference. He wanted to -be like her. - -She took her responsibilities lightly. When she spilled her -tea on the pillow, she rubbed it carelessly with a handkerchief, -and turned over the pillow. He would have felt guilty. She did -not. And it pleased him. It pleased him very much to see how -these things did not matter to her. - -When the meal was over, she wiped her mouth on her -handkerchief quickly, satisfied and happy, and settled down on -the pillow again, with her fingers in his close, strange, -fur-like hair. - -The evening began to fall, the light was half alive, livid. -He hid his face against her. - -"I don't like the twilight," he said. - -"I love it," she answered. - -He hid his face against her, who was warm and like sunlight. -She seemed to have sunlight inside her. Her heart beating seemed -like sunlight upon him. In her was a more real day than the day -could give: so warm and steady and restoring. He hid his face -against her whilst the twilight fell, whilst she lay staring out -with her unseeing dark eyes, as if she wandered forth -untrammelled in the vagueness. The vagueness gave her scope and -set her free. - -To him, turned towards her heart-pulse, all was very still -and very warm and very close, like noon-tide. He was glad to -know this warm, full noon. It ripened him and took away his -responsibility, some of his conscience. - -They got up when it was quite dark. She hastily twisted her -hair into a knot, and was dressed in a twinkling. Then they went -downstairs, drew to the fire, and sat in silence, saying a few -words now and then. - -Her father was coming. She bundled the dishes away, flew -round and tidied the room, assumed another character, and again -seated herself. He sat thinking of his carving of Eve. He loved -to go over his carving in his mind, dwelling on every stroke, -every line. How he loved it now! When he went back to his -Creation-panel again, he would finish his Eve, tender and -sparkling. It did not satisfy him yet. The Lord should labour -over her in a silent passion of Creation, and Adam should be -tense as if in a dream of immortality, and Eve should take form -glimmeringly, shadowily, as if the Lord must wrestle with His -own soul for her, yet she was a radiance. - -"What are you thinking about?" she asked. - -He found it difficult to say. His soul became shy when he -tried to communicate it. - -"I was thinking my Eve was too hard and lively." - -"Why?" - -"I don't know. She should be more----," he made a -gesture of infinite tenderness. - -There was a stillness with a little joy. He could not tell -her any more. Why could he not tell her any more? She felt a -pang of disconsolate sadness. But it was nothing. She went to -him. - -Her father came, and found them both very glowing, like an -open flower. He loved to sit with them. Where there was a -perfume of love, anyone who came must breathe it. They were both -very quick and alive, lit up from the other-world, so that it -was quite an experience for them, that anyone else could -exist. - -But still it troubled Will Brangwen a little, in his orderly, -conventional mind, that the established rule of things had gone -so utterly. One ought to get up in the morning and wash oneself -and be a decent social being. Instead, the two of them stayed in -bed till nightfall, and then got up, she never washed her face, -but sat there talking to her father as bright and shameless as a -daisy opened out of the dew. Or she got up at ten o'clock, and -quite blithely went to bed again at three, or at half-past four, -stripping him naked in the daylight, and all so gladly and -perfectly, oblivious quite of his qualms. He let her do as she -liked with him, and shone with strange pleasure. She was to -dispose of him as she would. He was translated with gladness to -be in her hands. And down went his qualms, his maxims, his -rules, his smaller beliefs, she scattered them like an expert -skittle-player. He was very much astonished and delighted to see -them scatter. - -He stood and gazed and grinned with wonder whilst his Tablets -of Stone went bounding and bumping and splintering down the -hill, dislodged for ever. Indeed, it was true as they said, that -a man wasn't born before he was married. What a change -indeed! - -He surveyed the rind of the world: houses, factories, trams, -the discarded rind; people scurrying about, work going on, all -on the discarded surface. An earthquake had burst it all from -inside. It was as if the surface of the world had been broken -away entire: Ilkeston, streets, church, people, work, -rule-of-the-day, all intact; and yet peeled away into unreality, -leaving here exposed the inside, the reality: one's own being, -strange feelings and passions and yearnings and beliefs and -aspirations, suddenly become present, revealed, the permanent -bedrock, knitted one rock with the woman one loved. It was -confounding. Things are not what they seem! When he was a child, -he had thought a woman was a woman merely by virtue of her -skirts and petticoats. And now, lo, the whole world could be -divested of its garment, the garment could lie there shed away -intact, and one could stand in a new world, a new earth, naked -in a new, naked universe. It was too astounding and -miraculous. - -This then was marriage! The old things didn't matter any -more. One got up at four o'clock, and had broth at tea-time and -made toffee in the middle of the night. One didn't put on one's -clothes or one did put on one's clothes. He still was not quite -sure it was not criminal. But it was a discovery to find one -might be so supremely absolved. All that mattered was that he -should love her and she should love him and they should live -kindled to one another, like the Lord in two burning bushes that -were not consumed. And so they lived for the time. - -She was less hampered than he, so she came more quickly to -her fulness, and was sooner ready to enjoy again a return to the -outside world. She was going to give a tea-party. His heart -sank. He wanted to go on, to go on as they were. He wanted to -have done with the outside world, to declare it finished for -ever. He was anxious with a deep desire and anxiety that she -should stay with him where they were in the timeless universe of -free, perfect limbs and immortal breast, affirming that the old -outward order was finished. The new order was begun to last for -ever, the living life, palpitating from the gleaming core, to -action, without crust or cover or outward lie. But no, he could -not keep her. She wanted the dead world again-she wanted to walk -on the outside once more. She was going to give a tea-party. It -made him frightened and furious and miserable. He was afraid all -would be lost that he had so newly come into: like the youth in -the fairy tale, who was king for one day in the year, and for -the rest a beaten herd: like Cinderella also, at the feast. He -was sullen. But she blithely began to make preparations for her -tea-party. His fear was too strong, he was troubled, he hated -her shallow anticipation and joy. Was she not forfeiting the -reality, the one reality, for all that was shallow and -worthless? Wasn't she carelessly taking off her crown to be an -artificial figure having other artificial women to tea: when she -might have been perfect with him, and kept him perfect, in the -land of intimate connection? Now he must be deposed, his joy -must be destroyed, he must put on the vulgar, shallow death of -an outward existence. - -He ground his soul in uneasiness and fear. But she rose to a -real outburst of house-work, turning him away as she shoved the -furniture aside to her broom. He stood hanging miserable near. -He wanted her back. Dread, and desire for her to stay with him, -and shame at his own dependence on her drove him to anger. He -began to lose his head. The wonder was going to pass away again. -All the love, the magnificent new order was going to be lost, -she would forfeit it all for the outside things. She would admit -the outside world again, she would throw away the living fruit -for the ostensible rind. He began to hate this in her. Driven by -fear of her departure into a state of helplessness, almost of -imbecility, he wandered about the house. - -And she, with her skirts kilted up, flew round at her work, -absorbed. - -"Shake the rug then, if you must hang round," she said. - -And fretting with resentment, he went to shake the rug. She -was blithely unconscious of him. He came back, hanging near to -her. - -"Can't you do anything?" she said, as if to a child, -impatiently. "Can't you do your wood-work?" - -"Where shall I do it?" he asked, harsh with pain. - -"Anywhere." - -How furious that made him. - -"Or go for a walk," she continued. "Go down to the Marsh. -Don't hang about as if you were only half there." - -He winced and hated it. He went away to read. Never had his -soul felt so flayed and uncreated. - -And soon he must come down again to her. His hovering near -her, wanting her to be with him, the futility of him, the way -his hands hung, irritated her beyond bearing. She turned on him -blindly and destructively, he became a mad creature, black and -electric with fury. The dark storms rose in him, his eyes glowed -black and evil, he was fiendish in his thwarted soul. - -There followed two black and ghastly days, when she was set -in anguish against him, and he felt as if he were in a black, -violent underworld, and his wrists quivered murderously. And she -resisted him. He seemed a dark, almost evil thing, pursuing her, -hanging on to her, burdening her. She would give anything to -have him removed. - -"You need some work to do," she said. "You ought to be at -work. Can't you do something?" - -His soul only grew the blacker. His condition now became -complete, the darkness of his soul was thorough. Everything had -gone: he remained complete in his own tense, black will. He was -now unaware of her. She did not exist. His dark, passionate soul -had recoiled upon itself, and now, clinched and coiled round a -centre of hatred, existed in its own power. There was a -curiously ugly pallor, an expressionlessness in his face. She -shuddered from him. She was afraid of him. His will seemed -grappled upon her. - -She retreated before him. She went down to the Marsh, she -entered again the immunity of her parents' love for her. He -remained at Yew Cottage, black and clinched, his mind dead. He -was unable to work at his wood-carving. He went on working -monotonously at the garden, blindly, like a mole. - -As she came home, up the hill, looking away at the town dim -and blue on the hill, her heart relaxed and became yearning. She -did not want to fight him any more. She wanted love--oh, -love. Her feet began to hurry. She wanted to get back to him. -Her heart became tight with yearning for him. - -He had been making the garden in order, cutting the edges of -the turf, laying the path with stones. He was a good, capable -workman. - -"How nice you've made it," she said, approaching tentatively -down the path. - -But he did not heed, he did not hear. His brain was solid and -dead. - -"Haven't you made it nice?" she repeated, rather -plaintively. - -He looked up at her, with that fixed, expressionless face and -unseeing eyes which shocked her, made her go dazed and blind. -Then he turned away. She saw his slender, stooping figure -groping. A revulsion came over her. She went indoors. - -As she took off her hat in the bedroom, she found herself -weeping bitterly, with some of the old, anguished, childish -desolation. She sat still and cried on. She did not want him to -know. She was afraid of his hard, evil moments, the head dropped -a little, rigidly, in a crouching, cruel way. She was afraid of -him. He seemed to lacerate her sensitive femaleness. He seemed -to hurt her womb, to take pleasure in torturing her. - -He came into the house. The sound of his footsteps in his -heavy boots filled her with horror: a hard, cruel, malignant -sound. She was afraid he would come upstairs. But he did not. -She waited apprehensively. He went out. - -Where she was most vulnerable, he hurt her. Oh, where she was -delivered over to him, in her very soft femaleness, he seemed to -lacerate her and desecrate her. She pressed her hands over her -womb in anguish, whilst the tears ran down her face. And why, -and why? Why was he like this? - -Suddenly she dried her tears. She must get the tea ready. She -went downstairs and set the table. When the meal was ready, she -called to him. - -"I've mashed the tea, Will, are you coming?" - -She herself could hear the sound of tears in her own voice, -and she began to cry again. He did not answer, but went on with -his work. She waited a few minutes, in anguish. Fear came over -her, she was panic-stricken with terror, like a child; and she -could not go home again to her father; she was held by the power -in this man who had taken her. - -She turned indoors so that he should not see her tears. She -sat down to table. Presently he came into the scullery. His -movements jarred on her, as she heard them. How horrible was the -way he pumped, exacerbating, so cruel! How she hated to hear -him! How he hated her! How his hatred was like blows upon her! -The tears were coming again. - -He came in, his face wooden and lifeless, fixed, persistent. -He sat down to tea, his head dropped over his cup, uglily. His -hands were red from the cold water, and there were rims of earth -in his nails. He went on with his tea. - -It was his negative insensitiveness to her that she could not -bear, something clayey and ugly. His intelligence was -self-absorbed. How unnatural it was to sit with a self-absorbed -creature, like something negative ensconced opposite one. -Nothing could touch him--he could only absorb things into -his own self. - -The tears were running down her face. Something startled him, -and he was looking up at her with his hateful, hard, bright -eyes, hard and unchanging as a bird of prey. - -"What are you crying for?" came the grating voice. - -She winced through her womb. She could not stop crying. - -"What are you crying for?" came the question again, in just -the same tone. And still there was silence, with only the sniff -of her tears. - -His eyes glittered, and as if with malignant desire. She -shrank and became blind. She was like a bird being beaten down. -A sort of swoon of helplessness came over her. She was of -another order than he, she had no defence against him. Against -such an influence, she was only vulnerable, she was given -up. - -He rose and went out of the house, possessed by the evil -spirit. It tortured him and wracked him, and fought in him. And -whilst he worked, in the deepening twilight, it left him. -Suddenly he saw that she was hurt. He had only seen her -triumphant before. Suddenly his heart was torn with compassion -for her. He became alive again, in an anguish of compassion. He -could not bear to think of her tears--he could not bear it. -He wanted to go to her and pour out his heart's blood to her. He -wanted to give everything to her, all his blood, his life, to -the last dregs, pour everything away to her. He yearned with -passionate desire to offer himself to her, utterly. - -The evening star came, and the night. She had not lighted the -lamp. His heart burned with pain and with grief. He trembled to -go to her. - -And at last he went, hesitating, burdened with a great -offering. The hardness had gone out of him, his body was -sensitive, slightly trembling. His hand was curiously sensitive, -shrinking, as he shut the door. He fixed the latch almost -tenderly. - -In the kitchen was only the fireglow, he could not see her. -He quivered with dread lest she had gone--he knew not -where. In shrinking dread, he went through to the parlour, to -the foot of the stairs. - -"Anna," he called. - -There was no answer. He went up the stairs, in dread of the -empty house--the horrible emptiness that made his heart -ring with insanity. He opened the bedroom door, and his heart -flashed with certainty that she had gone, that he was alone. - -But he saw her on the bed, lying very still and scarcely -noticeable, with her back to him. He went and put his hand on -her shoulder, very gently, hesitating, in a great fear and -self-offering. She did not move. - -He waited. The hand that touched her shoulder hurt him, as if -she were sending it away. He stood dim with pain. - -"Anna," he said. - -But still she was motionless, like a curled up, oblivious -creature. His heart beat with strange throes of pain. Then, by a -motion under his hand, he knew she was crying, holding herself -hard so that her tears should not be known. He waited. The -tension continued--perhaps she was not crying--then -suddenly relapsed with a sharp catch of a sob. His heart flamed -with love and suffering for her. Kneeling carefully on the bed, -so that his earthy boots should not touch it, he took her in his -arms to comfort her. The sobs gathered in her, she was sobbing -bitterly. But not to him. She was still away from him. - -He held her against his breast, whilst she sobbed, withheld -from him, and all his body vibrated against her. - -"Don't cry--don't cry," he said, with an odd simplicity. -His heart was calm and numb with a sort of innocence of love, -now. - -She still sobbed, ignoring him, ignoring that he held her. -His lips were dry. - -"Don't cry, my love," he said, in the same abstract way. In -his breast his heart burned like a torch, with suffering. He -could not bear the desolateness of her crying. He would have -soothed her with his blood. He heard the church clock chime, as -if it touched him, and he waited in suspense for it to have gone -by. It was quiet again. - -"My love," he said to her, bending to touch her wet face with -his mouth. He was afraid to touch her. How wet her face was! His -body trembled as he held her. He loved her till he felt his -heart and all his veins would burst and flood her with his hot, -healing blood. He knew his blood would heal and restore her. - -She was becoming quieter. He thanked the God of mercy that at -last she was becoming quieter. His head felt so strange and -blazed. Still he held her close, with trembling arms. His blood -seemed very strong, enveloping her. - -And at last she began to draw near to him, she nestled to -him. His limbs, his body, took fire and beat up in flames. She -clung to him, she cleaved to his body. The flames swept him, he -held her in sinews of fire. If she would kiss him! He bent his -mouth down. And her mouth, soft and moist, received him. He felt -his veins would burst with anguish of thankfulness, his heart -was mad with gratefulness, he could pour himself out upon her -for ever. - -When they came to themselves, the night was very dark. Two -hours had gone by. They lay still and warm and weak, like the -new-born, together. And there was a silence almost of the -unborn. Only his heart was weeping happily, after the pain. He -did not understand, he had yielded, given way. There was -no understanding. There could be only acquiescence and -submission, and tremulous wonder of consummation. - -The next morning, when they woke up, it had snowed. He -wondered what was the strange pallor in the air, and the unusual -tang. Snow was on the grass and the window-sill, it weighed down -the black, ragged branches of the yews, and smoothed the graves -in the churchyard. - -Soon, it began to snow again, and they were shut in. He was -glad, for then they were immune in a shadowy silence, there was -no world, no time. - -The snow lasted for some days. On the Sunday they went to -church. They made a line of footprints across the garden, he -left a flat snowprint of his hand on the wall as he vaulted -over, they traced the snow across the churchyard. For three days -they had been immune in a perfect love. - -There were very few people in church, and she was glad. She -did not care much for church. She had never questioned any -beliefs, and she was, from habit and custom, a regular attendant -at morning service. But she had ceased to come with any -anticipation. To-day, however, in the strangeness of snow, after -such consummation of love, she felt expectant again, and -delighted. She was still in the eternal world. - -She used, after she went to the High School, and wanted to be -a lady, wanted to fulfil some mysterious ideal, always to listen -to the sermon and to try to gather suggestions. That was all -very well for a while. The vicar told her to be good in this way -and in that. She went away feeling it was her highest aim to -fulfil these injunctions. - -But quickly this palled. After a short time, she was not very -much interested in being good. Her soul was in quest of -something, which was not just being good, and doing one's best. -No, she wanted something else: something that was not her -ready-made duty. Everything seemed to be merely a matter of -social duty, and never of her self. They talked about her soul, -but somehow never managed to rouse or to implicate her soul. As -yet her soul was not brought in at all. - -So that whilst she had an affection for Mr. Loverseed, the -vicar, and a protective sort of feeling for Cossethay church, -wanting always to help it and defend it, it counted very small -in her life. - -Not but that she was conscious of some unsatisfaction. When -her husband was roused by the thought of the churches, then she -became hostile to the ostensible church, she hated it for not -fulfilling anything in her. The Church told her to be good: very -well, she had no idea of contradicting what it said. The Church -talked about her soul, about the welfare of mankind, as if the -saving of her soul lay in her performing certain acts conducive -to the welfare of mankind. Well and good-it was so, then. - -Nevertheless, as she sat in church her face had a pathos and -poignancy. Was this what she had come to hear: how by doing this -thing and by not doing that, she could save her soul? She did -not contradict it. But the pathos of her face gave the lie. -There was something else she wanted to hear, it was something -else she asked for from the Church. - -But who was she to affirm it? And what was she doing -with unsatisfied desires? She was ashamed. She ignored them and -left them out of count as much as possible, her underneath -yearnings. They angered her. She wanted to be like other people, -decently satisfied. - -He angered her more than ever. Church had an irresistible -attraction for him. And he paid no more attention to that part -of the service which was Church to her, than if he had been an -angel or a fabulous beast sitting there. He simply paid no heed -to the sermon or to the meaning of the service. There was -something thick, dark, dense, powerful about him that irritated -her too deeply for her to speak of it. The Church teaching in -itself meant nothing to him. "And forgive us our trespasses as -we forgive them that trespass against us"--it simply did -not touch him. It might have been more sounds, and it would have -acted upon him in the same way. He did not want things to be -intelligible. And he did not care about his trespasses, neither -about the trespasses of his neighbour, when he was in church. -Leave that care for weekdays. When he was in church, he took no -more notice of his daily life. It was weekday stuff. As for the -welfare of mankind--he merely did not realize that there -was any such thing: except on weekdays, when he was good-natured -enough. In church, he wanted a dark, nameless emotion, the -emotion of all the great mysteries of passion. - -He was not interested in the thought of himself or of -her: oh, and how that irritated her! He ignored the sermon, he -ignored the greatness of mankind, he did not admit the immediate -importance of mankind. He did not care about himself as a human -being. He did not attach any vital importance to his life in the -drafting office, or his life among men. That was just merely the -margin to the text. The verity was his connection with Anna and -his connection with the Church, his real being lay in his dark -emotional experience of the Infinite, of the Absolute. And the -great mysterious, illuminated capitals to the text, were his -feelings with the Church. - -It exasperated her beyond measure. She could not get out of -the Church the satisfaction he got. The thought of her soul was -intimately mixed up with the thought of her own self. Indeed, -her soul and her own self were one and the same in her. Whereas -he seemed simply to ignore the fact of his own self, almost to -refute it. He had a soul--a dark, inhuman thing caring -nothing for humanity. So she conceived it. And in the gloom and -the mystery of the Church his soul lived and ran free, like some -strange, underground thing, abstract. - -He was very strange to her, and, in this church spirit, in -conceiving himself as a soul, he seemed to escape and run free -of her. In a way, she envied it him, this dark freedom and -jubilation of the soul, some strange entity in him. It -fascinated her. Again she hated it. And again, she despised him, -wanted to destroy it in him. - -This snowy morning, he sat with a dark-bright face beside -her, not aware of her, and somehow, she felt he was conveying to -strange, secret places the love that sprang in him for her. He -sat with a dark-rapt, half-delighted face, looking at a little -stained window. She saw the ruby-coloured glass, with the shadow -heaped along the bottom from the snow outside, and the familiar -yellow figure of the lamb holding the banner, a little darkened -now, but in the murky interior strangely luminous, pregnant. - -She had always liked the little red and yellow window. The -lamb, looking very silly and self-conscious, was holding up a -forepaw, in the cleft of which was dangerously perched a little -flag with a red cross. Very pale yellow, the lamb, with greenish -shadows. Since she was a child she had liked this creature, with -the same feeling she felt for the little woolly lambs on green -legs that children carried home from the fair every year. She -had always liked these toys, and she had the same amused, -childish liking for this church lamb. Yet she had always been -uneasy about it. She was never sure that this lamb with a flag -did not want to be more than it appeared. So she half mistrusted -it, there was a mixture of dislike in her attitude to it. - -Now, by a curious gathering, knitting of his eyes, the -faintest tension of ecstasy on his face, he gave her the -uncomfortable feeling that he was in correspondence with the -creature, the lamb in the window. A cold wonder came over -her--her soul was perplexed. There he sat, motionless, -timeless, with the faint, bright tension on his face. What was -he doing? What connection was there between him and the lamb in -the glass? - -Suddenly it gleamed to her dominant, this lamb with the flag. -Suddenly she had a powerful mystic experience, the power of the -tradition seized on her, she was transported to another world. -And she hated it, resisted it. - -Instantly, it was only a silly lamb in the glass again. And -dark, violent hatred of her husband swept up in her. What was he -doing, sitting there gleaming, carried away, soulful? - -She shifted sharply, she knocked him as she pretended to pick -up her glove, she groped among his feet. - -He came to, rather bewildered, exposed. Anybody but her would -have pitied him. She wanted to rend him. He did not know what -was amiss, what he had been doing. - -As they sat at dinner, in their cottage, he was dazed by the -chill of antagonism from her. She did not know why she was so -angry. But she was incensed. - -"Why do you never listen to the sermon?" she asked, seething -with hostility and violation. - -"I do," he said. - -"You don't--you don't hear a single word." - -He retired into himself, to enjoy his own sensation. There -was something subterranean about him, as if he had an underworld -refuge. The young girl hated to be in the house with him when he -was like this. - -After dinner, he retired into the parlour, continuing in the -same state of abstraction, which was a burden intolerable to -her. Then he went to the book-shelf and took down books to look -at, that she had scarcely glanced over. - -He sat absorbed over a book on the illuminations in old -missals, and then over a book on paintings in churches: Italian, -English, French and German. He had, when he was sixteen, -discovered a Roman Catholic bookshop where he could find such -things. - -He turned the leaves in absorption, absorbed in looking, not -thinking. He was like a man whose eyes were in his chest, she -said of him later. - -She came to look at the things with him. Half they fascinated -her. She was puzzled, interested, and antagonistic. - -It was when she came to pictures of the Pieta that she burst -out. - -"I do think they're loathsome," she cried. - -"What?" he said, surprised, abstracted. - -"Those bodies with slits in them, posing to be -worshipped." - -"You see, it means the Sacraments, the Bread," he said -slowly. - -"Does it," she cried. "Then it's worse. I don't want to see -your chest slit, nor to eat your dead body, even if you offer it -to me. Can't you see it's horrible?" - -"It isn't me, it's Christ." - -"What if it is, it's you! And it's horrible, you wallowing in -your own dead body, and thinking of eating it in the -Sacrament." - -"You've to take it for what it means." - -"It means your human body put up to be slit and killed and -then worshipped--what else?" - -They lapsed into silence. His soul grew angry and aloof. - -"And I think that lamb in Church," she said, "is the biggest -joke in the parish----" - -She burst into a "Pouf" of ridiculing laughter. - -"It might be, to those that see nothing in it," he said. "You -know it's the symbol of Christ, of His innocence and -sacrifice." - -"Whatever it means, it's a lamb," she said. "And I -like lambs too much to treat them as if they had to mean -something. As for the Christmas-tree -flag--no----" - -And again she poufed with mockery. - -"It's because you don't know anything," he said violently, -harshly. "Laugh at what you know, not at what you don't -know." - -"What don't I know?" - -"What things mean." - -"And what does it mean?" - -He was reluctant to answer her. He found it difficult. - -"What does it mean?" she insisted. - -"It means the triumph of the Resurrection." - -She hesitated, baffled, a fear came upon her. What were these -things? Something dark and powerful seemed to extend before her. -Was it wonderful after all? - -But no--she refused it. - -"Whatever it may pretend to mean, what it is is a silly -absurd toy-lamb with a Christmas-tree flag ledged on its -paw--and if it wants to mean anything else, it must look -different from that." - -He was in a state of violent irritation against her. Partly -he was ashamed of his love for these things; he hid his passion -for them. He was ashamed of the ecstasy into which he could -throw himself with these symbols. And for a few moments he hated -the lamb and the mystic pictures of the Eucharist, with a -violent, ashy hatred. His fire was put out, she had thrown cold -water on it. The whole thing was distasteful to him, his mouth -was full of ashes. He went out cold with corpse-like anger, -leaving her alone. He hated her. He walked through the white -snow, under a sky of lead. - -And she wept again, in bitter recurrence of the previous -gloom. But her heart was easy--oh, much more easy. - -She was quite willing to make it up with him when he came -home again. He was black and surly, but abated. She had broken a -little of something in him. And at length he was glad to forfeit -from his soul all his symbols, to have her making love to him. -He loved it when she put her head on his knee, and he had not -asked her to or wanted her to, he loved her when she put her -arms round him and made bold love to him, and he did not make -love to her. He felt a strong blood in his limbs again. - -And she loved the intent, far look of his eyes when they -rested on her: intent, yet far, not near, not with her. And she -wanted to bring them near. She wanted his eyes to come to hers, -to know her. And they would not. They remained intent, and far, -and proud, like a hawk's naive and inhuman as a hawk's. So she -loved him and caressed him and roused him like a hawk, till he -was keen and instant, but without tenderness. He came to her -fierce and hard, like a hawk striking and taking her. He was no -mystic any more, she was his aim and object, his prey. And she -was carried off, and he was satisfied, or satiated at last. - -Then immediately she began to retaliate on him. She too was a -hawk. If she imitated the pathetic plover running plaintive to -him, that was part of the game. When he, satisfied, moved with a -proud, insolent slouch of the body and a half-contemptuous drop -of the head, unaware of her, ignoring her very existence, after -taking his fill of her and getting his satisfaction of her, her -soul roused, its pinions became like steel, and she struck at -him. When he sat on his perch glancing sharply round with -solitary pride, pride eminent and fierce, she dashed at him and -threw him from his station savagely, she goaded him from his -keen dignity of a male, she harassed him from his unperturbed -pride, till he was mad with rage, his light brown eyes burned -with fury, they saw her now, like flames of anger they flared at -her and recognized her as the enemy. - -Very good, she was the enemy, very good. As he prowled round -her, she watched him. As he struck at her, she struck back. - -He was angry because she had carelessly pushed away his tools -so that they got rusty. - -"Don't leave them littering in my way, then," she said. - -"I shall leave them where I like," he cried. - -"Then I shall throw them where I like." - -They glowered at each other, he with rage in his hands, she -with her soul fierce with victory. They were very well matched. -They would fight it out. - -She turned to her sewing. Immediately the tea-things were -cleared away, she fetched out the stuff, and his soul rose in -rage. He hated beyond measure to hear the shriek of calico as -she tore the web sharply, as if with pleasure. And the run of -the sewing-machine gathered a frenzy in him at last. - -"Aren't you going to stop that row?" he shouted. "Can't you -do it in the daytime?" - -She looked up sharply, hostile from her work. - -"No, I can't do it in the daytime. I have other things to do. -Besides, I like sewing, and you're not going to stop me doing -it." - -Whereupon she turned back to her arranging, fixing, -stitching, his nerves jumped with anger as the sewing-machine -started and stuttered and buzzed. - -But she was enjoying herself, she was triumphant and happy as -the darting needle danced ecstatically down a hem, drawing the -stuff along under its vivid stabbing, irresistibly. She made the -machine hum. She stopped it imperiously, her fingers were deft -and swift and mistress. - -If he sat behind her stiff with impotent rage it only made a -trembling vividness come into her energy. On she worked. At last -he went to bed in a rage, and lay stiff, away from her. And she -turned her back on him. And in the morning they did not speak, -except in mere cold civilities. - -And when he came home at night, his heart relenting and -growing hot for love of her, when he was just ready to feel he -had been wrong, and when he was expecting her to feel the same, -there she sat at the sewing-machine, the whole house was covered -with clipped calico, the kettle was not even on the fire. - -She started up, affecting concern. - -"Is it so late?" she cried. - -But his face had gone stiff with rage. He walked through to -the parlour, then he walked back and out of the house again. Her -heart sank. Very swiftly she began to make his tea. - -He went black-hearted down the road to Ilkeston. When he was -in this state he never thought. A bolt shot across the doors of -his mind and shut him in, a prisoner. He went back to Ilkeston, -and drank a glass of beer. What was he going to do? He did not -want to see anybody. - -He would go to Nottingham, to his own town. He went to the -station and took a train. When he got to Nottingham, still he -had nowhere to go. However, it was more agreeable to walk -familiar streets. He paced them with a mad restlessness, as if -he were running amok. Then he turned to a book-shop and found a -book on Bamberg Cathedral. Here was a discovery! here was -something for him! He went into a quiet restaurant to look at -his treasure. He lit up with thrills of bliss as he turned from -picture to picture. He had found something at last, in these -carvings. His soul had great satisfaction. Had he not come out -to seek, and had he not found! He was in a passion of -fulfilment. These were the finest carvings, statues, he had ever -seen. The book lay in his hands like a doorway. The world around -was only an enclosure, a room. But he was going away. He -lingered over the lovely statues of women. A marvellous, -finely-wrought universe crystallized out around him as he looked -again, at the crowns, the twining hair, the woman-faces. He -liked all the better the unintelligible text of the German. He -preferred things he could not understand with the mind. He loved -the undiscovered and the undiscoverable. He pored over the -pictures intensely. And these were wooden statues, -"Holz"--he believed that meant wood. Wooden statues so -shapen to his soul! He was a million times gladdened. How -undiscovered the world was, how it revealed itself to his soul! -What a fine, exciting thing his life was, at his hand! Did not -Bamberg Cathedral make the world his own? He celebrated his -triumphant strength and life and verity, and embraced the vast -riches he was inheriting. - -But it was about time to go home. He had better catch a -train. All the time there was a steady bruise at the bottom of -his soul, but so steady as to be forgettable. He caught a train -for Ilkeston. - -It was ten o'clock as he was mounting the hill to Cossethay, -carrying his limp book on Bamberg Cathedral. He had not yet -thought of Anna, not definitely. The dark finger pressing a -bruise controlled him thoughtlessly. - -Anna had started guiltily when he left the house. She had -hastened preparing the tea, hoping he would come back. She had -made some toast, and got all ready. Then he didn't come. She -cried with vexation and disappointment. Why had he gone? Why -couldn't he come back now? Why was it such a battle between -them? She loved him--she did love him--why couldn't he -be kinder to her, nicer to her? - -She waited in distress--then her mood grew harder. He -passed out of her thoughts. She had considered indignantly, what -right he had to interfere with her sewing? She had indignantly -refuted his right to interfere with her at all. She was not to -be interfered with. Was she not herself, and he the -outsider. - -Yet a quiver of fear went through her. If he should leave -her? She sat conjuring fears and sufferings, till she wept with -very self-pity. She did not know what she would do if he left -her, or if he turned against her. The thought of it chilled her, -made her desolate and hard. And against him, the stranger, the -outsider, the being who wanted to arrogate authority, she -remained steadily fortified. Was she not herself? How could one -who was not of her own kind presume with authority? She knew she -was immutable, unchangeable, she was not afraid for her own -being. She was only afraid of all that was not herself. It -pressed round her, it came to her and took part in her, in form -of her man, this vast, resounding, alien world which was not -herself. And he had so many weapons, he might strike from so -many sides. - -When he came in at the door, his heart was blazed with pity -and tenderness, she looked so lost and forlorn and young. She -glanced up, afraid. And she was surprised to see him, -shining-faced, clear and beautiful in his movements, as if he -were clarified. And a startled pang of fear, and shame of -herself went through her. - -They waited for each other to speak. - -"Do you want to eat anything?" she said. - -"I'll get it myself," he answered, not wanting her to serve -him. But she brought out food. And it pleased him she did it for -him. He was again a bright lord. - -"I went to Nottingham," he said mildly. - -"To your mother?" she asked, in a flash of contempt. - -"No--I didn't go home." - -"Who did you go to see?" - -"I went to see nobody." - -"Then why did you go to Nottingham?" - -"I went because I wanted to go." - -He was getting angry that she again rebuffed him when he was -so clear and shining. - -"And who did you see?" - -"I saw nobody." - -"Nobody?" - -"No--who should I see?" - -"You saw nobody you knew?" - -"No, I didn't," he replied irritably. - -She believed him, and her mood became cold. - -"I bought a book," he said, handing her the propitiatory -volume. - -She idly looked at the pictures. Beautiful, the pure women, -with their clear-dropping gowns. Her heart became colder. What -did they mean to him? - -He sat and waited for her. She bent over the book. - -"Aren't they nice?" he said, his voice roused and glad. Her -blood flushed, but she did not lift her head. - -"Yes," she said. In spite of herself, she was compelled by -him. He was strange, attractive, exerting some power over -her. - -He came over to her, and touched her delicately. Her heart -beat with wild passion, wild raging passion. But she resisted as -yet. It was always the unknown, always the unknown, and she -clung fiercely to her known self. But the rising flood carried -her away. - -They loved each other to transport again, passionately and -fully. - -"Isn't it more wonderful than ever?" she asked him, radiant -like a newly opened flower, with tears like dew. - -He held her closer. He was strange and abstracted. - -"It is always more wonderful," she asseverated, in a glad, -child's voice, remembering her fear, and not quite cleared of it -yet. - -So it went on continually, the recurrence of love and -conflict between them. One day it seemed as if everything was -shattered, all life spoiled, ruined, desolate and laid waste. -The next day it was all marvellous again, just marvellous. One -day she thought she would go mad from his very presence, the -sound of his drinking was detestable to her. The next day she -loved and rejoiced in the way he crossed the floor, he was sun, -moon and stars in one. - -She fretted, however, at last, over the lack of stability. -When the perfect hours came back, her heart did not forget that -they would pass away again. She was uneasy. The surety, the -surety, the inner surety, the confidence in the abidingness of -love: that was what she wanted. And that she did not get. She -knew also that he had not got it. - -Nevertheless it was a marvellous world, she was for the most -part lost in the marvellousness of it. Even her great woes were -marvellous to her. - -She could be very happy. And she wanted to be happy. She -resented it when he made her unhappy. Then she could kill him, -cast him out. Many days, she waited for the hour when he would -be gone to work. Then the flow of her life, which he seemed to -damn up, was let loose, and she was free. She was free, she was -full of delight. Everything delighted her. She took up the rug -and went to shake it in the garden. Patches of snow were on the -fields, the air was light. She heard the ducks shouting on the -pond, she saw them charge and sail across the water as if they -were setting off on an invasion of the world. She watched the -rough horses, one of which was clipped smooth on the belly, so -that he wore a jacket and long stockings of brown fur, stand -kissing each other in the wintry morning by the church-yard -wall. Everything delighted her, now he was gone, the insulator, -the obstruction removed, the world was all hers, in connection -with her. - -She was joyfully active. Nothing pleased her more than to -hang out the washing in a high wind that came full-butt over the -round of the hill, tearing the wet garments out of her hands, -making flap-flap-flap of the waving stuff. She laughed and -struggled and grew angry. But she loved her solitary days. - -Then he came home at night, and she knitted her brows because -of some endless contest between them. As he stood in the doorway -her heart changed. It steeled itself. The laughter and zest of -the day disappeared from her. She was stiffened. - -They fought an unknown battle, unconsciously. Still they were -in love with each other, the passion was there. But the passion -was consumed in a battle. And the deep, fierce unnamed battle -went on. Everything glowed intensely about them, the world had -put off its clothes and was awful, with new, primal -nakedness. - -Sunday came when the strange spell was cast over her by him. -Half she loved it. She was becoming more like him. All the -week-days, there was a glint of sky and fields, the little -church seemed to babble away to the cottages the morning -through. But on Sundays, when he stayed at home, a -deeply-coloured, intense gloom seemed to gather on the face of -the earth, the church seemed to fill itself with shadow, to -become big, a universe to her, there was a burning of blue and -ruby, a sound of worship about her. And when the doors were -opened, and she came out into the world, it was a world -new--created, she stepped into the resurrection of the -world, her heart beating to the memory of the darkness and the -Passion. - -If, as very often, they went to the Marsh for tea on Sundays, -then she regained another, lighter world, that had never known -the gloom and the stained glass and the ecstasy of chanting. Her -husband was obliterated, she was with her father again, who was -so fresh and free and all daylight. Her husband, with his -intensity and his darkness, was obliterated. She left him, she -forgot him, she accepted her father. - -Yet, as she went home again with the young man, she put her -hand on his arm tentatively, a little bit ashamed, her hand -pleaded that he would not hold it against her, her recusancy. -But he was obscured. He seemed to become blind, as if he were -not there with her. - -Then she was afraid. She wanted him. When he was oblivious of -her, she almost went mad with fear. For she had become so -vulnerable, so exposed. She was in touch so intimately. All -things about her had become intimate, she had known them near -and lovely, like presences hovering upon her. What if they -should all go hard and separate again, standing back from her -terrible and distinct, and she, having known them, should be at -their mercy? - -This frightened her. Always, her husband was to her the -unknown to which she was delivered up. She was a flower that has -been tempted forth into blossom, and has no retreat. He had her -nakedness in his power. And who was he, what was he? A blind -thing, a dark force, without knowledge. She wanted to preserve -herself. - -Then she gathered him to herself again and was satisfied for -a moment. But as time went on, she began to realize more and -more that he did not alter, that he was something dark, alien to -herself. She had thought him just the bright reflex of herself. -As the weeks and months went by she realized that he was a dark -opposite to her, that they were opposites, not complements. - -He did not alter, he remained separately himself, and he -seemed to expect her to be part of himself, the extension of his -will. She felt him trying to gain power over her, without -knowing her. What did he want? Was he going to bully her? - -What did she want herself? She answered herself, that she -wanted to be happy, to be natural, like the sunlight and the -busy daytime. And, at the bottom of her soul, she felt he wanted -her to be dark, unnatural. Sometimes, when he seemed like the -darkness covering and smothering her, she revolted almost in -horror, and struck at him. She struck at him, and made him -bleed, and he became wicked. Because she dreaded him and held -him in horror, he became wicked, he wanted to destroy. And then -the fight between them was cruel. - -She began to tremble. He wanted to impose himself on her. And -he began to shudder. She wanted to desert him, to leave him a -prey to the open, with the unclean dogs of the darkness setting -on to devour him. He must beat her, and make her stay with him. -Whereas she fought to keep herself free of him. - -They went their ways now shadowed and stained with blood, -feeling the world far off, unable to give help. Till she began -to get tired. After a certain point, she became impassive, -detached utterly from him. He was always ready to burst out -murderously against her. Her soul got up and left him, she went -her way. Nevertheless in her apparent blitheness, that made his -soul black with opposition, she trembled as if she bled. - -And ever and again, the pure love came in sunbeams between -them, when she was like a flower in the sun to him, so -beautiful, so shining, so intensely dear that he could scarcely -bear it. Then as if his soul had six wings of bliss he stood -absorbed in praise, feeling the radiance from the Almighty beat -through him like a pulse, as he stood in the upright flame of -praise, transmitting the pulse of Creation. - -And ever and again he appeared to her as the dread flame of -power. Sometimes, when he stood in the doorway, his face lit up, -he seemed like an Annunciation to her, her heart beat fast. And -she watched him, suspended. He had a dark, burning being that -she dreaded and resisted. She was subject to him as to the Angel -of the Presence. She waited upon him and heard his will, and she -trembled in his service. - -Then all this passed away. Then he loved her for her -childishness and for her strangeness to him, for the wonder of -her soul which was different from his soul, and which made him -genuine when he would be false. And she loved him for the way he -sat loosely in a chair, or for the way he came through a door -with his face open and eager. She loved his ringing, eager -voice, and the touch of the unknown about him, his absolute -simplicity. - -Yet neither of them was quite satisfied. He felt, somewhere, -that she did not respect him. She only respected him as far as -he was related to herself. For what he was, beyond her, she had -no care. She did not care for what he represented in himself. It -is true, he did not know himself what he represented. But -whatever it was she did not really honour it. She did no service -to his work as a lace-designer, nor to himself as bread-winner. -Because he went down to the office and worked every -day--that entitled him to no respect or regard from her, he -knew. Rather she despised him for it. And he almost loved her -for this, though at first it maddened him like an insult. - -What was much deeper, she soon came to combat his deepest -feelings. What he thought about life and about society and -mankind did not matter very much to her: he was right enough to -be insignificant. This was again galling to him. She would judge -beyond him on these things. But at length he came to accept her -judgments, discovering them as if they were his own. It was not -here the deep trouble lay. The deep root of his enmity lay in -the fact that she jeered at his soul. He was inarticulate and -stupid in thought. But to some things he clung passionately. He -loved the Church. If she tried to get out of him, what he -believed, then they were both soon in a white rage. - -Did he believe the water turned to wine at Cana? She would -drive him to the thing as a historical fact: so much -rain-water-look at it--can it become grape-juice, wine? For -an instant, he saw with the clear eyes of the mind and said no, -his clear mind, answering her for a moment, rejected the idea. -And immediately his whole soul was crying in a mad, inchoate -hatred against this violation of himself. It was true for him. -His mind was extinguished again at once, his blood was up. In -his blood and bones, he wanted the scene, the wedding, the water -brought forward from the firkins as red wine: and Christ saying -to His mother: "Woman, what have I to do with thee?--mine -hour is not yet come." - -And then: - -"His mother saith unto the servants, 'Whatsoever he saith -unto you, do it.'" - -Brangwen loved it, with his bones and blood he loved it, he -could not let it go. Yet she forced him to let it go. She hated -his blind attachments. - -Water, natural water, could it suddenly and unnaturally turn -into wine, depart from its being and at haphazard take on -another being? Ah no, he knew it was wrong. - -She became again the palpitating, hostile child, hateful, -putting things to destruction. He became mute and dead. His own -being gave him the lie. He knew it was so: wine was wine, water -was water, for ever: the water had not become wine. The miracle -was not a real fact. She seemed to be destroying him. He went -out, dark and destroyed, his soul running its blood. And he -tasted of death. Because his life was formed in these -unquestioned concepts. - -She, desolate again as she had been when she was a child, -went away and sobbed. She did not care, she did not care whether -the water had turned to wine or not. Let him believe it if he -wanted to. But she knew she had won. And an ashy desolation came -over her. - -They were ashenly miserable for some time. Then the life -began to come back. He was nothing if not dogged. He thought -again of the chapter of St. John. There was a great biting pang. -"But thou hast kept the good wine until now." "The best wine!" -The young man's heart responded in a craving, in a triumph, -although the knowledge that it was not true in fact bit at him -like a weasel in his heart. Which was stronger, the pain of the -denial, or the desire for affirmation? He was stubborn in -spirit, and abode by his desire. But he would not any more -affirm the miracles as true. - -Very well, it was not true, the water had not turned into -wine. The water had not turned into wine. But for all that he -would live in his soul as if the water had turned into -wine. For truth of fact, it had not. But for his soul, it -had. - -"Whether it turned into wine or whether it didn't," he said, -"it doesn't bother me. I take it for what it is." - -"And what is it?" she asked, quickly, hopefully. - -"It's the Bible," he said. - -That answer enraged her, and she despised him. She did not -actively question the Bible herself. But he drove her to -contempt. - -And yet he did not care about the Bible, the written letter. -Although he could not satisfy her, yet she knew of herself that -he had something real. He was not a dogmatist. He did not -believe in fact that the water turned into wine. He did -not want to make a fact out of it. Indeed, his attitude was -without criticism. It was purely individual. He took that which -was of value to him from the Written Word, he added to his -spirit. His mind he let sleep. - -And she was bitter against him, that he let his mind sleep. -That which was human, belonged to mankind, he would not exert. -He cared only for himself. He was no Christian. Above all, -Christ had asserted the brotherhood of man. - -She, almost against herself, clung to the worship of the -human knowledge. Man must die in the body, but in his knowledge -he was immortal. Such, somewhere, was her belief, quite obscure -and unformulated. She believed in the omnipotence of the human -mind. - -He, on the other hand, blind as a subterranean thing, just -ignored the human mind and ran after his own dark-souled -desires, following his own tunnelling nose. She felt often she -must suffocate. And she fought him off. - -Then he, knowing he was blind, fought madly back again, -frantic in sensual fear. He did foolish things. He asserted -himself on his rights, he arrogated the old position of master -of the house. - -"You've a right to do as I want," he cried. - -"Fool!" she answered. "Fool!" - -"I'll let you know who's master," he cried. - -"Fool!" she answered. "Fool! I've known my own father, who -could put a dozen of you in his pipe and push them down with his -finger-end. Don't I know what a fool you are!" - -He knew himself what a fool he was, and was flayed by the -knowledge. Yet he went on trying to steer the ship of their dual -life. He asserted his position as the captain of the ship. And -captain and ship bored her. He wanted to loom important as -master of one of the innumerable domestic craft that make up the -great fleet of society. It seemed to her a ridiculous armada of -tubs jostling in futility. She felt no belief in it. She jeered -at him as master of the house, master of their dual life. And he -was black with shame and rage. He knew, with shame, how her -father had been a man without arrogating any authority. - -He had gone on the wrong tack, and he felt it hard to give up -the expedition. There was great surging and shame. Then he -yielded. He had given up the master-of-the-house idea. - -There was something he wanted, nevertheless, some form of -mastery. Ever and anon, after his collapses into the petty and -the shameful, he rose up again, and, stubborn in spirit, strong -in his power to start afresh, set out once more in his male -pride of being to fulfil the hidden passion of his spirit. - -It began well, but it ended always in war between them, till -they were both driven almost to madness. He said, she did not -respect him. She laughed in hollow scorn of this. For her it was -enough that she loved him. - -"Respect what?" she asked. - -But he always answered the wrong thing. And though she -cudgelled her brains, she could not come at it. - -"Why don't you go on with your wood-carving?" she said. "Why -don't you finish your Adam and Eve?" - -But she did not care for the Adam and Eve, and he never put -another stroke to it. She jeered at the Eve, saying, "She is -like a little marionette. Why is she so small? You've made Adam -as big as God, and Eve like a doll." - -"It is impudence to say that Woman was made out of Man's -body," she continued, "when every man is born of woman. What -impudence men have, what arrogance!" - -In a rage one day, after trying to work on the board, and -failing, so that his belly was a flame of nausea, he chopped up -the whole panel and put it on the fire. She did not know. He -went about for some days very quiet and subdued after it. - -"Where is the Adam and Eve board?" she asked him. - -"Burnt." - -She looked at him. - -"But your carving?" - -"I burned it." - -"When?" - -She did not believe him. - -"On Friday night." - -"When I was at the Marsh?" - -"Yes." - -She said no more. - -Then, when he had gone to work, she wept for a whole day, and -was much chastened in spirit. So that a new, fragile flame of -love came out of the ashes of this last pain. - -Directly, it occurred to her that she was with child. There -was a great trembling of wonder and anticipation through her -soul. She wanted a child. Not that she loved babies so much, -though she was touched by all young things. But she wanted to -bear children. And a certain hunger in her heart wanted to unite -her husband with herself, in a child. - -She wanted a son. She felt, a son would be everything. She -wanted to tell her husband. But it was such a trembling, -intimate thing to tell him, and he was at this time hard and -unresponsive. So that she went away and wept. It was such a -waste of a beautiful opportunity, such a frost that nipped in -the bud one of the beautiful moments of her life. She went about -heavy and tremulous with her secret, wanting to touch him, oh, -most delicately, and see his face, dark and sensitive, attend to -her news. She waited and waited for him to become gentle and -still towards her. But he was always harsh and he bullied -her. - -So that the buds shrivelled from her confidence, she was -chilled. She went down to the Marsh. - -"Well," said her father, looking at her and seeing her at the -first glance, "what's amiss wi' you now?" - -The tears came at the touch of his careful love. - -"Nothing," she said. - -"Can't you hit it off, you two?" he said. - -"He's so obstinate," she quivered; but her soul was obdurate -itself. - -"Ay, an' I know another who's all that," said her father. - -She was silent. - -"You don't want to make yourselves miserable," said her -father; "all about nowt." - -"He isn't miserable," she said. - -"I'll back my life, if you can do nowt else, you can make him -as miserable as a dog. You'd be a dab hand at that, my -lass." - -"I do nothing to make him miserable," she retorted. - -"Oh no--oh no! A packet o' butterscotch, you are." - -She laughed a little. - -"You mustn't think I want him to be miserable," she -cried. "I don't." - -"We quite readily believe it," retorted Brangwen. "Neither do -you intend him to be hopping for joy like a fish in a pond." - -This made her think. She was rather surprised to find that -she did not intend her husband to be hopping for joy like -a fish in a pond. - -Her mother came, and they all sat down to tea, talking -casually. - -"Remember, child," said her mother, "that everything is not -waiting for your hand just to take or leave. You mustn't -expect it. Between two people, the love itself is the important -thing, and that is neither you nor him. It is a third thing you -must create. You mustn't expect it to be just your way." - -"Ha-nor do I. If I did I should soon find my mistake out. If -I put my hand out to take anything, my hand is very soon -bitten, I can tell you." - -"Then you must mind where you put your hand," said her -father. - -Anna was rather indignant that they took the tragedy of her -young married life with such equanimity. - -"You love the man right enough," said her father, wrinkling -his forehead in distress. "That's all as counts." - -"I do love him, more shame to him," she cried. "I want -to tell him--I've been waiting for four days now to tell -him----" her face began to quiver, the tears came. Her -parents watched her in silence. She did not go on. - -"Tell him what?" said her father. - -"That we're going to have an infant," she sobbed, "and he's -never, never let me, not once, every time I've come to him, he's -been horrid to me, and I wanted to tell him, I did. And he won't -let me--he's cruel to me." - -She sobbed as if her heart would break. Her mother went and -comforted her, put her arms round her, and held her close. Her -father sat with a queer, wrinkled brow, and was rather paler -than usual. His heart went tense with hatred of his -son-in-law. - -So that, when the tale was sobbed out, and comfort -administered and tea sipped, and something like calm restored to -the little circle, the thought of Will Brangwen's entry was not -pleasantly entertained. - -Tilly was set to watch out for him as he passed by on his way -home. The little party at table heard the woman's servant's -shrill call: - -"You've got to come in, Will. Anna's here." - -After a few moments, the youth entered. - -"Are you stopping?" he asked in his hard, harsh voice. - -He seemed like a blade of destruction standing there. She -quivered to tears. - -"Sit you down," said Tom Brangwen, "an' take a bit off your -length." - -Will Brangwen sat down. He felt something strange in the -atmosphere. He was dark browed, but his eyes had the keen, -intent, sharp look, as if he could only see in the distance; -which was a beauty in him, and which made Anna so angry. - -"Why does he always deny me?" she said to herself. "Why is it -nothing to him, what I am?" - -And Tom Brangwen, blue-eyed and warm, sat in opposition to -the youth. - -"How long are you stopping?" the young husband asked his -wife. - -"Not very long," she said. - -"Get your tea, lad," said Tom Brangwen. "Are you itchin' to -be off the moment you enter?" - -They talked of trivial things. Through the open door the -level rays of sunset poured in, shining on the floor. A grey hen -appeared stepping swiftly in the doorway, pecking, and the light -through her comb and her wattles made an oriflamme tossed here -and there, as she went, her grey body was like a ghost. - -Anna, watching, threw scraps of bread, and she felt the child -flame within her. She seemed to remember again forgotten, -burning, far-off things. - -"Where was I born, mother?" she asked. - -"In London." - -"And was my father"--she spoke of him as if he were -merely a strange name: she could never connect herself with -him--"was he dark?" - -"He had dark-brown hair and dark eyes and a fresh colouring. -He went bald, rather bald, when he was quite young," replied her -mother, also as if telling a tale which was just old -imagination. - -"Was he good-looking?" - -"Yes--he was very good-looking--rather small. I -have never seen an Englishman who looked like him." - -"Why?" - -"He was"--the mother made a quick, running movement with -her hands--"his figure was alive and changing--it was -never fixed. He was not in the least steady--like a running -stream." - -It flashed over the youth--Anna too was like a running -stream. Instantly he was in love with her again. - -Tom Brangwen was frightened. His heart always filled with -fear, fear of the unknown, when he heard his women speak of -their bygone men as of strangers they had known in passing and -had taken leave of again. - -In the room, there came a silence and a singleness over all -their hearts. They were separate people with separate destinies. -Why should they seek each to lay violent hands of claim on the -other? - -The young people went home as a sharp little moon was setting -in the dusk of spring. Tufts of trees hovered in the upper air, -the little church pricked up shadowily at the top of the hill, -the earth was a dark blue shadow. - -She put her hand lightly on his arm, out of her far distance. -And out of the distance, he felt her touch him. They walked on, -hand in hand, along opposite horizons, touching across the dusk. -There was a sound of thrushes calling in the dark blue -twilight. - -"I think we are going to have an infant, Bill," she said, -from far off. - -He trembled, and his fingers tightened on hers. - -"Why?" he asked, his heart beating. "You don't know?" - -"I do," she said. - -They continued without saying any more, walking along -opposite horizons, hand in hand across the intervening space, -two separate people. And he trembled as if a wind blew on to him -in strong gusts, out of the unseen. He was afraid. He was afraid -to know he was alone. For she seemed fulfilled and separate and -sufficient in her half of the world. He could not bear to know -that he was cut off. Why could he not be always one with her? It -was he who had given her the child. Why could she not be with -him, one with him? Why must he be set in this separateness, why -could she not be with him, close, close, as one with him? She -must be one with him. - -He held her fingers tightly in his own. She did not know what -he was thinking. The blaze of light on her heart was too -beautiful and dazzling, from the conception in her womb. She -walked glorified, and the sound of the thrushes, of the trains -in the valley, of the far-off, faint noises of the town, were -her "Magnificat". - -But he was struggling in silence. It seemed as though there -were before him a solid wall of darkness that impeded him and -suffocated him and made him mad. He wanted her to come to him, -to complete him, to stand before him so that his eyes did not, -should not meet the naked darkness. Nothing mattered to him but -that she should come and complete him. For he was ridden by the -awful sense of his own limitation. It was as if he ended -uncompleted, as yet uncreated on the darkness, and he wanted her -to come and liberate him into the whole. - -But she was complete in herself, and he was ashamed of his -need, his helpless need of her. His need, and his shame of need, -weighed on him like a madness. Yet still he was quiet and -gentle, in reverence of her conception, and because she was with -child by him. - -And she was happy in showers of sunshine. She loved her -husband, as a presence, as a grateful condition. But for the -moment her need was fulfilled, and now she wanted only to hold -her husband by the hand in sheer happiness, without taking -thought, only being glad. - -He had various folios of reproductions, and among them a -cheap print from Fra Angelico's "Entry of the Blessed into -Paradise". This filled Anna with bliss. The beautiful, innocent -way in which the Blessed held each other by the hand as they -moved towards the radiance, the real, real, angelic melody, made -her weep with happiness. The floweriness, the beams of light, -the linking of hands, was almost too much for her, too -innocent. - -Day after day came shining through the door of Paradise, day -after day she entered into the brightness. The child in her -shone till she herself was a beam of sunshine; and how lovely -was the sunshine that loitered and wandered out of doors, where -the catkins on the big hazel bushes at the end of the garden -hung in their shaken, floating aureole, where little fumes like -fire burst out from the black yew trees as a bird settled -clinging to the branches. One day bluebells were along the -hedge-bottoms, then cowslips twinkled like manna, golden and -evanescent on the meadows. She was full of a rich drowsiness and -loneliness. How happy she was, how gorgeous it was to live: to -have known herself, her husband, the passion of love and -begetting; and to know that all this lived and waited and burned -on around her, a terrible purifying fire, through which she had -passed for once to come to this peace of golden radiance, when -she was with child, and innocent, and in love with her husband -and with all the many angels hand in hand. She lifted her throat -to the breeze that came across the fields, and she felt it -handling her like sisters fondling her, she drank it in perfume -of cowslips and of apple-blossoms. - -And in all the happiness a black shadow, shy, wild, a beast -of prey, roamed and vanished from sight, and like strands of -gossamer blown across her eyes, there was a dread for her. - -She was afraid when he came home at night. As yet, her fear -never spoke, the shadow never rushed upon her. He was gentle, -humble, he kept himself withheld. His hands were delicate upon -her, and she loved them. But there ran through her the thrill, -crisp as pain, for she felt the darkness and other-world still -in his soft, sheathed hands. - -But the summer drifted in with the silence of a miracle, she -was almost always alone. All the while, went on the long, lovely -drowsiness, the maidenblush roses in the garden were all shed, -washed away in a pouring rain, summer drifted into autumn, and -the long, vague, golden days began to close. Crimson clouds -fumed about the west, and as night came on, all the sky was -fuming and steaming, and the moon, far above the swiftness of -vapours, was white, bleared, the night was uneasy. Suddenly the -moon would appear at a clear window in the sky, looking down -from far above, like a captive. And Anna did not sleep. There -was a strange, dark tension about her husband. - -She became aware that he was trying to force his will upon -her, something, there was something he wanted, as he lay there -dark and tense. And her soul sighed in weariness. - -Everything was so vague and lovely, and he wanted to wake her -up to the hard, hostile reality. She drew back in resistance. -Still he said nothing. But she felt his power persisting on her, -till she became aware of the strain, she cried out against the -exhaustion. He was forcing her, he was forcing her. And she -wanted so much the joy and the vagueness and the innocence of -her pregnancy. She did not want his bitter-corrosive love, she -did not want it poured into her, to burn her. Why must she have -it? Why, oh, why was he not content, contained? - -She sat many hours by the window, in those days when he drove -her most with the black constraint of his will, and she watched -the rain falling on the yew trees. She was not sad, only -wistful, blanched. The child under her heart was a perpetual -warmth. And she was sure. The pressure was only upon her from -the outside, her soul had no stripes. - -Yet in her heart itself was always this same strain, tense, -anxious. She was not safe, she was always exposed, she was -always attacked. There was a yearning in her for a fulness of -peace and blessedness. What a heavy yearning it was--so -heavy. - -She knew, vaguely, that all the time he was not satisfied, -all the time he was trying to force something from her. Ah, how -she wished she could succeed with him, in her own way! He was -there, so inevitable. She lived in him also. And how she wanted -to be at peace with him, at peace. She loved him. She would give -him love, pure love. With a strange, rapt look in her face, she -awaited his homecoming that night. - -Then, when he came, she rose with her hands full of love, as -of flowers, radiant, innocent. A dark spasm crossed his face. As -she watched, her face shining and flower-like with innocent -love, his face grew dark and tense, the cruelty gathered in his -brows, his eyes turned aside, she saw the whites of his eyes as -he looked aside from her. She waited, touching him with her -hands. But from his body through her hands came the -bitter-corrosive shock of his passion upon her, destroying her -in blossom. She shrank. She rose from her knees and went away -from him, to preserve herself. And it was great pain to her. - -To him also it was agony. He saw the glistening, flower-like -love in her face, and his heart was black because he did not -want it. Not this--not this. He did not want flowery -innocence. He was unsatisfied. The rage and storm of -unsatisfaction tormented him ceaselessly. Why had she not -satisfied him? He had satisfied her. She was satisfied, at -peace, innocent round the doors of her own paradise. - -And he was unsatisfied, unfulfilled, he raged in torment, -wanting, wanting. It was for her to satisfy him: then let her do -it. Let her not come with flowery handfuls of innocent love. He -would throw these aside and trample the flowers to nothing. He -would destroy her flowery, innocent bliss. Was he not entitled -to satisfaction from her, and was not his heart all raging -desire, his soul a black torment of unfulfilment. Let it be -fulfilled in him, then, as it was fulfilled in her. He had given -her her fulfilment. Let her rise up and do her part. - -He was cruel to her. But all the time he was ashamed. And -being ashamed, he was more cruel. For he was ashamed that he -could not come to fulfilment without her. And he could not. And -she would not heed him. He was shackled and in darkness of -torment. - -She beseeched him to work again, to do his wood-carving. But -his soul was too black. He had destroyed his panel of Adam and -Eve. He could not begin again, least of all now, whilst he was -in this condition. - -For her there was no final release, since he could not be -liberated from himself. Strange and amorphous, she must go -yearning on through the trouble, like a warm, glowing cloud -blown in the middle of a storm. She felt so rich, in her warm -vagueness, that her soul cried out on him, because he harried -her and wanted to destroy her. - -She had her moments of exaltation still, re-births of old -exaltations. As she sat by her bedroom window, watching the -steady rain, her spirit was somewhere far off. - -She sat in pride and curious pleasure. When there was no one -to exult with, and the unsatisfied soul must dance and play, -then one danced before the Unknown. - -Suddenly she realized that this was what she wanted to do. -Big with child as she was, she danced there in the bedroom by -herself, lifting her hands and her body to the Unseen, to the -unseen Creator who had chosen her, to Whom she belonged. - -She would not have had anyone know. She danced in secret, and -her soul rose in bliss. She danced in secret before the Creator, -she took off her clothes and danced in the pride of her -bigness. - -It surprised her, when it was over. She was shrinking and -afraid. To what was she now exposed? She half wanted to tell her -husband. Yet she shrank from him. - -All the time she ran on by herself. She liked the story of -David, who danced before the Lord, and uncovered himself -exultingly. Why should he uncover himself to Michal, a common -woman? He uncovered himself to the Lord. - -"Thou comest to me with a sword and a spear and a shield, but -I come to thee in the name of the Lord:--for the battle is -the Lord's, and he will give you into our hands." - -Her heart rang to the words. She walked in her pride. And her -battle was her own Lord's, her husband was delivered over. - -In these days she was oblivious of him. Who was he, to come -against her? No, he was not even the Philistine, the Giant. He -was like Saul proclaiming his own kingship. She laughed in her -heart. Who was he, proclaiming his kingship? She laughed in her -heart with pride. - -And she had to dance in exultation beyond him. Because he was -in the house, she had to dance before her Creator in exemption -from the man. On a Saturday afternoon, when she had a fire in -the bedroom, again she took off her things and danced, lifting -her knees and her hands in a slow, rhythmic exulting. He was in -the house, so her pride was fiercer. She would dance his -nullification, she would dance to her unseen Lord. She was -exalted over him, before the Lord. - -She heard him coming up the stairs, and she flinched. She -stood with the firelight on her ankles and feet, naked in the -shadowy, late afternoon, fastening up her hair. He was startled. -He stood in the doorway, his brows black and lowering. - -"What are you doing?" he said, gratingly. "You'll catch a -cold." - -And she lifted her hands and danced again, to annul him, the -light glanced on her knees as she made her slow, fine movements -down the far side of the room, across the firelight. He stood -away near the door in blackness of shadow, watching, transfixed. -And with slow, heavy movements she swayed backwards and -forwards, like a full ear of corn, pale in the dusky afternoon, -threading before the firelight, dancing his non-existence, -dancing herself to the Lord, to exultation. - -He watched, and his soul burned in him. He turned aside, he -could not look, it hurt his eyes. Her fine limbs lifted and -lifted, her hair was sticking out all fierce, and her belly, -big, strange, terrifying, uplifted to the Lord. Her face was -rapt and beautiful, she danced exulting before her Lord, and -knew no man. - -It hurt him as he watched as if he were at the stake. He felt -he was being burned alive. The strangeness, the power of her in -her dancing consumed him, he was burned, he could not grasp, he -could not understand. He waited obliterated. Then his eyes -became blind to her, he saw her no more. And through the -unseeing veil between them he called to her, in his jarring -voice: - -"What are you doing that for?" - -"Go away," she said. "Let me dance by myself." - -"That isn't dancing," he said harshly. "What do you want to -do that for?" - -"I don't do it for you," she said. "You go away." - -Her strange, lifted belly, big with his child! Had he no -right to be there? He felt his presence a violation. Yet he had -his right to be there. He went and sat on the bed. - -She stopped dancing, and confronted him, again lifting her -slim arms and twisting at her hair. Her nakedness hurt her, -opposed to him. - -"I can do as I like in my bedroom," she cried. "Why do you -interfere with me?" - -And she slipped on a dressing-gown and crouched before the -fire. He was more at ease now she was covered up. The vision of -her tormented him all the days of his life, as she had been -then, a strange, exalted thing having no relation to -himself. - -After this day, the door seemed to shut on his mind. His brow -shut and became impervious. His eyes ceased to see, his hands -were suspended. Within himself his will was coiled like a beast, -hidden under the darkness, but always potent, working. - -At first she went on blithely enough with him shut down -beside her. But then his spell began to take hold of her. The -dark, seething potency of him, the power of a creature that lies -hidden and exerts its will to the destruction of the -free-running creature, as the tiger lying in the darkness of the -leaves steadily enforces the fall and death of the light -creatures that drink by the waterside in the morning, gradually -began to take effect on her. Though he lay there in his darkness -and did not move, yet she knew he lay waiting for her. She felt -his will fastening on her and pulling her down, even whilst he -was silent and obscure. - -She found that, in all her outgoings and her incomings, he -prevented her. Gradually she realized that she was being borne -down by him, borne down by the clinging, heavy weight of him, -that he was pulling her down as a leopard clings to a wild cow -and exhausts her and pulls her down. - -Gradually she realized that her life, her freedom, was -sinking under the silent grip of his physical will. He wanted -her in his power. He wanted to devour her at leisure, to have -her. At length she realized that her sleep was a long ache and a -weariness and exhaustion, because of his will fastened upon her, -as he lay there beside her, during the night. - -She realized it all, and there came a momentous pause, a -pause in her swift running, a moment's suspension in her life, -when she was lost. - -Then she turned fiercely on him, and fought him. He was not -to do this to her, it was monstrous. What horrible hold did he -want to have over her body? Why did he want to drag her down, -and kill her spirit? Why did he want to deny her spirit? Why did -he deny her spirituality, hold her for a body only? And was he -to claim her carcase? - -Some vast, hideous darkness he seemed to represent to -her. - -"What do you do to me?" she cried. "What beastly thing do you -do to me? You put a horrible pressure on my head, you don't let -me sleep, you don't let me live. Every moment of your life you -are doing something to me, something horrible, that destroys me. -There is something horrible in you, something dark and beastly -in your will. What do you want of me? What do you want to do to -me?" - -All the blood in his body went black and powerful and -corrosive as he heard her. Black and blind with hatred of her he -was. He was in a very black hell, and could not escape. - -He hated her for what she said. Did he not give her -everything, was she not everything to him? And the shame was a -bitter fire in him, that she was everything to him, that he had -nothing but her. And then that she should taunt him with it, -that he could not escape! The fire went black in his veins. For -try as he might, he could not escape. She was everything to him, -she was his life and his derivation. He depended on her. If she -were taken away, he would collapse as a house from which the -central pillar is removed. - -And she hated him, because he depended on her so utterly. He -was horrible to her. She wanted to thrust him off, to set him -apart. It was horrible that he should cleave to her, so close, -so close, like leopard that had leapt on her, and fastened. - -He went on from day to day in a blackness of rage and shame -and frustration. How he tortured himself, to be able to get away -from her. But he could not. She was as the rock on which he -stood, with deep, heaving water all round, and he was unable to -swim. He must take his stand on her, he must depend on -her. - -What had he in life, save her? Nothing. The rest was a great -heaving flood. The terror of the night of heaving, overwhelming -flood, which was his vision of life without her, was too much -for him. He clung to her fiercely and abjectly. - -And she beat him off, she beat him off. Where could he turn, -like a swimmer in a dark sea, beaten off from his hold, whither -could he turn? He wanted to leave her, he wanted to be able to -leave her. For his soul's sake, for his manhood's sake, he must -be able to leave her. - -But for what? She was the ark, and the rest of the world was -flood. The only tangible, secure thing was the woman. He could -leave her only for another woman. And where was the other woman, -and who was the other woman? Besides, he would be just in the -same state. Another woman would be woman, the case would be the -same. - -Why was she the all, the everything, why must he live only -through her, why must he sink if he were detached from her? Why -must he cleave to her in a frenzy as for his very life? - -The only other way to leave her was to die. The only straight -way to leave her was to die. His dark, raging soul knew that. -But he had no desire for death. - -Why could he not leave her? Why could he not throw himself -into the hidden water to live or die, as might be? He could not, -he could not. But supposing he went away, right away, and found -work, and had a lodging again. He could be again as he had been -before. - -But he knew he could not. A woman, he must have a woman. And -having a woman, he must be free of her. It would be the same -position. For he could not be free of her. - -For how can a man stand, unless he have something sure under -his feet. Can a man tread the unstable water all his life, and -call that standing? Better give in and drown at once. - -And upon what could he stand, save upon a woman? Was he then -like the old man of the seas, impotent to move save upon the -back of another life? Was he impotent, or a cripple, or a -defective, or a fragment? - -It was black, mad, shameful torture, the frenzy of fear, the -frenzy of desire, and the horrible, grasping back-wash of -shame. - -What was he afraid of? Why did life, without Anna, seem to -him just a horrible welter, everything jostling in a -meaningless, dark, fathomless flood? Why, if Anna left him even -for a week, did he seem to be clinging like a madman to the edge -of reality, and slipping surely, surely into the flood of -unreality that would drown him. This horrible slipping into -unreality drove him mad, his soul screamed with fear and -agony. - -Yet she was pushing him off from her, pushing him away, -breaking his fingers from their hold on her, persistently, -ruthlessly. He wanted her to have pity. And sometimes for a -moment she had pity. But she always began again, thrusting him -off, into the deep water, into the frenzy and agony of -uncertainty. - -She became like a fury to him, without any sense of him. Her -eyes were bright with a cold, unmoving hatred. Then his heart -seemed to die in its last fear. She might push him off into the -deeps. - -She would not sleep with him any more. She said he destroyed -her sleep. Up started all his frenzy and madness of fear and -suffering. She drove him away. Like a cowed, lurking devil he -was driven off, his mind working cunningly against her, devising -evil for her. But she drove him off. In his moments of intense -suffering, she seemed to him inconceivable, a monster, the -principle of cruelty. - -However her pity might give way for moments, she was hard and -cold as a jewel. He must be put off from her, she must sleep -alone. She made him a bed in the small room. - -And he lay there whipped, his soul whipped almost to death, -yet unchanged. He lay in agony of suffering, thrown back into -unreality, like a man thrown overboard into a sea, to swim till -he sinks, because there is no hold, only a wide, weltering -sea. - -He did not sleep, save for the white sleep when a thin veil -is drawn over the mind. It was not sleep. He was awake, and he -was not awake. He could not be alone. He needed to be able to -put his arms round her. He could not bear the empty space -against his breast, where she used to be. He could not bear it. -He felt as if he were suspended in space, held there by the grip -of his will. If he relaxed his will would fall, fall through -endless space, into the bottomless pit, always falling, -will-less, helpless, non-existent, just dropping to extinction, -falling till the fire of friction had burned out, like a falling -star, then nothing, nothing, complete nothing. - -He rose in the morning grey and unreal. And she seemed fond -of him again, she seemed to make up to him a little. - -"I slept well," she said, with her slightly false brightness. -"Did you?" - -"All right," he answered. - -He would never tell her. - -For three or four nights he lay alone through the white -sleep, his will unchanged, unchanged, still tense, fixed in its -grip. Then, as if she were revived and free to be fond of him -again, deluded by his silence and seeming acquiescence, moved -also by pity, she took him back again. - -Each night, in spite of all the shame, he had waited with -agony for bedtime, to see if she would shut him out. And each -night, as, in her false brightness, she said Good night, he felt -he must kill her or himself. But she asked for her kiss, so -pathetically, so prettily. So he kissed her, whilst his heart -was ice. - -And sometimes he went out. Once he sat for a long time in the -church porch, before going in to bed. It was dark with a wind -blowing. He sat in the church porch and felt some shelter, some -security. But it grew cold, and he must go in to bed. - -Then came the night when she said, putting her arms round him -and kissing him fondly: - -"Stay with me to-night, will you?" - -And he had stayed without demur. But his will had not -altered. He would have her fixed to him. - -So that soon she told him again she must be alone. - -"I don't want to send you away. I want to sleep -with you. But I can't sleep, you don't let me sleep." - -His blood turned black in his veins. - -"What do you mean by such a thing? It's an arrant lie. I -don't let you sleep----" - -"But you don't. I sleep so well when I'm alone. And I can't -sleep when you're there. You do something to me, you put a -pressure on my head. And I must sleep, now the child is -coming." - -"It's something in yourself," he replied, "something wrong in -you." - -Horrible in the extreme were these nocturnal combats, when -all the world was asleep, and they two were alone, alone in the -world, and repelling each other. It was hardly to be borne. - -He went and lay down alone. And at length, after a grey and -livid and ghastly period, he relaxed, something gave way in him. -He let go, he did not care what became of him. Strange and dim -he became to himself, to her, to everybody. A vagueness had come -over everything, like a drowning. And it was an infinite relief -to drown, a relief, a great, great relief. - -He would insist no more, he would force her no more. He would -force himself upon her no more. He would let go, relax, lapse, -and what would be, should be. - -Yet he wanted her still, he always, always wanted her. In his -soul, he was desolate as a child, he was so helpless. Like a -child on its mother, he depended on her for his living. He knew -it, and he knew he could hardly help it. - -Yet he must be able to be alone. He must be able to lie down -alongside the empty space, and let be. He must be able to leave -himself to the flood, to sink or live as might be. For he -recognized at length his own limitation, and the limitation of -his power. He had to give in. - -There was a stillness, a wanness between them. Half at least -of the battle was over. Sometimes she wept as she went about, -her heart was very heavy. But the child was always warm in her -womb. - -They were friends again, new, subdued friends. But there was -a wanness between them. They slept together once more, very -quietly, and distinct, not one together as before. And she was -intimate with him as at first. But he was very quiet, and not -intimate. He was glad in his soul, but for the time being he was -not alive. - -He could sleep with her, and let her be. He could be alone -now. He had just learned what it was to be able to be alone. It -was right and peaceful. She had given him a new, deeper freedom. -The world might be a welter of uncertainty, but he was himself -now. He had come into his own existence. He was born for a -second time, born at last unto himself, out of the vast body of -humanity. Now at last he had a separate identity, he existed -alone, even if he were not quite alone. Before he had only -existed in so far as he had relations with another being. Now he -had an absolute self--as well as a relative self. - -But it was a very dumb, weak, helpless self, a crawling -nursling. He went about very quiet, and in a way, submissive. He -had an unalterable self at last, free, separate, -independent. - -She was relieved, she was free of him. She had given him to -himself. She wept sometimes with tiredness and helplessness. But -he was a husband. And she seemed, in the child that was coming, -to forget. It seemed to make her warm and drowsy. She lapsed -into a long muse, indistinct, warm, vague, unwilling to be taken -out of her vagueness. And she rested on him also. - -Sometimes she came to him with a strange light in her eyes, -poignant, pathetic, as if she were asking for something. He -looked and he could not understand. She was so beautiful, so -visionary, the rays seemed to go out of his breast to her, like -a shining. He was there for her, all for her. And she would hold -his breast, and kiss it, and kiss it, kneeling beside him, she -who was waiting for the hour of her delivery. And he would lie -looking down at his breast, till it seemed that his breast was -not himself, that he had left it lying there. Yet it was himself -also, and beautiful and bright with her kisses. He was glad with -a strange, radiant pain. Whilst she kneeled beside him, and -kissed his breast with a slow, rapt, half-devotional -movement. - -He knew she wanted something, his heart yearned to give it -her. His heart yearned over her. And as she lifted her face, -that was radiant and rosy as a little cloud, his heart still -yearned over her, and, now from the distance, adored her. She -had a flower-like presence which he adored as he stood far off, -a stranger. - -The weeks passed on, the time drew near, they were very -gentle, and delicately happy. The insistent, passionate, dark -soul, the powerful unsatisfaction in him seemed stilled and -tamed, the lion lay down with the lamb in him. - -She loved him very much indeed, and he waited near her. She -was a precious, remote thing to him at this time, as she waited -for her child. Her soul was glad with an ecstasy because of the -coming infant. She wanted a boy: oh, very much she wanted a -boy. - -But she seemed so young and so frail. She was indeed only a -girl. As she stood by the fire washing herself--she was -proud to wash herself at this time--and he looked at her, -his heart was full of extreme tenderness for her. Such fine, -fine limbs, her slim, round arms like chasing lights, and her -legs so simple and childish, yet so very proud. Oh, she stood on -proud legs, with a lovely reckless balance of her full belly, -and the adorable little roundnesses, and the breasts becoming -important. Above it all, her face was like a rosy cloud -shining. - -How proud she was, what a lovely proud thing her young body! -And she loved him to put his hand on her ripe fullness, so that -he should thrill also with the stir and the quickening there. He -was afraid and silent, but she flung her arms round his neck -with proud, impudent joy. - -The pains came on, and Oh--how she cried! She would have -him stay with her. And after her long cries she would look at -him, with tears in her eyes and a sobbing laugh on her face, -saying: - -"I don't mind it really." - -It was bad enough. But to her it was never deathly. Even the -fierce, tearing pain was exhilarating. She screamed and -suffered, but was all the time curiously alive and vital. She -felt so powerfully alive and in the hands of such a masterly -force of life, that her bottom-most feeling was one of -exhilaration. She knew she was winning, winning, she was always -winning, with each onset of pain she was nearer to victory. - -Probably he suffered more than she did. He was not shocked or -horrified. But he was screwed very tight in the vise of -suffering. - -It was a girl. The second of silence on her face when they -said so showed him she was disappointed. And a great blazing -passion of resentment and protest sprang up in his heart. In -that moment he claimed the child. - -But when the milk came, and the infant sucked her breast, she -seemed to be leaping with extravagant bliss. - -"It sucks me, it sucks me, it likes me--oh, it loves -it!" she cried, holding the child to her breast with her two -hands covering it, passionately. - -And in a few moments, as she became used to her bliss, she -looked at the youth with glowing, unseeing eyes, and said: - -"Anna Victrix." - -He went away, trembling, and slept. To her, her pains were -the wound-smart of a victor, she was the prouder. - -When she was well again she was very happy. She called the -baby Ursula. Both Anna and her husband felt they must have a -name that gave them private satisfaction. The baby was tawny -skinned, it had a curious downy skin, and wisps of bronze hair, -and the yellow grey eyes that wavered, and then became -golden-brown like the father's. So they called her Ursula -because of the picture of the saint. - -It was a rather delicate baby at first, but soon it became -stronger, and was restless as a young eel. Anna was worn out -with the day-long wrestling with its young vigour. - -As a little animal, she loved and adored it and was happy. -She loved her husband, she kissed his eyes and nose and mouth, -and made much of him, she said his limbs were beautiful, she was -fascinated by the physical form of him. - -And she was indeed Anna Victrix. He could not combat her any -more. He was out in the wilderness, alone with her. Having -occasion to go to London, he marvelled, as he returned, thinking -of naked, lurking savages on an island, how these had built up -and created the great mass of Oxford Street or Piccadilly. How -had helpless savages, running with their spears on the -riverside, after fish, how had they come to rear up this great -London, the ponderous, massive, ugly superstructure of a world -of man upon a world of nature! It frightened and awed him. Man -was terrible, awful in his works. The works of man were more -terrible than man himself, almost monstrous. - -And yet, for his own part, for his private being, Brangwen -felt that the whole of the man's world was exterior and -extraneous to his own real life with Anna. Sweep away the whole -monstrous superstructure of the world of to-day, cities and -industries and civilization, leave only the bare earth with -plants growing and waters running, and he would not mind, so -long as he were whole, had Anna and the child and the new, -strange certainty in his soul. Then, if he were naked, he would -find clothing somewhere, he would make a shelter and bring food -to his wife. - -And what more? What more would be necessary? The great mass -of activity in which mankind was engaged meant nothing to him. -By nature, he had no part in it. What did he live for, then? For -Anna only, and for the sake of living? What did he want on this -earth? Anna only, and his children, and his life with his -children and her? Was there no more? - -He was attended by a sense of something more, something -further, which gave him absolute being. It was as if now he -existed in Eternity, let Time be what it might. What was there -outside? The fabricated world, that he did not believe in? What -should he bring to her, from outside? Nothing? Was it enough, as -it was? He was troubled in his acquiescence. She was not with -him. Yet he scarcely believed in himself, apart from her, though -the whole Infinite was with him. Let the whole world slide down -and over the edge of oblivion, he would stand alone. But he was -unsure of her. And he existed also in her. So he was unsure. - -He hovered near to her, never quite able to forget the vague, -haunting uncertainty, that seemed to challenge him, and which he -would not hear. A pang of dread, almost guilt, as of -insufficiency, would go over him as he heard her talking to the -baby. She stood before the window, with the month-old child in -her arms, talking in a musical, young sing-song that he had not -heard before, and which rang on his heart like a claim from the -distance, or the voice of another world sounding its claim on -him. He stood near, listening, and his heart surged, surged to -rise and submit. Then it shrank back and stayed aloof. He could -not move, a denial was upon him, as if he could not deny -himself. He must, he must be himself. - -"Look at the silly blue-caps, my beauty," she crooned, -holding up the infant to the window, where shone the white -garden, and the blue-tits scuffling in the snow: "Look at the -silly blue-caps, my darling, having a fight in the snow! Look at -them, my bird--beating the snow about with their wings, and -shaking their heads. Oh, aren't they wicked things, wicked -things! Look at their yellow feathers on the snow there! They'll -miss them, won't they, when they're cold later on. - -"Must we tell them to stop, must we say 'stop it' to them, my -bird? But they are naughty, naughty! Look at them!" Suddenly her -voice broke loud and fierce, she rapped the pane sharply. - -"Stop it," she cried, "stop it, you little nuisances. Stop -it!" She called louder, and rapped the pane more sharply. Her -voice was fierce and imperative. - -"Have more sense," she cried. - -"There, now they're gone. Where have they gone, the silly -things? What will they say to each other? What will they say, my -lambkin? They'll forget, won't they, they'll forget all about -it, out of their silly little heads, and their blue caps." - -After a moment, she turned her bright face to her -husband. - -"They were really fighting, they were really fierce -with each other!" she said, her voice keen with excitement and -wonder, as if she belonged to the birds' world, were identified -with the race of birds. - -"Ay, they'll fight, will blue-caps," he said, glad when she -turned to him with her glow from elsewhere. He came and stood -beside her and looked out at the marks on the snow where the -birds had scuffled, and at the yew trees' burdened, white and -black branches. What was the appeal it made to him, what was the -question of her bright face, what was the challenge he was -called to answer? He did not know. But as he stood there he felt -some responsibility which made him glad, but uneasy, as if he -must put out his own light. And he could not move as yet. - -Anna loved the child very much, oh, very much. Yet still she -was not quite fulfilled. She had a slight expectant feeling, as -of a door half opened. Here she was, safe and still in -Cossethay. But she felt as if she were not in Cossethay at all. -She was straining her eyes to something beyond. And from her -Pisgah mount, which she had attained, what could she see? A -faint, gleaming horizon, a long way off, and a rainbow like an -archway, a shadow-door with faintly coloured coping above it. -Must she be moving thither? - -Something she had not, something she did not grasp, could not -arrive at. There was something beyond her. But why must she -start on the journey? She stood so safely on the Pisgah -mountain. - -In the winter, when she rose with the sunrise, and out of the -back windows saw the east flaming yellow and orange above the -green, glowing grass, while the great pear tree in between stood -dark and magnificent as an idol, and under the dark pear tree, -the little sheet of water spread smooth in burnished, yellow -light, she said, "It is here". And when, at evening, the sunset -came in a red glare through the big opening in the clouds, she -said again, "It is beyond". - -Dawn and sunset were the feet of the rainbow that spanned the -day, and she saw the hope, the promise. Why should she travel -any further? - -Yet she always asked the question. As the sun went down in -his fiery winter haste, she faced the blazing close of the -affair, in which she had not played her fullest part, and she -made her demand still: "What are you doing, making this big -shining commotion? What is it that you keep so busy about, that -you will not let us alone?" - -She did not turn to her husband, for him to lead her. He was -apart from her, with her, according to her different conceptions -of him. The child she might hold up, she might toss the child -forward into the furnace, the child might walk there, amid the -burning coals and the incandescent roar of heat, as the three -witnesses walked with the angel in the fire. - -Soon, she felt sure of her husband. She knew his dark face -and the extent of its passion. She knew his slim, vigorous body, -she said it was hers. Then there was no denying her. She was a -rich woman enjoying her riches. - -And soon again she was with child. Which made her satisfied -and took away her discontent. She forgot that she had watched -the sun climb up and pass his way, a magnificent traveller -surging forward. She forgot that the moon had looked through a -window of the high, dark night, and nodded like a magic -recognition, signalled to her to follow. Sun and moon travelled -on, and left her, passed her by, a rich woman enjoying her -riches. She should go also. But she could not go, when they -called, because she must stay at home now. With satisfaction she -relinquished the adventure to the unknown. She was bearing her -children. - -There was another child coming, and Anna lapsed into vague -content. If she were not the wayfarer to the unknown, if she -were arrived now, settled in her builded house, a rich woman, -still her doors opened under the arch of the rainbow, her -threshold reflected the passing of the sun and moon, the great -travellers, her house was full of the echo of journeying. - -She was a door and a threshold, she herself. Through her -another soul was coming, to stand upon her as upon the -threshold, looking out, shading its eyes for the direction to -take. - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE CATHEDRAL - -During the first year of her marriage, before Ursula was -born, Anna Brangwen and her husband went to visit her mother's -friend, the Baron Skrebensky. The latter had kept a slight -connection with Anna's mother, and had always preserved some -officious interest in the young girl, because she was a pure -Pole. - -When Baron Skrebensky was about forty years old, his wife -died, and left him raving, disconsolate. Lydia had visited him -then, taking Anna with her. It was when the girl was fourteen -years old. Since then she had not seen him. She remembered him -as a small sharp clergyman who cried and talked and terrified -her, whilst her mother was most strangely consoling, in a -foreign language. - -The little Baron never quite approved of Anna, because she -spoke no Polish. Still, he considered himself in some way her -guardian, on Lensky's behalf, and he presented her with some -old, heavy Russian jewellery, the least valuable of his wife's -relics. Then he lapsed out of the Brangwen's life again, though -he lived only about thirty miles away. - -Three years later came the startling news that he had married -a young English girl of good family. Everybody marvelled. Then -came a copy of "The History of the Parish of Briswell, by -Rudolph, Baron Skrebensky, Vicar of Briswell." It was a curious -book, incoherent, full of interesting exhumations. It was -dedicated: "To my wife, Millicent Maud Pearse, in whom I embrace -the generous spirit of England." - -"If he embraces no more than the spirit of England," said Tom -Brangwen, "it's a bad look-out for him." - -But paying a formal visit with his wife, he found the new -Baroness a little, creamy-skinned, insidious thing with -red-brown hair and a mouth that one must always watch, because -it curved back continually in an incomprehensible, strange laugh -that exposed her rather prominent teeth. She was not beautiful, -yet Tom Brangwen was immediately under her spell. She seemed to -snuggle like a kitten within his warmth, whilst she was at the -same time elusive and ironical, suggesting the fine steel of her -claws. - -The Baron was almost dotingly courteous and attentive to her. -She, almost mockingly, yet quite happy, let him dote. Curious -little thing she was, she had the soft, creamy, elusive beauty -of a ferret. Tom Brangwen was quite at a loss, at her mercy, and -she laughed, a little breathlessly, as if tempted to cruelty. -She did put fine torments on the elderly Baron. - -When some months later she bore a son, the Baron Skrebensky -was loud with delight. - -Gradually she gathered a circle of acquaintances in the -county. For she was of good family, half Venetian, educated in -Dresden. The little foreign vicar attained to a social status -which almost satisfied his maddened pride. - -Therefore the Brangwens were surprised when the invitation -came for Anna and her young husband to pay a visit to Briswell -vicarage. For the Skrebenskys were now moderately well off, -Millicent Skrebensky having some fortune of her own. - -Anna took her best clothes, recovered her best high-school -manner, and arrived with her husband. Will Brangwen, ruddy, -bright, with long limbs and a small head, like some uncouth -bird, was not changed in the least. The little Baroness was -smiling, showing her teeth. She had a real charm, a kind of -joyous coldness, laughing, delighted, like some weasel. Anna at -once respected her, and was on her guard before her, -instinctively attracted by the strange, childlike surety of the -Baroness, yet mistrusting it, fascinated. The little baron was -now quite white-haired, very brittle. He was wizened and -wrinkled, yet fiery, unsubdued. Anna looked at his lean body, at -his small, fine lean legs and lean hands as he sat talking, and -she flushed. She recognized the quality of the male in him, his -lean, concentrated age, his informed fire, his faculty for -sharp, deliberate response. He was so detached, so purely -objective. A woman was thoroughly outside him. There was no -confusion. So he could give that fine, deliberate response. - -He was something separate and interesting; his hard, -intrinsic being, whittled down by age to an essentiality and a -directness almost death-like, cruel, was yet so unswervingly -sure in its action, so distinct in its surety, that she was -attracted to him. She watched his cool, hard, separate fire, -fascinated by it. Would she rather have it than her husband's -diffuse heat, than his blind, hot youth? - -She seemed to be breathing high, sharp air, as if she had -just come out of a hot room. These strange Skrebenskys made her -aware of another, freer element, in which each person was -detached and isolated. Was not this her natural element? Was not -the close Brangwen life stifling her? - -Meanwhile the little baroness, with always a subtle light -stirring of her full, lustrous, hazel eyes, was playing with -Will Brangwen. He was not quick enough to see all her movements. -Yet he watched her steadily, with unchanging, lit-up eyes. She -was a strange creature to him. But she had no power over him. -She flushed, and was irritated. Yet she glanced again and again -at his dark, living face, curiously, as if she despised him. She -despised his uncritical, unironical nature, it had nothing for -her. Yet it angered her as if she were jealous. He watched her -with deferential interest as he would watch a stoat playing. But -he himself was not implicated. He was different in kind. She was -all lambent, biting flames, he was a red fire glowing steadily. -She could get nothing out of him. So she made him flush darkly -by assuming a biting, subtle class-superiority. He flushed, but -still he did not object. He was too different. - -Her little boy came in with the nurse. He was a quick, slight -child, with fine perceptiveness, and a cool transitoriness in -his interest. At once he treated Will Brangwen as an outsider. -He stayed by Anna for a moment, acknowledged her, then was gone -again, quick, observant, restless, with a glance of interest at -everything. - -The father adored him, and spoke to him in Polish. It was -queer, the stiff, aristocratic manner of the father with the -child, the distance in the relationship, the classic fatherhood -on the one hand, the filial subordination on the other. They -played together, in their different degrees very separate, two -different beings, differing as it were in rank rather than in -relationship. And the baroness smiled, smiled, smiled, always -smiled, showing her rather protruding teeth, having always a -mysterious attraction and charm. - -Anna realized how different her own life might have been, how -different her own living. Her soul stirred, she became as -another person. Her intimacy with her husband passed away, the -curious enveloping Brangwen intimacy, so warm, so close, so -stifling, when one seemed always to be in contact with the other -person, like a blood-relation, was annulled. She denied it, this -close relationship with her young husband. He and she were not -one. His heat was not always to suffuse her, suffuse her, -through her mind and her individuality, till she was of one heat -with him, till she had not her own self apart. She wanted her -own life. He seemed to lap her and suffuse her with his being, -his hot life, till she did not know whether she were herself, or -whether she were another creature, united with him in a world of -close blood-intimacy that closed over her and excluded her from -all the cool outside. - -She wanted her own, old, sharp self, detached, detached, -active but not absorbed, active for her own part, taking and -giving, but never absorbed. Whereas he wanted this strange -absorption with her, which still she resisted. But she was -partly helpless against it. She had lived so long in Tom -Brangwen's love, beforehand. - -From the Skrebensky's, they went to Will Brangwen's beloved -Lincoln Cathedral, because it was not far off. He had promised -her, that one by one, they should visit all the cathedrals of -England. They began with Lincoln, which he knew well. - -He began to get excited as the time drew near to set off. -What was it that changed him so much? She was almost angry, -coming as she did from the Skrebensky's. But now he ran on -alone. His very breast seemed to open its doors to watch for the -great church brooding over the town. His soul ran ahead. - -When he saw the cathedral in the distance, dark blue lifted -watchful in the sky, his heart leapt. It was the sign in heaven, -it was the Spirit hovering like a dove, like an eagle over the -earth. He turned his glowing, ecstatic face to her, his mouth -opened with a strange, ecstatic grin. - -"There she is," he said. - -The "she" irritated her. Why "she"? It was "it". What was the -cathedral, a big building, a thing of the past, obsolete, to -excite him to such a pitch? She began to stir herself to -readiness. - -They passed up the steep hill, he eager as a pilgrim arriving -at the shrine. As they came near the precincts, with castle on -one side and cathedral on the other, his veins seemed to break -into fiery blossom, he was transported. - -They had passed through the gate, and the great west front -was before them, with all its breadth and ornament. - -"It is a false front," he said, looking at the golden stone -and the twin towers, and loving them just the same. In a little -ecstasy he found himself in the porch, on the brink of the -unrevealed. He looked up to the lovely unfolding of the stone. -He was to pass within to the perfect womb. - -Then he pushed open the door, and the great, pillared gloom -was before him, in which his soul shuddered and rose from her -nest. His soul leapt, soared up into the great church. His body -stood still, absorbed by the height. His soul leapt up into the -gloom, into possession, it reeled, it swooned with a great -escape, it quivered in the womb, in the hush and the gloom of -fecundity, like seed of procreation in ecstasy. - -She too was overcome with wonder and awe. She followed him in -his progress. Here, the twilight was the very essence of life, -the coloured darkness was the embryo of all light, and the day. -Here, the very first dawn was breaking, the very last sunset -sinking, and the immemorial darkness, whereof life's day would -blossom and fall away again, re-echoed peace and profound -immemorial silence. - -Away from time, always outside of time! Between east and -west, between dawn and sunset, the church lay like a seed in -silence, dark before germination, silenced after death. -Containing birth and death, potential with all the noise and -transition of life, the cathedral remained hushed, a great, -involved seed, whereof the flower would be radiant life -inconceivable, but whose beginning and whose end were the circle -of silence. Spanned round with the rainbow, the jewelled gloom -folded music upon silence, light upon darkness, fecundity upon -death, as a seed folds leaf upon leaf and silence upon the root -and the flower, hushing up the secret of all between its parts, -the death out of which it fell, the life into which it has -dropped, the immortality it involves, and the death it will -embrace again. - -Here in the church, "before" and "after" were folded -together, all was contained in oneness. Brangwen came to his -consummation. Out of the doors of the womb he had come, putting -aside the wings of the womb, and proceeding into the light. -Through daylight and day-after-day he had come, knowledge after -knowledge, and experience after experience, remembering the -darkness of the womb, having prescience of the darkness after -death. Then between--while he had pushed open the doors of -the cathedral, and entered the twilight of both darkness, the -hush of the two-fold silence where dawn was sunset, and the -beginning and the end were one. - -Here the stone leapt up from the plain of earth, leapt up in -a manifold, clustered desire each time, up, away from the -horizontal earth, through twilight and dusk and the whole range -of desire, through the swerving, the declination, ah, to the -ecstasy, the touch, to the meeting and the consummation, the -meeting, the clasp, the close embrace, the neutrality, the -perfect, swooning consummation, the timeless ecstasy. There his -soul remained, at the apex of the arch, clinched in the timeless -ecstasy, consummated. - -And there was no time nor life nor death, but only this, this -timeless consummation, where the thrust from earth met the -thrust from earth and the arch was locked on the keystone of -ecstasy. This was all, this was everything. Till he came to -himself in the world below. Then again he gathered himself -together, in transit, every jet of him strained and leaped, -leaped clear into the darkness above, to the fecundity and the -unique mystery, to the touch, the clasp, the consummation, the -climax of eternity, the apex of the arch. - -She too was overcome, but silenced rather than tuned to the -place. She loved it as a world not quite her own, she resented -his transports and ecstasies. His passion in the cathedral at -first awed her, then made her angry. After all, there was the -sky outside, and in here, in this mysterious half-night, when -his soul leapt with the pillars upwards, it was not to the stars -and the crystalline dark space, but to meet and clasp with the -answering impulse of leaping stone, there in the dusk and -secrecy of the roof. The far-off clinching and mating of the -arches, the leap and thrust of the stone, carrying a great roof -overhead, awed and silenced her. - -But yet--yet she remembered that the open sky was no -blue vault, no dark dome hung with many twinkling lamps, but a -space where stars were wheeling in freedom, with freedom above -them always higher. - -The cathedral roused her too. But she would never consent to -the knitting of all the leaping stone in a great roof that -closed her in, and beyond which was nothing, nothing, it was the -ultimate confine. His soul would have liked it to be so: here, -here is all, complete, eternal: motion, meeting, ecstasy, and no -illusion of time, of night and day passing by, but only -perfectly proportioned space and movement clinching and -renewing, and passion surging its way into great waves to the -altar, recurrence of ecstasy. - -Her soul too was carried forward to the altar, to the -threshold of Eternity, in reverence and fear and joy. But ever -she hung back in the transit, mistrusting the culmination of the -altar. She was not to be flung forward on the lift and lift of -passionate flights, to be cast at last upon the altar steps as -upon the shore of the unknown. There was a great joy and a -verity in it. But even in the dazed swoon of the cathedral, she -claimed another right. The altar was barren, its lights gone -out. God burned no more in that bush. It was dead matter lying -there. She claimed the right to freedom above her, higher than -the roof. She had always a sense of being roofed in. - -So that she caught at little things, which saved her from -being swept forward headlong in the tide of passion that leaps -on into the Infinite in a great mass, triumphant and flinging -its own course. She wanted to get out of this fixed, leaping, -forward-travelling movement, to rise from it as a bird rises -with wet, limp feet from the sea, to lift herself as a bird -lifts its breast and thrusts its body from the pulse and heave -of a sea that bears it forward to an unwilling conclusion, tear -herself away like a bird on wings, and in open space where there -is clarity, rise up above the fixed, surcharged motion, a -separate speck that hangs suspended, moves this way and that, -seeing and answering before it sinks again, having chosen or -found the direction in which it shall be carried forward. - -And it was as if she must grasp at something, as if her wings -were too weak to lift her straight off the heaving motion. So -she caught sight of the wicked, odd little faces carved in -stone, and she stood before them arrested. - -These sly little faces peeped out of the grand tide of the -cathedral like something that knew better. They knew quite well, -these little imps that retorted on man's own illusion, that the -cathedral was not absolute. They winked and leered, giving -suggestion of the many things that had been left out of the -great concept of the church. "However much there is inside here, -there's a good deal they haven't got in," the little faces -mocked. - -Apart from the lift and spring of the great impulse towards -the altar, these little faces had separate wills, separate -motions, separate knowledge, which rippled back in defiance of -the tide, and laughed in triumph of their own very -littleness. - -"Oh, look!" cried Anna. "Oh, look how adorable, the faces! -Look at her." - -Brangwen looked unwillingly. This was the voice of the -serpent in his Eden. She pointed him to a plump, sly, malicious -little face carved in stone. - -"He knew her, the man who carved her," said Anna. "I'm sure -she was his wife." - -"It isn't a woman at all, it's a man," said Brangwen -curtly. - -"Do you think so?--No! That isn't a man. That is no -man's face." - -Her voice sounded rather jeering. He laughed shortly, and -went on. But she would not go forward with him. She loitered -about the carvings. And he could not go forward without her. He -waited impatient of this counteraction. She was spoiling his -passionate intercourse with the cathedral. His brows began to -gather. - -"Oh, this is good!" she cried again. "Here is the same -woman--look!--only he's made her cross! Isn't it -lovely! Hasn't he made her hideous to a degree?" She laughed -with pleasure. "Didn't he hate her? He must have been a nice -man! Look at her--isn't it awfully good--just like a -shrewish woman. He must have enjoyed putting her in like that. -He got his own back on her, didn't he?" - -"It's a man's face, no woman's at all--a -monk's--clean shaven," he said. - -She laughed with a pouf! of laughter. - -"You hate to think he put his wife in your cathedral, don't -you?" she mocked, with a tinkle of profane laughter. And she -laughed with malicious triumph. - -She had got free from the cathedral, she had even destroyed -the passion he had. She was glad. He was bitterly angry. Strive -as he would, he could not keep the cathedral wonderful to him. -He was disillusioned. That which had been his absolute, -containing all heaven and earth, was become to him as to her, a -shapely heap of dead matter--but dead, dead. - -His mouth was full of ash, his soul was furious. He hated her -for having destroyed another of his vital illusions. Soon he -would be stark, stark, without one place wherein to stand, -without one belief in which to rest. - -Yet somewhere in him he responded more deeply to the sly -little face that knew better, than he had done before to the -perfect surge of his cathedral. - -Nevertheless for the time being his soul was wretched and -homeless, and he could not bear to think of Anna's ousting him -from his beloved realities. He wanted his cathedral; he wanted -to satisfy his blind passion. And he could not any more. -Something intervened. - -They went home again, both of them altered. She had some new -reverence for that which he wanted, he felt that his cathedrals -would never again be to him as they had been. Before, he had -thought them absolute. But now he saw them crouching under the -sky, with still the dark, mysterious world of reality inside, -but as a world within a world, a sort of side show, whereas -before they had been as a world to him within a chaos: a -reality, an order, an absolute, within a meaningless -confusion. - -He had felt, before, that could he but go through the great -door and look down the gloom towards the far-off, concluding -wonder of the altar, that then, with the windows suspended -around like tablets of jewels, emanating their own glory, then -he had arrived. Here the satisfaction he had yearned after came -near, towards this, the porch of the great Unknown, all reality -gathered, and there, the altar was the mystic door, through -which all and everything must move on to eternity. - -But now, somehow, sadly and disillusioned, he realized that -the doorway was no doorway. It was too narrow, it was false. -Outside the cathedral were many flying spirits that could never -be sifted through the jewelled gloom. He had lost his -absolute. - -He listened to the thrushes in the gardens and heard a note -which the cathedrals did not include: something free and -careless and joyous. He crossed a field that was all yellow with -dandelions, on his way to work, and the bath of yellow glowing -was something at once so sumptuous and so fresh, that he was -glad he was away from his shadowy cathedral. - -There was life outside the Church. There was much that the -Church did not include. He thought of God, and of the whole blue -rotunda of the day. That was something great and free. He -thought of the ruins of the Grecian worship, and it seemed, a -temple was never perfectly a temple, till it was ruined and -mixed up with the winds and the sky and the herbs. - -Still he loved the Church. As a symbol, he loved it. He -tended it for what it tried to represent, rather than for that -which it did represent. Still he loved it. The little church -across his garden-wall drew him, he gave it loving attention. -But he went to take charge of it, to preserve it. It was as an -old, sacred thing to him. He looked after the stone and -woodwork, mending the organ and restoring a piece of broken -carving, repairing the church furniture. Later, he became -choir-master also. - -His life was shifting its centre, becoming more superficial. -He had failed to become really articulate, failed to find real -expression. He had to continue in the old form. But in spirit, -he was uncreated. - -Anna was absorbed in the child now, she left her husband to -take his own way. She was willing now to postpone all adventure -into unknown realities. She had the child, her palpable and -immediate future was the child. If her soul had found no -utterance, her womb had. - -The church that neighboured with his house became very -intimate and dear to him. He cherished it, he had it entirely in -his charge. If he could find no new activity, he would be happy -cherishing the old, dear form of worship. He knew this little, -whitewashed church. In its shadowy atmosphere he sank back into -being. He liked to sink himself in its hush as a stone sinks -into water. - -He went across his garden, mounted the wall by the little -steps, and entered the hush and peace of the church. As the -heavy door clanged to behind him, his feet re-echoed in the -aisle, his heart re-echoed with a little passion of tenderness -and mystic peace. He was also slightly ashamed, like a man who -has failed, who lapses back for his fulfilment. - -He loved to light the candles at the organ, and sitting there -alone in the little glow, practice the hymns and chants for the -service. The whitewashed arches retreated into darkness, the -sound of the organ and the organ-pedals died away upon the -unalterable stillness of the church, there were faint, ghostly -noises in the tower, and then the music swelled out again, -loudly, triumphantly. - -He ceased to fret about his life. He relaxed his will, and -let everything go. What was between him and his wife was a great -thing, if it was not everything. She had conquered, really. Let -him wait, and abide, wait and abide. She and the baby and -himself, they were one. The organ rang out his protestation. His -soul lay in the darkness as he pressed the keys of the -organ. - -To Anna, the baby was a complete bliss and fulfilment. Her -desires sank into abeyance, her soul was in bliss over the baby. -It was rather a delicate child, she had trouble to rear it. She -never for a moment thought it would die. It was a delicate -infant, therefore it behoved her to make it strong. She threw -herself into the labour, the child was everything. Her -imagination was all occupied here. She was a mother. It was -enough to handle the new little limbs, the new little body, hear -the new little voice crying in the stillness. All the future -rang to her out of the sound of the baby's crying and cooing, -she balanced the coming years of life in her hands, as she -nursed the child. The passionate sense of fulfilment, of the -future germinated in her, made her vivid and powerful. All the -future was in her hands, in the hands of the woman. And before -this baby was ten months old, she was again with child. She -seemed to be in the fecund of storm life, every moment was full -and busy with productiveness to her. She felt like the earth, -the mother of everything. - -Brangwen occupied himself with the church, he played the -organ, he trained the choir-boys, he taught a Sunday-school -class of youths. He was happy enough. There was an eager, -yearning kind of happiness in him as he taught the boys on -Sundays. He was all the time exciting himself with the proximity -of some secret that he had not yet fathomed. - -In the house, he served his wife and the little matriarchy. -She loved him because he was the father of her children. And she -always had a physical passion for him. So he gave up trying to -have the spiritual superiority and control, or even her respect -for his conscious or public life. He lived simply by her -physical love for him. And he served the little matriarchy, -nursing the child and helping with the housework, indifferent -any more of his own dignity and importance. But his abandoning -of claims, his living isolated upon his own interest, made him -seem unreal, unimportant. - -Anna was not publicly proud of him. But very soon she learned -to be indifferent to public life. He was not what is called a -manly man: he did not drink or smoke or arrogate importance. But -he was her man, and his very indifference to all claims of -manliness set her supreme in her own world with him. Physically, -she loved him and he satisfied her. He went alone and subsidiary -always. At first it had irritated her, the outer world existed -so little to him. Looking at him with outside eyes, she was -inclined to sneer at him. But her sneer changed to a sort of -respect. She respected him, that he could serve her so simply -and completely. Above all, she loved to bear his children. She -loved to be the source of children. - -She could not understand him, his strange, dark rages and his -devotion to the church. It was the church building he cared for; -and yet his soul was passionate for something. He laboured -cleaning the stonework, repairing the woodwork, restoring the -organ, and making the singing as perfect as possible. To keep -the church fabric and the church-ritual intact was his business; -to have the intimate sacred building utterly in his own hands, -and to make the form of service complete. There was a little -bright anguish and tension on his face, and in his intent -movements. He was like a lover who knows he is betrayed, but who -still loves, whose love is only the more intense. The church was -false, but he served it the more attentively. - -During the day, at his work in the office, he kept himself -suspended. He did not exist. He worked automatically till it was -time to go home. - -He loved with a hot heart the dark-haired little Ursula, and -he waited for the child to come to consciousness. Now the mother -monopolized the baby. But his heart waited in its darkness. His -hour would come. - -In the long run, he learned to submit to Anna. She forced him -to the spirit of her laws, whilst leaving him the letter of his -own. She combated in him his devils. She suffered very much from -his inexplicable and incalculable dark rages, when a blackness -filled him, and a black wind seemed to sweep out of existence -everything that had to do with him. She could feel herself, -everything, being annihilated by him. - -At first she fought him. At night, in this state, he would -kneel down to say his prayers. She looked at his crouching -figure. - -"Why are you kneeling there, pretending to pray?" she said, -harshly. "Do you think anybody can pray, when they are in the -vile temper you are in?" - -He remained crouching by the beside, motionless. - -"It's horrible," she continued, "and such a pretence! What do -you pretend you are saying? Who do you pretend you are praying -to?" - -He still remained motionless, seething with inchoate rage, -when his whole nature seemed to disintegrate. He seemed to live -with a strain upon himself, and occasionally came these dark, -chaotic rages, the lust for destruction. She then fought with -him, and their fights were horrible, murderous. And then the -passion between them came just as black and awful. - -But little by little, as she learned to love him better, she -would put herself aside, and when she felt one of his fits upon -him, would ignore him, successfully leave him in his world, -whilst she remained in her own. He had a black struggle with -himself, to come back to her. For at last he learned that he -would be in hell until he came back to her. So he struggled to -submit to her, and she was afraid of the ugly strain in his -eyes. She made love to him, and took him. Then he was grateful -to her love, humble. - -He made himself a woodwork shed, in which to restore things -which were destroyed in the church. So he had plenty to do: his -wife, his child, the church, the woodwork, and his wage-earning, -all occupying him. If only there were not some limit to him, -some darkness across his eyes! He had to give in to it at last -himself. He must submit to his own inadequacy, aware of some -limit to himself, of [something unformed in] his own black, -violent temper, and to reckon with it. But as she was more gentle -with him, it became quieter. - -As he sat sometimes very still, with a bright, vacant face, -Anna could see the suffering among the brightness. He was aware -of some limit to himself, of something unformed in his very -being, of some buds which were not ripe in him, some folded -centres of darkness which would never develop and unfold whilst -he was alive in the body. He was unready for fulfilment. -Something undeveloped in him limited him, there was a darkness -in him which he could not unfold, which would never -unfold in him. - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE CHILD - -From the first, the baby stirred in the young father a -deep, strong emotion he dared scarcely acknowledge, it was so -strong and came out of the dark of him. When he heard the child -cry, a terror possessed him, because of the answering echo from -the unfathomed distances in himself. Must he know in himself -such distances, perilous and imminent? - -He had the infant in his arms, he walked backwards and -forwards troubled by the crying of his own flesh and blood. This -was his own flesh and blood crying! His soul rose against the -voice suddenly breaking out from him, from the distances in -him. - -Sometimes in the night, the child cried and cried, when the -night was heavy and sleep oppressed him. And half asleep, he -stretched out his hand to put it over the baby's face to stop -the crying. But something arrested his hand: the very -inhumanness of the intolerable, continuous crying arrested him. -It was so impersonal, without cause or object. Yet he echoed to -it directly, his soul answered its madness. It filled him with -terror, almost with frenzy. - -He learned to acquiesce to this, to submit to the awful, -obliterated sources which were the origin of his living tissue. -He was not what he conceived himself to be! Then he was what he -was, unknown, potent, dark. - -He became accustomed to the child, he knew how to lift and -balance the little body. The baby had a beautiful, rounded head -that moved him passionately. He would have fought to the last -drop to defend that exquisite, perfect round head. - -He learned to know the little hands and feet, the strange, -unseeing, golden-brown eyes, the mouth that opened only to cry, -or to suck, or to show a queer, toothless laugh. He could almost -understand even the dangling legs, which at first had created in -him a feeling of aversion. They could kick in their queer little -way, they had their own softness. - -One evening, suddenly, he saw the tiny, living thing rolling -naked in the mother's lap, and he was sick, it was so utterly -helpless and vulnerable and extraneous; in a world of hard -surfaces and varying altitudes, it lay vulnerable and naked at -every point. Yet it was quite blithe. And yet, in its blind, -awful crying, was there not the blind, far-off terror of its own -vulnerable nakedness, the terror of being so utterly delivered -over, helpless at every point. He could not bear to hear it -crying. His heart strained and stood on guard against the whole -universe. - -But he waited for the dread of these days to pass; he saw the -joy coming. He saw the lovely, creamy, cool little ear of the -baby, a bit of dark hair rubbed to a bronze floss, like -bronze-dust. And he waited, for the child to become his, to look -at him and answer him. - -It had a separate being, but it was his own child. His flesh -and blood vibrated to it. He caught the baby to his breast with -his passionate, clapping laugh. And the infant knew him. - -As the newly-opened, newly-dawned eyes looked at him, he -wanted them to perceive him, to recognize him. Then he was -verified. The child knew him, a queer contortion of laughter -came on its face for him. He caught it to his breast, clapping -with a triumphant laugh. - -The golden-brown eyes of the child gradually lit up and -dilated at the sight of the dark-glowing face of the youth. It -knew its mother better, it wanted its mother more. But the -brightest, sharpest little ecstasy was for the father. - -It began to be strong, to move vigorously and freely, to make -sounds like words. It was a baby girl now. Already it knew his -strong hands, it exulted in his strong clasp, it laughed and -crowed when he played with it. - -And his heart grew red--hot with passionate feeling for -the child. She was not much more than a year old when the second -baby was born. Then he took Ursula for his own. She his first -little girl. He had set his heart on her. - -The second had dark blue eyes and a fair skin: it was more a -Brangwen, people said. The hair was fair. But they forgot Anna's -stiff blonde fleece of childhood. They called the newcomer -Gudrun. - -This time, Anna was stronger, and not so eager. She did not -mind that the baby was not a boy. It was enough that she had -milk and could suckle her child: Oh, oh, the bliss of the little -life sucking the milk of her body! Oh, oh, oh the bliss, as the -infant grew stronger, of the two tiny hands clutching, catching -blindly yet passionately at her breast, of the tiny mouth -seeking her in blind, sure, vital knowledge, of the sudden -consummate peace as the little body sank, the mouth and throat -sucking, sucking, sucking, drinking life from her to make a new -life, almost sobbing with passionate joy of receiving its own -existence, the tiny hands clutching frantically as the nipple -was drawn back, not to be gainsaid. This was enough for Anna. -She seemed to pass off into a kind of rapture of motherhood, her -rapture of motherhood was everything. - -So that the father had the elder baby, the weaned child, the -golden-brown, wondering vivid eyes of the little Ursula were for -him, who had waited behind the mother till the need was for him. -The mother felt a sharp stab of jealousy. But she was still more -absorbed in the tiny baby. It was entirely hers, its need was -direct upon her. - -So Ursula became the child of her father's heart. She was the -little blossom, he was the sun. He was patient, energetic, -inventive for her. He taught her all the funny little things, he -filled her and roused her to her fullest tiny measure. She -answered him with her extravagant infant's laughter and her call -of delight. - -Now there were two babies, a woman came in to do the -housework. Anna was wholly nurse. Two babies were not too much -for her. But she hated any form of work, now her children had -come, except the charge of them. - -When Ursula toddled about, she was an absorbed, busy child, -always amusing herself, needing not much attention from other -people. At evening, towards six o'clock, Anna very often went -across the lane to the stile, lifted Ursula over into the field, -with a: "Go and meet Daddy." Then Brangwen, coming up the steep -round of the hill, would see before him on the brow of the path -a tiny, tottering, windblown little mite with a dark head, who, -as soon as she saw him, would come running in tiny, wild, -windmill fashion, lifting her arms up and down to him, down the -steep hill. His heart leapt up, he ran his fastest to her, to -catch her, because he knew she would fall. She came fluttering -on, wildly, with her little limbs flying. And he was glad when -he caught her up in his arms. Once she fell as she came flying -to him, he saw her pitch forward suddenly as she was running -with her hands lifted to him; and when he picked her up, her -mouth was bleeding. He could never bear to think of it, he -always wanted to cry, even when he was an old man and she had -become a stranger to him. How he loved that little -Ursula!--his heart had been sharply seared for her, when he -was a youth, first married. - -When she was a little older, he would see her recklessly -climbing over the bars of the stile, in her red pinafore, -swinging in peril and tumbling over, picking herself up and -flitting towards him. Sometimes she liked to ride on his -shoulder, sometimes she preferred to walk with his hand, -sometimes she would fling her arms round his legs for a moment, -then race free again, whilst he went shouting and calling to -her, a child along with her. He was still only a tall, thin, -unsettled lad of twenty-two. - -It was he who had made her her cradle, her little chair, her -little stool, her high chair. It was he who would swing her up -to table or who would make for her a doll out of an old -table-leg, whilst she watched him, saying: - -"Make her eyes, Daddy, make her eyes!" - -And he made her eyes with his knife. - -She was very fond of adorning herself, so he would tie a -piece of cotton round her ear, and hang a blue bead on it -underneath for an ear-ring. The ear-rings varied with a red -bead, and a golden bead, and a little pearl bead. And as he came -home at night, seeing her bridling and looking very -self-conscious, he took notice and said: - -"So you're wearing your best golden and pearl ear-rings, -to-day?" - -"Yes." - -"I suppose you've been to see the queen?" - -"Yes, I have." - -"Oh, and what had she to say?" - -"She said--she said--'You won't dirty your nice -white frock."' - -He gave her the nicest bits from his plate, putting them into -her red, moist mouth. And he would make on a piece of -bread-and-butter a bird, out of jam: which she ate with -extraordinary relish. - -After the tea-things were washed up, the woman went away, -leaving the family free. Usually Brangwen helped in the bathing -of the children. He held long discussions with his child as she -sat on his knee and he unfastened her clothes. And he seemed to -be talking really of momentous things, deep moralities. Then -suddenly she ceased to hear, having caught sight of a glassie -rolled into a corner. She slipped away, and was in no hurry to -return. - -"Come back here," he said, waiting. She became absorbed, -taking no notice. - -"Come on," he repeated, with a touch of command. - -An excited little chuckle came from her, but she pretended to -be absorbed. - -"Do you hear, Milady?" - -She turned with a fleeting, exulting laugh. He rushed on her, -and swept her up. - -"Who was it that didn't come!" he said, rolling her between -his strong hands, tickling her. And she laughed heartily, -heartily. She loved him that he compelled her with his strength -and decision. He was all-powerful, the tower of strength which -rose out of her sight. - -When the children were in bed, sometimes Anna and he sat and -talked, desultorily, both of them idle. He read very little. -Anything he was drawn to read became a burning reality to him, -another scene outside his window. Whereas Anna skimmed through a -book to see what happened, then she had enough. - -Therefore they would often sit together, talking desultorily. -What was really between them they could not utter. Their words -were only accidents in the mutual silence. When they talked, -they gossiped. She did not care for sewing. - -She had a beautiful way of sitting musing, gratefully, as if -her heart were lit up. Sometimes she would turn to him, -laughing, to tell him some little thing that had happened during -the day. Then he would laugh, they would talk awhile, before the -vital, physical silence was between them again. - -She was thin but full of colour and life. She was perfectly -happy to do just nothing, only to sit with a curious, languid -dignity, so careless as to be almost regal, so utterly -indifferent, so confident. The bond between them was -undefinable, but very strong. It kept everyone else at a -distance. - -His face never changed whilst she knew him, it only became -more intense. It was ruddy and dark in its abstraction, not very -human, it had a strong, intent brightness. Sometimes, when his -eyes met hers, a yellow flash from them caused a darkness to -swoon over her consciousness, electric, and a slight strange -laugh came on his face. Her eyes would turn languidly, then -close, as if hypnotized. And they lapsed into the same potent -darkness. He had the quality of a young black cat, intent, -unnoticeable, and yet his presence gradually made itself felt, -stealthily and powerfully took hold of her. He called, not to -her, but to something in her, which responded subtly, out of her -unconscious darkness. - -So they were together in a darkness, passionate, electric, -for ever haunting the back of the common day, never in the -light. In the light, he seemed to sleep, unknowing. Only she -knew him when the darkness set him free, and he could see with -his gold-glowing eyes his intention and his desires in the dark. -Then she was in a spell, then she answered his harsh, -penetrating call with a soft leap of her soul, the darkness woke -up, electric, bristling with an unknown, overwhelming -insinuation. - -By now they knew each other; she was the daytime, the -daylight, he was the shadow, put aside, but in the darkness -potent with an overwhelming voluptuousness. - -She learned not to dread and to hate him, but to fill herself -with him, to give herself to his black, sensual power, that was -hidden all the daytime. And the curious rolling of the eyes, as -if she were lapsing in a trance away from her ordinary -consciousness became habitual with her, when something -threatened and opposed her in life, the conscious life. - -So they remained as separate in the light, and in the thick -darkness, married. He supported her daytime authority, kept it -inviolable at last. And she, in all the darkness, belonged to -him, to his close, insinuating, hypnotic familiarity. - -All his daytime activity, all his public life, was a kind of -sleep. She wanted to be free, to belong to the day. And he ran -avoiding the day in work. After tea, he went to the shed to his -carpentry or his woodcarving. He was restoring the patched, -degraded pulpit to its original form. - -But he loved to have the child near him, playing by his feet. -She was a piece of light that really belonged to him, that -played within his darkness. He left the shed door on the latch. -And when, with his second sense of another presence, he knew she -was coming, he was satisfied, he was at rest. When he was alone -with her, he did not want to take notice, to talk. He wanted to -live unthinking, with her presence flickering upon him. - -He always went in silence. The child would push open the shed -door, and see him working by lamplight, his sleeves rolled back. -His clothes hung about him, carelessly, like mere wrapping. -Inside, his body was concentrated with a flexible, charged power -all of its own, isolated. From when she was a tiny child Ursula -could remember his forearm, with its fine black hairs and its -electric flexibility, working at the bench through swift, -unnoticeable movements, always ambushed in a sort of -silence. - -She hung a moment in the door of the shed, waiting for him to -notice her. He turned, his black, curved eyebrows arching -slightly. - -"Hullo, Twittermiss!" - -And he closed the door behind her. Then the child was happy -in the shed that smelled of sweet wood and resounded to the -noise of the plane or the hammer or the saw, yet was charged -with the silence of the worker. She played on, intent and -absorbed, among the shavings and the little nogs of wood. She -never touched him: his feet and legs were near, she did not -approach them. - -She liked to flit out after him when he was going to church -at night. If he were going to be alone, he swung her over the -wall, and let her come. - -Again she was transported when the door was shut behind them, -and they two inherited the big, pale, void place. She would -watch him as he lit the organ candles, wait whilst he began his -practicing his tunes, then she ran foraging here and there, like -a kitten playing by herself in the darkness with eyes dilated. -The ropes hung vaguely, twining on the floor, from the bells in -the tower, and Ursula always wanted the fluffy, red-and-white, -or blue-and-white rope-grips. But they were above her. - -Sometimes her mother came to claim her. Then the child was -seized with resentment. She passionately resented her mother's -superficial authority. She wanted to assert her own -detachment. - -He, however, also gave her occasional cruel shocks. He let -her play about in the church, she rifled foot-stools and -hymn-books and cushions, like a bee among flowers, whilst the -organ echoed away. This continued for some weeks. Then the -charwoman worked herself up into a frenzy of rage, to dare to -attack Brangwen, and one day descended on him like a harpy. He -wilted away, and wanted to break the old beast's neck. - -Instead he came glowering in fury to the house, and turned on -Ursula. - -"Why, you tiresome little monkey, can't you even come to -church without pulling the place to bits?" - -His voice was harsh and cat-like, he was blind to the child. -She shrank away in childish anguish and dread. What was it, what -awful thing was it? - -The mother turned with her calm, almost superb manner. - -"What has she done, then?" - -"Done? She shall go in the church no more, pulling and -littering and destroying." - -The wife slowly rolled her eyes and lowered her eyelids. - -"What has she destroyed, then?" - -He did not know. - -"I've just had Mrs. Wilkinson at me," he cried, "with a list -of things she's done." - -Ursula withered under the contempt and anger of the "she", as -he spoke of her. - -"Send Mrs. Wilkinson here to me with a list of the things -she's done," said Anna. "I am the one to hear that." - -"It's not the things the child has done," continued the -mother, "that have put you out so much, it's because you can't -bear being spoken to by that old woman. But you haven't the -courage to turn on her when she attacks you, you bring your rage -here." - -He relapsed into silence. Ursula knew that he was wrong. In -the outside, upper world, he was wrong. Already came over the -child the cold sense of the impersonal world. There she knew her -mother was right. But still her heart clamoured after her -father, for him to be right, in his dark, sensuous underworld. -But he was angry, and went his way in blackness and brutal -silence again. - -The child ran about absorbed in life, quiet, full of -amusement. She did not notice things, nor changes nor -alterations. One day she would find daisies in the grass, -another day, apple-blossoms would be sprinkled white on the -ground, and she would run among it, for pleasure because it was -there. Yet again birds would be pecking at the cherries, her -father would throw cherries down from the tree all round her on -the garden. Then the fields were full of hay. - -She did not remember what had been nor what would be, the -outside things were there each day. She was always herself, the -world outside was accidental. Even her mother was accidental to -her: a condition that happened to endure. - -Only her father occupied any permanent position in the -childish consciousness. When he came back she remembered vaguely -how he had gone away, when he went away she knew vaguely that -she must wait for his coming back. Whereas her mother, returning -from an outing, merely became present, there was no reason for -connecting her with some previous departure. - -The return or the departure of the father was the one event -which the child remembered. When he came, something woke up in -her, some yearning. She knew when he was out of joint or -irritable or tired: then she was uneasy, she could not rest. - -When he was in the house, the child felt full and warm, rich -like a creature in the sunshine. When he was gone, she was -vague, forgetful. When he scolded her even, she was often more -aware of him than of herself. He was her strength and her -greater self. - -Ursula was three years old when another baby girl was born. -Then the two small sisters were much together, Gudrun and -Ursula. Gudrun was a quiet child who played for hours alone, -absorbed in her fancies. She was brown-haired, fair-skinned, -strangely placid, almost passive. Yet her will was indomitable, -once set. From the first she followed Ursula's lead. Yet she was -a thing to herself, so that to watch the two together was -strange. They were like two young animals playing together but -not taking real notice of each other. Gudrun was the mother's -favourite--except that Anna always lived in her latest -baby. - -The burden of so many lives depending on him wore the youth -down. He had his work in the office, which was done purely by -effort of will: he had his barren passion for the church; he had -three young children. Also at this time his health was not good. -So he was haggard and irritable, often a pest in the house. Then -he was told to go to his woodwork, or to the church. - -Between him and the little Ursula there came into being a -strange alliance. They were aware of each other. He knew the -child was always on his side. But in his consciousness he -counted it for nothing. She was always for him. He took it for -granted. Yet his life was based on her, even whilst she was a -tiny child, on her support and her accord. - -Anna continued in her violent trance of motherhood, always -busy, often harassed, but always contained in her trance of -motherhood. She seemed to exist in her own violent fruitfulness, -and it was as if the sun shone tropically on her. Her colour was -bright, her eyes full of a fecund gloom, her brown hair tumbled -loosely over her ears. She had a look of richness. No -responsibility, no sense of duty troubled her. The outside, -public life was less than nothing to her, really. - -Whereas when, at twenty-six, he found himself father of four -children, with a wife who lived intrinsically like the ruddiest -lilies of the field, he let the weight of responsibility press -on him and drag him. It was then that his child Ursula strove to -be with him. She was with him, even as a baby of four, when he -was irritable and shouted and made the household unhappy. She -suffered from his shouting, but somehow it was not really him. -She wanted it to be over, she wanted to resume her normal -connection with him. When he was disagreeable, the child echoed -to the crying of some need in him, and she responded blindly. -Her heart followed him as if he had some tie with her, and some -love which he could not deliver. Her heart followed him -persistently, in its love. - -But there was the dim, childish sense of her own smallness -and inadequacy, a fatal sense of worthlessness. She could not do -anything, she was not enough. She could not be important to him. -This knowledge deadened her from the first. - -Still she set towards him like a quivering needle. All her -life was directed by her awareness of him, her wakefulness to -his being. And she was against her mother. - -Her father was the dawn wherein her consciousness woke up. -But for him, she might have gone on like the other children, -Gudrun and Theresa and Catherine, one with the flowers and -insects and playthings, having no existence apart from the -concrete object of her attention. But her father came too near -to her. The clasp of his hands and the power of his breast woke -her up almost in pain from the transient unconsciousness of -childhood. Wide-eyed, unseeing, she was awake before she knew -how to see. She was wakened too soon. Too soon the call had come -to her, when she was a small baby, and her father held her close -to his breast, her sleep-living heart was beaten into -wakefulness by the striving of his bigger heart, by his clasping -her to his body for love and for fulfilment, asking as a magnet -must always ask. From her the response had struggled dimly, -vaguely into being. - -The children were dressed roughly for the country. When she -was little, Ursula pattered about in little wooden clogs, a blue -overall over her thick red dress, a red shawl crossed on her -breast and tied behind again. So she ran with her father to the -garden. - -The household rose early. He was out digging by six o'clock -in the morning, he went to his work at half-past eight. And -Ursula was usually in the garden with him, though not near at -hand. - -At Eastertime one year, she helped him to set potatoes. It -was the first time she had ever helped him. The occasion -remained as a picture, one of her earliest memories. They had -gone out soon after dawn. A cold wind was blowing. He had his -old trousers tucked into his boots, he wore no coat nor -waistcoat, his shirt-sleeves fluttered in the wind, his face was -ruddy and intent, in a kind of sleep. When he was at work he -neither heard nor saw. A long, thin man, looking still a youth, -with a line of black moustache above his thick mouth, and his -fine hair blown on his forehead, he worked away at the earth in -the grey first light, alone. His solitariness drew the child -like a spell. - -The wind came chill over the dark-green fields. Ursula ran up -and watched him push the setting-peg in at one side of his ready -earth, stride across, and push it in the other side, pulling the -line taut and clear upon the clods intervening. Then with a -sharp cutting noise the bright spade came towards her, cutting a -grip into the new, soft earth. - -He struck his spade upright and straightened himself. - -"Do you want to help me?" he said. - -She looked up at him from out of her little woollen -bonnet. - -"Ay," he said, "you can put some taters in for me. -Look--like that--these little sprits standing -up--so much apart, you see." - -And stooping down he quickly, surely placed the spritted -potatoes in the soft grip, where they rested separate and -pathetic on the heavy cold earth. - -He gave her a little basket of potatoes, and strode himself -to the other end of the line. She saw him stooping, working -towards her. She was excited, and unused. She put in one potato, -then rearranged it, to make it sit nicely. Some of the sprits -were broken, and she was afraid. The responsibility excited her -like a string tying her up. She could not help looking with -dread at the string buried under the heaped-back soil. Her -father was working nearer, stooping, working nearer. She was -overcome by her responsibility. She put potatoes quickly into -the cold earth. - -He came near. - -"Not so close," he said, stooping over her potatoes, taking -some out and rearranging the others. She stood by with the -painful terrified helplessness of childhood. He was so unseeing -and confident, she wanted to do the thing and yet she could not. -She stood by looking on, her little blue overall fluttering in -the wind, the red woollen ends of her shawl blowing gustily. -Then he went down the row, relentlessly, turning the potatoes in -with his sharp spade-cuts. He took no notice of her, only worked -on. He had another world from hers. - -She stood helplessly stranded on his world. He continued his -work. She knew she could not help him. A little bit forlorn, at -last she turned away, and ran down the garden, away from him, as -fast as she could go away from him, to forget him and his -work. - -He missed her presence, her face in her red woollen bonnet, -her blue overall fluttering. She ran to where a little water ran -trickling between grass and stones. That she loved. - -When he came by he said to her: - -"You didn't help me much." - -The child looked at him dumbly. Already her heart was heavy -because of her own disappointment. Her mouth was dumb and -pathetic. But he did not notice, he went his way. - -And she played on, because of her disappointment persisting -even the more in her play. She dreaded work, because she could -not do it as he did it. She was conscious of the great breach -between them. She knew she had no power. The grown-up power to -work deliberately was a mystery to her. - -He would smash into her sensitive child's world -destructively. Her mother was lenient, careless The children -played about as they would all day. Ursula was -thoughtless--why should she remember things? If across the -garden she saw the hedge had budded, and if she wanted these -greeny-pink, tiny buds for bread-and-cheese, to play at teaparty -with, over she went for them. - -Then suddenly, perhaps the next day, her soul would almost -start out of her body as her father turned on her, shouting: - -"Who's been tramplin' an' dancin' across where I've just -sowed seed? I know it's you, nuisance! Can you find nowhere else -to walk, but just over my seed beds? But it's like you, that -is--no heed but to follow your own greedy nose." - -It had shocked him in his intent world to see the zigzagging -lines of deep little foot-prints across his work. The child was -infinitely more shocked. Her vulnerable little soul was flayed -and trampled. Why were the foot-prints there? She had not -wanted to make them. She stood dazzled with pain and shame and -unreality. - -Her soul, her consciousness seemed to die away. She became -shut off and senseless, a little fixed creature whose soul had -gone hard and unresponsive. The sense of her own unreality -hardened her like a frost. She cared no longer. - -And the sight of her face, shut and superior with -self-asserting indifference, made a flame of rage go over him. -He wanted to break her. - -"I'll break your obstinate little face," he said, through -shut teeth, lifting his hand. - -The child did not alter in the least. The look of -indifference, complete glancing indifference, as if nothing but -herself existed to her, remained fixed. - -Yet far away in her, the sobs were tearing her soul. And when -he had gone, she would go and creep under the parlour sofa, and -lie clinched in the silent, hidden misery of childhood. - -When she crawled out, after an hour or so, she went rather -stiffly to play. She willed to forget. She cut off her childish -soul from memory, so that the pain, and the insult should not be -real. She asserted herself only. There was not nothing in the -world but her own self. So very soon, she came to believe in the -outward malevolence that was against her. And very early, she -learned that even her adored father was part of this -malevolence. And very early she learned to harden her soul in -resistance and denial of all that was outside her, harden -herself upon her own being. - -She never felt sorry for what she had done, she never forgave -those who had made her guilty. If he had said to her, "Why, -Ursula, did you trample my carefully-made bed?" that would have -hurt her to the quick, and she would have done anything for him. -But she was always tormented by the unreality of outside things. -The earth was to walk on. Why must she avoid a certain patch, -just because it was called a seed-bed? It was the earth to walk -on. This was her instinctive assumption. And when he bullied -her, she became hard, cut herself off from all connection, lived -in the little separate world of her own violent will. - -As she grew older, five, six, seven, the connection between -her and her father was even stronger. Yet it was always -straining to break. She was always relapsing on her own violent -will into her own separate world of herself. This made him grind -his teeth with bitterness, for he still wanted her. But she -could harden herself into her own self's universe, -impregnable. - -He was very fond of swimming, and in warm weather would take -her down to the canal, to a silent place, or to a big pond or -reservoir, to bathe. He would take her on his back as he went -swimming, and she clung close, feeling his strong movement under -her, so strong, as if it would uphold all the world. Then he -taught her to swim. - -She was a fearless little thing, when he dared her. And he -had a curious craving to frighten her, to see what she would do -with him. He said, would she ride on his back whilst he jumped -off the canal bridge down into the water beneath. - -She would. He loved to feel the naked child clinging on to -his shoulders. There was a curious fight between their two -wills. He mounted the parapet of the canal bridge. The water was -a long way down. But the child had a deliberate will set upon -his. She held herself fixed to him. - -He leapt, and down they went. The crash of the water as they -went under struck through the child's small body, with a sort of -unconsciousness. But she remained fixed. And when they came up -again, and when they went to the bank, and when they sat on the -grass side by side, he laughed, and said it was fine. And the -dark-dilated eyes of the child looked at him wonderingly, -darkly, wondering from the shock, yet reserved and unfathomable, -so he laughed almost with a sob. - -In a moment she was clinging safely on his back again, and he -was swimming in deep water. She was used to his nakedness, and -to her mother's nakedness, ever since she was born. They were -clinging to each other, and making up to each other for the -strange blow that had been struck at them. Yet still, on other -days, he would leap again with her from the bridge, daringly, -almost wickedly. Till at length, as he leapt, once, she dropped -forward on to his head, and nearly broke his neck, so that they -fell into the water in a heap, and fought for a few moments with -death. He saved her, and sat on the bank, quivering. But his -eyes were full of the blackness of death. It was as if death had -cut between their two lives, and separated them. - -Still they were not separate. There was this curious taunting -intimacy between them. When the fair came, she wanted to go in -the swing-boats. He took her, and, standing up in the boat, -holding on to the irons, began to drive higher, perilously -higher. The child clung fast on her seat. - -"Do you want to go any higher?" he said to her, and she -laughed with her mouth, her eyes wide and dilated. They were -rushing through the air. - -"Yes," she said, feeling as if she would turn into vapour, -lose hold of everything, and melt away. The boat swung far up, -then down like a stone, only to be caught sickeningly up -again. - -"Any higher?" he called, looking at her over his shoulder, -his face evil and beautiful to her. - -She laughed with white lips. - -He sent the swing-boat sweeping through the air in a great -semi-circle, till it jerked and swayed at the high horizontal. -The child clung on, pale, her eyes fixed on him. People below -were calling. The jerk at the top had almost shaken them both -out. He had done what he could--and he was attracting -censure. He sat down, and let the swingboat swing itself -out. - -People in the crowd cried shame on him as he came out of the -swingboat. He laughed. The child clung to his hand, pale and -mute. In a while she was violently sick. He gave her lemonade, -and she gulped a little. - -"Don't tell your mother you've been sick," he said. There was -no need to ask that. When she got home, the child crept away -under the parlour sofa, like a sick little animal, and was a -long time before she crawled out. - -But Anna got to know of this escapade, and was passionately -angry and contemptuous of him. His golden-brown eyes glittered, -he had a strange, cruel little smile. And as the child watched -him, for the first time in her life a disillusion came over her, -something cold and isolating. She went over to her mother. Her -soul was dead towards him. It made her sick. - -Still she forgot and continued to love him, but ever more -coldly. He was at this time, when he was about twenty-eight -years old, strange and violent in his being, sensual. He -acquired some power over Anna, over everybody he came into -contact with. - -After a long bout of hostility, Anna at last closed with him. -She had now four children, all girls. For seven years she had -been absorbed in wifehood and motherhood. For years he had gone -on beside her, never really encroaching upon her. Then gradually -another self seemed to assert its being within him. He was still -silent and separate. But she could feel him all the while coming -near upon her, as if his breast and his body were threatening -her, and he was always coming closer. Gradually he became -indifferent of responsibility. He would do what pleased him, and -no more. - -He began to go away from home. He went to Nottingham on -Saturdays, always alone, to the football match and to the -music-hall, and all the time he was watching, in readiness. He -never cared to drink. But with his hard, golden-brown eyes, so -keen seeing with their tiny black pupils, he watched all the -people, everything that happened, and he waited. - -In the Empire one evening he sat next to two girls. He was -aware of the one beside him. She was rather small, common, with -a fresh complexion and an upper lip that lifted from her teeth, -so that, when she was not conscious, her mouth was slightly open -and her lips pressed outwards in a kind of blind appeal. She was -strongly aware of the man next to her, so that all her body was -still, very still. Her face watched the stage. Her arms went -down into her lap, very self-conscious and still. - -A gleam lit up in him: should he begin with her? Should he -begin with her to live the other, the unadmitted life of his -desire? Why not? He had always been so good. Save for his wife, -he was a virgin. And why, when all women were different? Why, -when he would only live once? He wanted the other life. His own -life was barren, not enough. He wanted the other. - -Her open mouth, showing the small, irregular, white teeth, -appealed to him. It was open and ready. It was so vulnerable. -Why should he not go in and enjoy what was there? The slim arm -that went down so still and motionless to the lap, it was -pretty. She would be small, he would be able almost to hold her -in his two hands. She would be small, almost like a child, and -pretty. Her childishness whetted him keenly. She would he -helpless between his hands. - -"That was the best turn we've had," he said to her, leaning -over as he clapped his hands. He felt strong and unshakeable in -himself, set over against all the world. His soul was keen and -watchful, glittering with a kind of amusement. He was perfectly -self-contained. He was himself, the absolute, the rest of the -world was the object that should contribute to his being. - -The girl started, turned round, her eyes lit up with an -almost painful flash of a smile, the colour came deeply in her -cheeks. - -"Yes, it was," she said, quite meaninglessly, and she covered -her rather prominent teeth with her lips. Then she sat looking -straight before her, seeing nothing, only conscious of the -colour burning in her cheeks. - -It pricked him with a pleasant sensation. His veins and his -nerves attended to her, she was so young and palpitating. - -"It's not such a good programme as last week's," he said. - -Again she half turned her face to him, and her clear, bright -eyes, bright like shallow water, filled with light, frightened, -yet involuntarily lighting and shaking with response. - -"Oh, isn't it! I wasn't able to come last week." - -He noted the common accent. It pleased him. He knew what -class she came of. Probably she was a warehouse-lass. He was -glad she was a common girl. - -He proceeded to tell her about the last week's programme. She -answered at random, very confusedly. The colour burned in her -cheek. Yet she always answered him. The girl on the other side -sat remotely, obviously silent. He ignored her. All his address -was for his own girl, with her bright, shallow eyes and her -vulnerably opened mouth. - -The talk went on, meaningless and random on her part, quite -deliberate and purposive on his. It was a pleasure to him to -make this conversation, an activity pleasant as a fine game of -chance and skill. He was very quiet and pleasant-humoured, but -so full of strength. She fluttered beside his steady pressure of -warmth and his surety. - -He saw the performance drawing to a close. His senses were -alert and wilful. He would press his advantages. He followed her -and her plain friend down the stairs to the street. It was -raining. - -"It's a nasty night," he said. "Shall you come and have a -drink of something--a cup of coffee--it's early -yet." - -"Oh, I don't think so," she said, looking away into the -night. - -"I wish you would," he said, putting himself as it were at -her mercy. There was a moment's pause. - -"Come to Rollins?" he said. - -"No--not there." - -"To Carson's, then?" - -There was a silence. The other girl hung on. The man was the -centre of positive force. - -"Will your friend come as well?" - -There was another moment of silence, while the other girl -felt her ground. - -"No, thanks," she said. "I've promised to meet a friend." - -"Another time, then?" he said. - -"Oh, thanks," she replied, very awkward. - -"Good night," he said. - -"See you later," said his girl to her friend. - -"Where?" said the friend. - -"You know, Gertie," replied his girl. - -"All right, Jennie." - -The friend was gone into the darkness. He turned with his -girl to the tea-shop. They talked all the time. He made his -sentences in sheer, almost muscular pleasure of exercising -himself with her. He was looking at her all the time, perceiving -her, appreciating her, finding her out, gratifying himself with -her. He could see distinct attractions in her; her eyebrows, -with their particular curve, gave him keen aesthetic pleasure. -Later on he would see her bright, pellucid eyes, like shallow -water, and know those. And there remained the open, exposed -mouth, red and vulnerable. That he reserved as yet. And all the -while his eyes were on the girl, estimating and handling with -pleasure her young softness. About the girl herself, who or what -she was, he cared nothing, he was quite unaware that she was -anybody. She was just the sensual object of his attention. - -"Shall we go, then?" he said. - -She rose in silence, as if acting without a mind, merely -physically. He seemed to hold her in his will. Outside it was -still raining. - -"Let's have a walk," he said. "I don't mind the rain, do -you?" - -"No, I don't mind it," she said. - -He was alert in every sense and fibre, and yet quite sure and -steady, and lit up, as if transfused. He had a free sensation of -walking in his own darkness, not in anybody else's world at all. -He was purely a world to himself, he had nothing to do with any -general consciousness. Just his own senses were supreme. All the -rest was external, insignificant, leaving him alone with this -girl whom he wanted to absorb, whose properties he wanted to -absorb into his own senses. He did not care about her, except -that he wanted to overcome her resistance, to have her in his -power, fully and exhaustively to enjoy her. - -They turned into the dark streets. He held her umbrella over -her, and put his arm round her. She walked as if she were -unaware. But gradually, as he walked, he drew her a little -closer, into the movement of his side and hip. She fitted in -there very well. It was a real good fit, to walk with her like -this. It made him exquisitely aware of his own muscular self. -And his hand that grasped her side felt one curve of her, and it -seemed like a new creation to him, a reality, an absolute, an -existing tangible beauty of the absolute. It was like a star. -Everything in him was absorbed in the sensual delight of this -one small, firm curve in her body, that his hand, and his whole -being, had lighted upon. - -He led her into the Park, where it was almost dark. He -noticed a corner between two walls, under a great overhanging -bush of ivy. - -"Let us stand here a minute," he said. - -He put down the umbrella, and followed her into the corner, -retreating out of the rain. He needed no eyes to see. All he -wanted was to know through touch. She was like a piece of -palpable darkness. He found her in the darkness, put his arms -round her and his hands upon her. She was silent and -inscrutable. But he did not want to know anything about her, he -only wanted to discover her. And through her clothing, what -absolute beauty he touched. - -"Take your hat off," he said. - -Silently, obediently, she shook off her hat and gave herself -to his arms again. He liked her--he liked the feel of -her--he wanted to know her more closely. He let his fingers -subtly seek out her cheek and neck. What amazing beauty and -pleasure, in the dark! His fingers had often touched Anna on the -face and neck like that. What matter! It was one man who touched -Anna, another who now touched this girl. He liked best his new -self. He was given over altogether to the sensuous knowledge of -this woman, and every moment he seemed to be touching absolute -beauty, something beyond knowledge. - -Very close, marvelling and exceedingly joyful in their -discoveries, his hands pressed upon her, so subtly, so -seekingly, so finely and desirously searching her out, that she -too was almost swooning in the absolute of sensual knowledge. In -utter sensual delight she clenched her knees, her thighs, her -loins together! It was an added beauty to him. - -But he was patiently working for her relaxation, patiently, -his whole being fixed in the smile of latent gratification, his -whole body electric with a subtle, powerful, reducing force upon -her. So he came at length to kiss her, and she was almost -betrayed by his insidious kiss. Her open mouth was too helpless -and unguarded. He knew this, and his first kiss was very gentle, -and soft, and assuring, so assuring. So that her soft, -defenseless mouth became assured, even bold, seeking upon his -mouth. And he answered her gradually, gradually, his soft kiss -sinking in softly, softly, but ever more heavily, more heavily -yet, till it was too heavy for her to meet, and she began to -sink under it. She was sinking, sinking, his smile of latent -gratification was becoming more tense, he was sure of her. He -let the whole force of his will sink upon her to sweep her away. -But it was too great a shock for her. With a sudden horrible -movement she ruptured the state that contained them both. - -"Don't--don't!" - -It was a rather horrible cry that seemed to come out of her, -not to belong to her. It was some strange agony of terror crying -out the words. There was something vibrating and beside herself -in the noise. His nerves ripped like silk. - -"What's the matter?" he said, as if calmly. "What's the -matter?" - -She came back to him, but trembling, reservedly this -time. - -Her cry had given him gratification. But he knew he had been -too sudden for her. He was now careful. For a while he merely -sheltered her. Also there had broken a flaw into his perfect -will. He wanted to persist, to begin again, to lead up to the -point where he had let himself go on her, and then manage more -carefully, successfully. So far she had won. And the battle was -not over yet. But another voice woke in him and prompted him to -let her go--let her go in contempt. - -He sheltered her, and soothed her, and caressed her, and -kissed her, and again began to come nearer, nearer. He gathered -himself together. Even if he did not take her, he would make her -relax, he would fuse away her resistance. So softly, softly, -with infinite caressiveness he kissed her, and the whole of his -being seemed to fondle her. Till, at the verge, swooning at the -breaking point, there came from her a beaten, inarticulate, -moaning cry: - -"Don't--oh, don't!" - -His veins fused with extreme voluptuousness. For a moment he -almost lost control of himself, and continued automatically. But -there was a moment of inaction, of cold suspension. He was not -going to take her. He drew her to him and soothed her, and -caressed her. But the pure zest had gone. She struggled to -herself and realized he was not going to take her. And then, at -the very last moment, when his fondling had come near again, his -hot living desire despising her, against his cold sensual -desire, she broke violently away from him. - -"Don't," she cried, harsh now with hatred, and she flung her -hand across and hit him violently. "Keep off of me." - -His blood stood still for a moment. Then the smile came again -within him, steady, cruel. - -"Why, what's the matter?" he said, with suave irony. -"Nobody's going to hurt you." - -"I know what you want," she said. - -"I know what I want," he said. "What's the odds?" - -"Well, you're not going to have it off me." - -"Aren't I? Well, then I'm not. It's no use crying about it, -is it?" - -"No, it isn't," said the girl, rather disconcerted by his -irony. - -"But there's no need to have a row about it. We can kiss good -night just the same, can't we?" - -She was silent in the darkness. - -"Or do you want your hat and umbrella to go home this -minute?" - -Still she was silent. He watched her dark figure as she stood -there on the edge of the faint darkness, and he waited. - -"Come and say good night nicely, if we're going to say it," -he said. - -Still she did not stir. He put his hand out and drew her into -the darkness again. - -"It's warmer in here," he said; "a lot cosier." - -His will had not yet relaxed from her. The moment of hatred -exhilarated him. - -"I'm going now," she muttered, as he closed his hand over -her. - -"See how well you fit your place," he said, as he drew her to -her previous position, close upon him. "What do you want to -leave it for?" - -And gradually the intoxication invaded him again, the zest -came back. After all, why should he not take her? - -But she did not yield to him entirely. - -"Are you a married man?" she asked at length. - -"What if I am?" he said. - -She did not answer. - -"I don't ask you whether you're married or not," he -said. - -"You know jolly well I'm not," she answered hotly. Oh, -if she could only break away from him, if only she need not -yield to him. - -At length her will became cold against him. She had escaped. -But she hated him for her escape more than for her danger. Did -he despise her so coldly? And she was in torture of adherence to -him still. - -"Shall I see you next week--next Saturday?" he said, as -they returned to the town. She did not answer. - -"Come to the Empire with me--you and Gertie," he -said. - -"I should look well, going with a married man," she said. - -"I'm no less of a man for being married, am I?" he said. - -"Oh, it's a different matter altogether with a married man," -she said, in a ready-made speech that showed her chagrin. - -"How's that?" he asked. - -But she would not enlighten him. Yet she promised, without -promising, to be at the meeting-place next Saturday evening. - -So he left her. He did not know her name. He caught a train -and went home. - -It was the last train, he was very late. He was not home till -midnight. But he was quite indifferent. He had no real relation -with his home, not this man which he now was. Anna was sitting -up for him. She saw the queer, absolved look on his face, a sort -of latent, almost sinister smile, as if he were absolved from -his "good" ties. - -"Where have you been?" she asked, puzzled, interested. - -"To the Empire." - -"Who with?" - -"By myself. I came home with Tom Cooper." - -She looked at him, and wondered what he had been doing She -was indifferent as to whether he lied or not. - -"You have come home very strange," she said. And there was an -appreciative inflexion in the speech. - -He was not affected. As for his humble, good self, he was -absolved from it. He sat down and ate heartily. He was not -tired. He seemed to take no notice of her. - -For Anna the moment was critical. She kept herself aloof, and -watched him. He talked to her, but with a little indifference, -since he was scarcely aware of her. So, then she did not affect -him. Here was a new turn of affairs! He was rather attractive, -nevertheless. She liked him better than the ordinary mute, -half-effaced, half-subdued man she usually knew him to be. So, -he was blossoming out into his real self! It piqued her. Very -good, let him blossom! She liked a new turn of affairs. He was a -strange man come home to her. Glancing at him, she saw she could -not reduce him to what he had been before. In an instant she -gave it up. Yet not without a pang of rage, which would insist -on their old, beloved love, their old, accustomed intimacy and -her old, established supremacy. She almost rose up to fight for -them. And looking at him, and remembering his father, she was -wary. This was the new turn of affairs! - -Very good, if she could not influence him in the old way, she -would be level with him in the new. Her old defiant hostility -came up. Very good, she too was out on her own adventure. Her -voice, her manner changed, she was ready for the game. Something -was liberated in her. She liked him. She liked this strange man -come home to her. He was very welcome, indeed! She was very glad -to welcome a stranger. She had been bored by the old husband. To -his latent, cruel smile she replied with brilliant challenge. He -expected her to keep the moral fortress. Not she! It was much -too dull a part. She challenged him back with a sort of -radiance, very bright and free, opposite to him. He looked at -her, and his eyes glinted. She too was out in the field. - -His senses pricked up and keenly attended to her. She -laughed, perfectly indifferent and loose as he was. He came -towards her. She neither rejected him nor responded to him. In a -kind of radiance, superb in her inscrutability, she laughed -before him. She too could throw everything overboard, love, -intimacy, responsibility. What were her four children to her -now? What did it matter that this man was the father of her four -children? - -He was the sensual male seeking his pleasure, she was the -female ready to take hers: but in her own way. A man could turn -into a free lance: so then could a woman. She adhered as little -as he to the moral world. All that had gone before was nothing -to her. She was another woman, under the instance of a strange -man. He was a stranger to her, seeking his own ends. Very good. -She wanted to see what this stranger would do now, what he -was. - -She laughed, and kept him at arm's length, whilst apparently -ignoring him. She watched him undress as if he were a stranger. -Indeed he was a stranger to her. - -And she roused him profoundly, violently, even before he -touched her. The little creature in Nottingham had but been -leading up to this. They abandoned in one motion the moral -position, each was seeking gratification pure and simple. - -Strange his wife was to him. It was as if he were a perfect -stranger, as if she were infinitely and essentially strange to -him, the other half of the world, the dark half of the moon. She -waited for his touch as if he were a marauder who had come in, -infinitely unknown and desirable to her. And he began to -discover her. He had an inkling of the vastness of the unknown -sensual store of delights she was. With a passion of -voluptuousness that made him dwell on each tiny beauty, in a -kind of frenzy of enjoyment, he lit upon her: her beauty, the -beauties, the separate, several beauties of her body. - -He was quite ousted from himself, and sensually transported -by that which he discovered in her. He was another man revelling -over her. There was no tenderness, no love between them any -more, only the maddening, sensuous lust for discovery and the -insatiable, exorbitant gratification in the sensual beauties of -her body. And she was a store, a store of absolute beauties that -it drove him to contemplate. There was such a feast to enjoy, -and he with only one man's capacity. - -He lived in a passion of sensual discovery with her for some -time--it was a duel: no love, no words, no kisses even, -only the maddening perception of beauty consummate, absolute -through touch. He wanted to touch her, to discover her, -maddeningly he wanted to know her. Yet he must not hurry, or he -missed everything. He must enjoy one beauty at a time. And the -multitudinous beauties of her body, the many little rapturous -places, sent him mad with delight, and with desire to be able to -know more, to have strength to know more. For all was there. - -He would say during the daytime: - -"To-night I shall know the little hollow under her ankle, -where the blue vein crosses." And the thought of it, and the -desire for it, made a thick darkness of anticipation. - -He would go all the day waiting for the night to come, when -he could give himself to the enjoyment of some luxurious -absolute of beauty in her. The thought of the hidden resources -of her, the undiscovered beauties and ecstatic places of delight -in her body, waiting, only waiting for him to discover them, -sent him slightly insane. He was obsessed. If he did not -discover and make known to himself these delights, they might be -lost for ever. He wished he had a hundred men's energies, with -which to enjoy her. [He wished he were a cat, to lick her with a -rough, grating, lascivious tongue. He wanted to wallow in her, -bury himself in her flesh, cover himself over with her flesh.] - -And she, separate, with a strange, dangerous, glistening look -in her eyes received all his activities upon her as if they were -expected by her, and provoked him when he was quiet to more, -till sometimes he was ready to perish for sheer inability to be -satisfied of her, inability to have had enough of her. - -Their children became mere offspring to them, they lived in -the darkness and death of their own sensual activities. -Sometimes he felt he was going mad with a sense of Absolute -Beauty, perceived by him in her through his senses. It was -something too much for him. And in everything, was this same, -almost sinister, terrifying beauty. But in the revelations of -her body through contact with his body, was the ultimate beauty, -to know which was almost death in itself, and yet for the -knowledge of which he would have undergone endless torture. He -would have forfeited anything, anything, rather than forego his -right even to the instep of her foot, and the place from which -the toes radiated out, the little, miraculous white plain from -which ran the little hillocks of the toes, and the folded, -dimpling hollows between the toes. He felt he would have died -rather than forfeit this. - -This was what their love had become, a sensuality violent and -extreme as death. They had no conscious intimacy, no tenderness -of love. It was all the lust and the infinite, maddening -intoxication of the sense, a passion of death. - -He had always, all his life, had a secret dread of Absolute -Beauty. It had always been like a fetish to him, something to -fear, really. For it was immoral and against mankind. So he had -turned to the Gothic form, which always asserted the broken -desire of mankind in its pointed arches, escaping the rolling, -absolute beauty of the round arch. - -But now he had given way, and with infinite sensual violence -gave himself to the realization of this supreme, immoral, -Absolute Beauty, in the body of woman. It seemed to him, that it -came to being in the body of woman, under his touch. Under his -touch, even under his sight, it was there. But when he neither -saw nor touched the perfect place, it was not perfect, it was -not there. And he must make it exist. - -But still the thing terrified him. Awful and threatening it -was, dangerous to a degree, even whilst he gave himself to it. -It was pure darkness, also. All the shameful things of the body -revealed themselves to him now with a sort of sinister, tropical -beauty. All the shameful, natural and unnatural acts of sensual -voluptuousness which he and the woman partook of together, -created together, they had their heavy beauty and their delight. -Shame, what was it? It was part of extreme delight. It was that -part of delight of which man is usually afraid. Why afraid? The -secret, shameful things are most terribly beautiful. - -They accepted shame, and were one with it in their most -unlicensed pleasures. It was incorporated. It was a bud that -blossomed into beauty and heavy, fundamental gratification. - -Their outward life went on much the same, but the inward life -was revolutionized. The children became less important, the -parents were absorbed in their own living. - -And gradually, Brangwen began to find himself free to attend -to the outside life as well. His intimate life was so violently -active, that it set another man in him free. And this new man -turned with interest to public life, to see what part he could -take in it. This would give him scope for new activity, activity -of a kind for which he was now created and released. He wanted -to be unanimous with the whole of purposive mankind. - -At this time Education was in the forefront as a subject of -interest. There was the talk of new Swedish methods, of handwork -instruction, and so on. Brangwen embraced sincerely the idea of -handwork in schools. For the first time, he began to take real -interest in a public affair. He had at length, from his profound -sensual activity, developed a real purposive self. - -There was talk of night-schools, and of handicraft classes. -He wanted to start a woodwork class in Cossethay, to teach -carpentry and joinery and wood-carving to the village boys, two -nights a week. This seemed to him a supremely desirable thing to -be doing. His pay would be very little--and when he had it, -he spent it all on extra wood and tools. But he was very happy -and keen in his new public spirit. - -He started his night-classes in woodwork when he was thirty -years old. By this time he had five children, the last a boy. -But boy or girl mattered very little to him. He had a natural -blood-affection for his children, and he liked them as they -turned up: boys or girls. Only he was fondest of Ursula. -Somehow, she seemed to be at the back of his new night-school -venture. - -The house by the yew trees was in connection with the great -human endeavour at last. It gained a new vigour thereby. - -To Ursula, a child of eight, the increase in magic was -considerable. She heard all the talk, she saw the parish room -fitted up as a workshop. The parish room was a high, stone, -barn-like, ecclesiastical building standing away by itself in -the Brangwens' second garden, across the lane. She was always -attracted by its age and its stranded obsoleteness. Now she -watched preparations made, she sat on the flight of stone steps -that came down from the porch to the garden, and heard her -father and the vicar talking and planning and working. Then an -inspector came, a very strange man, and stayed talking with her -father all one evening. Everything was settled, and twelve boys -enrolled their names. It was very exciting. - -But to Ursula, everything her father did was magic. Whether -he came from Ilkeston with news of the town, whether he went -across to the church with his music or his tools on a sunny -evening, whether he sat in his white surplice at the organ on -Sundays, leading the singing with his strong tenor voice, or -whether he were in the workshop with the boys, he was always a -centre of magic and fascination to her, his voice, sounding out -in command, cheerful, laconic, had always a twang in it that -sent a thrill over her blood, and hypnotized her. She seemed to -run in the shadow of some dark, potent secret of which she would -not, of whose existence even she dared not become conscious, it -cast such a spell over her, and so darkened her mind. - - - -CHAPTER IX - -THE MARSH AND THE FLOOD - -There was always regular connection between the Yew Cottage -and the Marsh, yet the two households remained separate, -distinct. - -After Anna's marriage, the Marsh became the home of the two -boys, Tom and Fred. Tom was a rather short, good-looking youth, -with crisp black hair and long black eyelashes and soft, dark, -possessed eyes. He had a quick intelligence. From the High -School he went to London to study. He had an instinct for -attracting people of character and energy. He gave place -entirely to the other person, and at the same time kept himself -independent. He scarcely existed except through other people. -When he was alone he was unresolved. When he was with another -man, he seemed to add himself to the other, make the other -bigger than life size. So that a few people loved him and -attained a sort of fulfilment in him. He carefully chose these -few. - -He had a subtle, quick, critical intelligence, a mind that -was like a scale or balance. There was something of a woman in -all this. - -In London he had been the favourite pupil of an engineer, a -clever man, who became well-known at the time when Tom Brangwen -had just finished his studies. Through this master the youth -kept acquaintance with various individual, outstanding -characters. He never asserted himself. He seemed to be there to -estimate and establish the rest. He was like a presence that -makes us aware of our own being. So that he was while still -young connected with some of the most energetic scientific and -mathematical people in London. They took him as an equal. Quiet -and perceptive and impersonal as he was, he kept his place and -learned how to value others in just degree. He was there like a -judgment. Besides, he was very good-looking, of medium stature, -but beautifully proportioned, dark, with fine colouring, always -perfectly healthy. - -His father allowed him a liberal pocket-money, besides which -he had a sort of post as assistant to his chief. Then from time -to time the young man appeared at the Marsh, curiously -attractive, well-dressed, reserved, having by nature a subtle, -refined manner. And he set the change in the farm. - -Fred, the younger brother, was a Brangwen, large-boned, -blue-eyed, English. He was his father's very son, the two men, -father and son, were supremely at ease with one another. Fred -was succeeding to the farm. - -Between the elder brother and the younger existed an almost -passionate love. Tom watched over Fred with a woman's poignant -attention and self-less care. Fred looked up to Tom as to -something miraculous, that which he himself would aspire to be, -were he great also. - -So that after Anna's departure, the Marsh began to take on a -new tone. The boys were gentlemen; Tom had a rare nature and had -risen high. Fred was sensitive and fond of reading, he pondered -Ruskin and then the Agnostic writings. Like all the Brangwens, -he was very much a thing to himself, though fond of people, and -indulgent to them, having an exaggerated respect for them. - -There was a rather uneasy friendship between him and one of -the young Hardys at the Hall. The two households were different, -yet the young men met on shy terms of equality. - -It was young Tom Brangwen, with his dark lashes and beautiful -colouring, his soft, inscrutable nature, his strange repose and -his informed air, added to his position in London, who seemed to -emphasize the superior foreign element in the Marsh. When he -appeared, perfectly dressed, as if soft and affable, and yet -quite removed from everybody, he created an uneasiness in -people, he was reserved in the minds of the Cossethay and -Ilkeston acquaintances to a different, remote world. - -He and his mother had a kind of affinity. The affection -between them was of a mute, distant character, but radical. His -father was always uneasy and slightly deferential to his eldest -son. Tom also formed the link that kept the Marsh in real -connection with the Skrebenskys, now quite important people in -their own district. - -So a change in tone came over the Marsh. Tom Brangwen the -father, as he grew older, seemed to mature into a -gentleman-farmer. His figure lent itself: burly and handsome. -His face remained fresh and his blue eyes as full of light, his -thick hair and beard had turned gradually to a silky whiteness. -It was his custom to laugh a great deal, in his acquiescent, -wilful manner. Things had puzzled him very much, so he had taken -the line of easy, good-humoured acceptance. He was not -responsible for the frame of things. Yet he was afraid of the -unknown in life. - -He was fairly well-off. His wife was there with him, a -different being from himself, yet somewhere vitally connected -with him:--who was he to understand where and how? His two -sons were gentlemen. They were men distinct from himself, they -had separate beings of their own, yet they were connected with -himself. It was all adventurous and puzzling. Yet one remained -vital within one's own existence, whatever the off-shoots. - -So, handsome and puzzled, he laughed and stuck to himself as -the only thing he could stick to. His youngness and the wonder -remained almost the same in him. He became indolent, he -developed a luxuriant ease. Fred did most of the farm-work, the -father saw to the more important transactions. He drove a good -mare, and sometimes he rode his cob. He drank in the hotels and -the inns with better-class farmers and proprietors, he had -well-to-do acquaintances among men. But one class suited him no -better than another. - -His wife, as ever, had no acquaintances. Her hair was -threaded now with grey, her face grew older in form without -changing in expression. She seemed the same as when she had come -to the Marsh twenty-five years ago, save that her health was -more fragile. She seemed always to haunt the Marsh rather than -to live there. She was never part of the life. Something she -represented was alien there, she remained a stranger within the -gates, in some ways fixed and impervious, in some ways curiously -refining. She caused the separateness and individuality of all -the Marsh inmates, the friability of the household. - -When young Tom Brangwen was twenty-three years old there was -some breach between him and his chief which was never explained, -and he went away to Italy, then to America. He came home for a -while, then went to Germany; always the same good-looking, -carefully-dressed, attractive young man, in perfect health, yet -somehow outside of everything. In his dark eyes was a deep -misery which he wore with the same ease and pleasantness as he -wore his close-sitting clothes. - -To Ursula he was a romantic, alluring figure. He had a grace -of bringing beautiful presents: a box of expensive sweets, such -as Cossethay had never seen; or he gave her a hair-brush and a -long slim mirror of mother-of-pearl, all pale and glimmering and -exquisite; or he sent her a little necklace of rough stones, -amethyst and opal and brilliants and garnet. He spoke other -languages easily and fluently, his nature was curiously gracious -and insinuating. With all that, he was undefinably an outsider. -He belonged to nowhere, to no society. - -Anna Brangwen had left her intimacy with her father -undeveloped since the time of her marriage. At her marriage it -had been abandoned. He and she had drawn a reserve between them. -Anna went more to her mother. - -Then suddenly the father died. - -It happened one springtime when Ursula was about eight years -old, he, Tom Brangwen, drove off on a Saturday morning to the -market in Nottingham, saying he might not be back till late, as -there was a special show and then a meeting he had to attend. -His family understood that he would enjoy himself. - -The season had been rainy and dreary. In the evening it was -pouring with rain. Fred Brangwen, unsettled, uneasy, did not go -out, as was his wont. He smoked and read and fidgeted, hearing -always the trickling of water outside. This wet, black night -seemed to cut him off and make him unsettled, aware of himself, -aware that he wanted something else, aware that he was scarcely -living. There seemed to him to be no root to his life, no place -for him to get satisfied in. He dreamed of going abroad. But his -instinct knew that change of place would not solve his problem. -He wanted change, deep, vital change of living. And he did not -know how to get it. - -Tilly, an old woman now, came in saying that the labourers -who had been suppering up said the yard and everywhere was just -a slew of water. He heard in indifference. But he hated a -desolate, raw wetness in the world. He would leave the -Marsh. - -His mother was in bed. At last he shut his book, his mind was -blank, he walked upstairs intoxicated with depression and anger, -and, intoxicated with depression and anger, locked himself into -sleep. - -Tilly set slippers before the kitchen fire, and she also went -to bed, leaving the door unlocked. Then the farm was in -darkness, in the rain. - -At eleven o'clock it was still raining. Tom Brangwen stood in -the yard of the "Angel", Nottingham, and buttoned his coat. - -"Oh, well," he said cheerfully, "it's rained on me before. -Put 'er in, Jack, my lad, put her in--Tha'rt a rare old -cock, Jacky-boy, wi' a belly on thee as does credit to thy -drink, if not to thy corn. Co' up lass, let's get off ter th' -old homestead. Oh, my heart, what a wetness in the night! -There'll be no volcanoes after this. Hey, Jack, my beautiful -young slender feller, which of us is Noah? It seems as though -the water-works is bursted. Ducks and ayquatic fowl 'll be king -o' the castle at this rate--dove an' olive branch an' all. -Stand up then, gel, stand up, we're not stoppin' here all night, -even if you thought we was. I'm dashed if the jumping rain -wouldn't make anybody think they was drunk. Hey, Jack--does -rain-water wash the sense in, or does it wash it out?" And he -laughed to himself at the joke. - -He was always ashamed when he had to drive after he had been -drinking, always apologetic to the horse. His apologetic frame -made him facetious. He was aware of his inability to walk quite -straight. Nevertheless his will kept stiff and attentive, in all -his fuddleness. - -He mounted and bowled off through the gates of the innyard. -The mare went well, he sat fixed, the rain beating on his face. -His heavy body rode motionless in a kind of sleep, one centre of -attention was kept fitfully burning, the rest was dark. He -concentrated his last attention on the fact of driving along the -road he knew so well. He knew it so well, he watched for it -attentively, with an effort of will. - -He talked aloud to himself, sententious in his anxiety, as if -he were perfectly sober, whilst the mare bowled along and the -rain beat on him. He watched the rain before the gig-lamps, the -faint gleaming of the shadowy horse's body, the passing of the -dark hedges. - -"It's not a fit night to turn a dog out," he said to himself, -aloud. "It's high time as it did a bit of clearing up, I'll be -damned if it isn't. It was a lot of use putting those ten loads -of cinders on th' road. They'll be washed to kingdom-come if it -doesn't alter. Well, it's our Fred's look-out, if they are. He's -top-sawyer as far as those things go. I don't see why I should -concern myself. They can wash to kingdom-come and back again for -what I care. I suppose they would be washed back again some day. -That's how things are. Th' rain tumbles down just to mount up in -clouds again. So they say. There's no more water on the earth -than there was in the year naught. That's the story, my boy, if -you understand it. There's no more to-day than there was a -thousand years ago--nor no less either. You can't wear -water out. No, my boy: it'll give you the go-by. Try to wear it -out, and it takes its hook into vapour, it has its fingers at -its nose to you. It turns into cloud and falleth as rain on the -just and unjust. I wonder if I'm the just or the unjust." - -He started awake as the trap lurched deep into a rut. And he -wakened to the point in his journey. He had travelled some -distance since he was last conscious. - -But at length he reached the gate, and stumbled heavily down, -reeling, gripping fast to the trap. He descended into several -inches of water. - -"Be damned!" he said angrily. "Be damned to the miserable -slop." - -And he led the horse washing through the gate. He was quite -drunk now, moving blindly, in habit. Everywhere there was water -underfoot. - -The raised causeway of the house and the farm-stead was dry, -however. But there was a curious roar in the night which seemed -to be made in the darkness of his own intoxication. Reeling, -blinded, almost without consciousness he carried his parcels and -the rug and cushions into the house, dropped them, and went out -to put up the horse. - -Now he was at home, he was a sleep-walker, waiting only for -the moment of activity to stop. Very deliberately and carefully, -he led the horse down the slope to the cart-shed. She shied and -backed. - -"Why, wha's amiss?" he hiccupped, plodding steadily on. And -he was again in a wash of water, the horse splashed up water as -he went. It was thickly dark, save for the gig-lamps, and they -lit on a rippling surface of water. - -"Well, that's a knock-out," he said, as he came to the -cart-shed, and was wading in six inches of water. But everything -seemed to him amusing. He laughed to think of six inches of -water being in the cart-shed. - -He backed in the mare. She was restive. He laughed at the fun -of untackling the mare with a lot of water washing round his -feet. He laughed because it upset her. "What's amiss, what's -amiss, a drop o' water won't hurt you!" As soon as he had undone -the traces, she walked quickly away. - -He hung up the shafts and took the gig-lamp. As he came out -of the familiar jumble of shafts and wheels in the shed, the -water, in little waves, came washing strongly against his legs. -He staggered and almost fell. - -"Well, what the deuce!" he said, staring round at the running -water in the black, watery night. - -He went to meet the running flood, sinking deeper and deeper. -His soul was full of great astonishment. He had to go and -look where it came from, though the ground was going from under -his feet. He went on, down towards the pond, shakily. He rather -enjoyed it. He was knee-deep, and the water was pulling heavily. -He stumbled, reeled sickeningly. - -Fear took hold of him. Gripping tightly to the lamp, he -reeled, and looked round. The water was carrying his feet away, -he was dizzy. He did not know which way to turn. The water was -whirling, whirling, the whole black night was swooping in rings. -He swayed uncertainly at the centre of all the attack, reeling -in dismay. In his soul, he knew he would fall. - -As he staggered something in the water struck his legs, and -he fell. Instantly he was in the turmoil of suffocation. He -fought in a black horror of suffocation, fighting, wrestling, -but always borne down, borne inevitably down. Still he wrestled -and fought to get himself free, in the unutterable struggle of -suffocation, but he always fell again deeper. Something struck -his head, a great wonder of anguish went over him, then the -blackness covered him entirely. - -In the utter darkness, the unconscious, drowning body was -rolled along, the waters pouring, washing, filling in the place. -The cattle woke up and rose to their feet, the dog began to -yelp. And the unconscious, drowning body was washed along in the -black, swirling darkness, passively. - -Mrs. Brangwen woke up and listened. With preternaturally -sharp senses she heard the movement of all the darkness that -swirled outside. For a moment she lay still. Then she went to -the window. She heard the sharp rain, and the deep running of -water. She knew her husband was outside. - -"Fred," she called, "Fred!" - -Away in the night was a hoarse, brutal roar of a mass of -water rushing downwards. - -She went downstairs. She could not understand the multiplied -running of water. Stepping down the step into the kitchen, she -put her foot into water. The kitchen was flooded. Where did it -come from? She could not understand. - -Water was running in out of the scullery. She paddled through -barefoot, to see. Water was bubbling fiercely under the outer -door. She was afraid. Then something washed against her, -something twined under her foot. It was the riding whip. On the -table were the rug and the cushion and the parcel from the -gig. - -He had come home. - -"Tom!" she called, afraid of her own voice. - -She opened the door. Water ran in with a horrid sound. -Everywhere was moving water, a sound of waters. - -"Tom!" she cried, standing in her nightdress with the candle, -calling into the darkness and the flood out of the doorway. - -"Tom! Tom!" - -And she listened. Fred appeared behind her, in trousers and -shirt. - -"Where is he?" he asked. - -He looked at the flood, then at his mother. She seemed small -and uncanny, elvish, in her nightdress. - -"Go upstairs," he said. "He'll be in th' stable." - -"To--om! To--om!" cried the elderly woman, with a -long, unnatural, penetrating call that chilled her son to the -marrow. He quickly pulled on his boots and his coat. - -"Go upstairs, mother," he said; "I'll go an' see where he -is." - -"To--om! To--o--om!" rang out the shrill, -unearthly cry of the small woman. There was only the noise of -water and the mooing of uneasy cattle, and the long yelping of -the dog, clamouring in the darkness. - -Fred Brangwen splashed out into the flood with a lantern. His -mother stood on a chair in the doorway, watching him go. It was -all water, water, running, flashing under the lantern. - -"Tom! Tom! To--o--om!" came her long, unnatural -cry, ringing over the night. It made her son feel cold in his -soul. - -And the unconscious, drowning body of the father rolled on -below the house, driven by the black water towards the -high-road. - -Tilly appeared, a skirt over her nightdress. She saw her -mistress clinging on the top of a chair in the open doorway, a -candle burning on the table. - -"God's sake!" cried the old serving-woman. "The cut's burst. -That embankment's broke down. Whativer are we goin' to do!" - -Mrs. Brangwen watched her son, and the lantern, go along the -upper causeway to the stable. Then she saw the dark figure of a -horse: then her son hung the lamp in the stable, and the light -shone out faintly on him as he untackled the mare. The mother -saw the soft blazed face of the horse thrust forward into the -stable-door. The stables were still above the flood. But the -water flowed strongly into the house. - -"It's getting higher," said Tilly. "Hasn't master come -in?" - -Mrs. Brangwen did not hear. - -"Isn't he the--ere?" she called, in her far-reaching, -terrifying voice. - -"No," came the short answer out of the night. - -"Go and loo--ok for him." - -His mother's voice nearly drove the youth mad. - -He put the halter on the horse and shut the stable door. He -came splashing back through the water, the lantern swinging. - -The unconscious, drowning body was pushed past the house in -the deepest current. Fred Brangwen came to his mother. - -"I'll go to th' cart-shed," he said. - -"To--om, To--o--om!" rang out the strong, -inhuman cry. Fred Brangwen's blood froze, his heart was very -angry. He gripped his veins in a frenzy. Why was she yelling -like this? He could not bear the sight of her, perched on a -chair in her white nightdress in the doorway, elvish and -horrible. - -"He's taken the mare out of the trap, so he's all right," he -said, growling, pretending to be normal. - -But as he descended to the cart-shed, he sank into a foot of -water. He heard the rushing in the distance, he knew the canal -had broken down. The water was running deeper. - -The trap was there all right, but no signs of his father. The -young man waded down to the pond. The water rose above his -knees, it swirled and forced him. He drew back. - -"Is he the--e--ere?" came the maddening cry of the -mother. - -"No," was the sharp answer. - -"To--om--To--o--om!" came the piercing, -free, unearthly call. It seemed high and supernatural, almost -pure. Fred Brangwen hated it. It nearly drove him mad. So -awfully it sang out, almost like a song. - -The water was flowing fuller into the house. - -"You'd better go up to Beeby's and bring him and Arthur down, -and tell Mrs. Beeby to fetch Wilkinson," said Fred to Tilly. He -forced his mother to go upstairs. - -"I know your father is drowned," she said, in a curious -dismay. - -The flood rose through the night, till it washed the kettle -off the hob in the kitchen. Mrs. Brangwen sat alone at a window -upstairs. She called no more. The men were busy with the pigs -and the cattle. They were coming with a boat for her. - -Towards morning the rain ceased, the stars came out over the -noise and the terrifying clucking and trickling of the water. -Then there was a pallor in the east, the light began to come. In -the ruddy light of the dawn she saw the waters spreading out, -moving sluggishly, the buildings rising out of a waste of water. -Birds began to sing, drowsily, and as if slightly hoarse with -the dawn. It grew brighter. Up the second field was the great, -raw gap in the canal embankment. - -Mrs. Brangwen went from window to window, watching the flood. -Somebody had brought a little boat. The light grew stronger, the -red gleam was gone off the flood-waters, day took place. Mrs. -Brangwen went from the front of the house to the back, looking -out, intent and unrelaxing, on the pallid morning of spring. - -She saw a glimpse of her husband's buff coat in the floods, -as the water rolled the body against the garden hedge. She -called to the men in the boat. She was glad he was found. They -dragged him out of the hedge. They could not lift him into the -boat. Fred Brangwen jumped into the water, up to his waist, and -half carried the body of his father through the flood to the -road. Hay and twigs and dirt were in the beard and hair. The -youth pushed through the water crying loudly without tears, like -a stricken animal. The mother at the window cried, making no -trouble. - -The doctor came. But the body was dead. They carried it up to -Cossethay, to Anna's house. - -When Anna Brangwen heard the news, she pressed back her head -and rolled her eyes, as if something were reaching forward to -bite at her throat. She pressed back her head, her mind was -driven back to sleep. Since she had married and become a mother, -the girl she had been was forgotten. Now, the shock threatened -to break in upon her and sweep away all her intervening life, -make her as a girl of eighteen again, loving her father. So she -pressed back, away from the shock, she clung to her present -life. - -It was when they brought him to her house dead and in his wet -clothes, his wet, sodden clothes, fully dressed as he came from -market, yet all sodden and inert, that the shock really broke -into her, and she was terrified. A big, soaked, inert heap, he -was, who had been to her the image of power and strong life. - -Almost in horror, she began to take the wet things from him, -to pull off him the incongruous market-clothes of a well-to-do -farmer. The children were sent away to the Vicarage, the dead -body lay on the parlour floor, Anna quickly began to undress -him, laid his fob and seals in a wet heap on the table. Her -husband and the woman helped her. They cleared and washed the -body, and laid it on the bed. - -There, it looked still and grand. He was perfectly calm in -death, and, now he was laid in line, inviolable, unapproachable. -To Anna, he was the majesty of the inaccessible male, the -majesty of death. It made her still and awe-stricken, almost -glad. - -Lydia Brangwen, the mother, also came and saw the impressive, -inviolable body of the dead man. She went pale, seeing death. He -was beyond change or knowledge, absolute, laid in line with the -infinite. What had she to do with him? He was a majestic -Abstraction, made visible now for a moment, inviolate, absolute. -And who could lay claim to him, who could speak of him, of the -him who was revealed in the stripped moment of transit from life -into death? Neither the living nor the dead could claim him, he -was both the one and the other, inviolable, inaccessibly -himself. - -"I shared life with you, I belong in my own way to eternity," -said Lydia Brangwen, her heart cold, knowing her own -singleness. - -"I did not know you in life. You are beyond me, supreme now -in death," said Anna Brangwen, awe-stricken, almost glad. - -It was the sons who could not bear it. Fred Brangwen went -about with a set, blanched face and shut hands, his heart full -of hatred and rage for what had been done to his father, -bleeding also with desire to have his father again, to see him, -to hear him again. He could not bear it. - -Tom Brangwen only arrived on the day of the funeral. He was -quiet and controlled as ever. He kissed his mother, who was -still dark-faced, inscrutable, he shook hands with his brother -without looking at him, he saw the great coffin with its black -handles. He even read the name-plate, "Tom Brangwen, of the -Marsh Farm. Born ----. Died ----." - -The good-looking, still face of the young man crinkled up for -a moment in a terrible grimace, then resumed its stillness. The -coffin was carried round to the church, the funeral bell tanged -at intervals, the mourners carried their wreaths of white -flowers. The mother, the Polish woman, went with dark, abstract -face, on her son's arm. He was good-looking as ever, his face -perfectly motionless and somehow pleasant. Fred walked with -Anna, she strange and winsome, he with a face like wood, stiff, -unyielding. - -Only afterwards Ursula, flitting between the currant bushes -down the garden, saw her Uncle Tom standing in his black -clothes, erect and fashionable, but his fists lifted, and his -face distorted, his lips curled back from his teeth in a -horrible grin, like an animal which grimaces with torment, -whilst his body panted quick, like a panting dog's. He was -facing the open distance, panting, and holding still, then -panting rapidly again, but his face never changing from its -almost bestial look of torture, the teeth all showing, the nose -wrinkled up, the eyes, unseeing, fixed. - -Terrified, Ursula slipped away. And when her Uncle Tom was in -the house again, grave and very quiet, so that he seemed almost -to affect gravity, to pretend grief, she watched his still, -handsome face, imagining it again in its distortion. But she saw -the nose was rather thick, rather Russian, under its transparent -skin, she remembered the teeth under the carefully cut moustache -were small and sharp and spaced. She could see him, in all his -elegant demeanour, bestial, almost corrupt. And she was -frightened. She never forgot to look for the bestial, -frightening side of him, after this. - -He said "Good-bye" to his mother and went away at once. -Ursula almost shrank from his kiss, now. She wanted it, -nevertheless, and the little revulsion as well. - -At the funeral, and after the funeral, Will Brangwen was -madly in love with his wife. The death had shaken him. But death -and all seemed to gather in him into a mad, over-whelming -passion for his wife. She seemed so strange and winsome. He was -almost beside himself with desire for her. - -And she took him, she seemed ready for him, she wanted -him. - -The grandmother stayed a while at the Yew Cottage, till the -Marsh was restored. Then she returned to her own rooms, quiet, -and it seemed, wanting nothing. Fred threw himself into the work -of restoring the farm. That his father was killed there, seemed -to make it only the more intimate and the more inevitably his -own place. - -There was a saying that the Brangwens always died a violent -death. To them all, except perhaps Tom, it seemed almost -natural. Yet Fred went about obstinate, his heart fixed. He -could never forgive the Unknown this murder of his father. - -After the death of the father, the Marsh was very quiet. Mrs. -Brangwen was unsettled. She could not sit all the evening -peacefully, as she could before, and during the day she was -always rising to her feet and hesitating, as if she must go -somewhere, and were not quite sure whither. - -She was seen loitering about the garden, in her little -woollen jacket. She was often driven out in the gig, sitting -beside her son and watching the countryside or the streets of -the town, with a childish, candid, uncanny face, as if it all -were strange to her. - -The children, Ursula and Gudrun and Theresa went by the -garden gate on their way to school. The grandmother would have -them call in each time they passed, she would have them come to -the Marsh for dinner. She wanted children about her. - -Of her sons, she was almost afraid. She could see the sombre -passion and desire and dissatisfaction in them, and she wanted -not to see it any more. Even Fred, with his blue eyes and his -heavy jaw, troubled her. There was no peace. He wanted -something, he wanted love, passion, and he could not find them. -But why must he trouble her? Why must he come to her with his -seething and suffering and dissatisfactions? She was too -old. - -Tom was more restrained, reserved. He kept his body very -still. But he troubled her even more. She could not but see the -black depths of disintegration in his eyes, the sudden glance -upon her, as if she could save him, as if he would reveal -himself. - -And how could age save youth? Youth must go to youth. Always -the storm! Could she not lie in peace, these years, in the -quiet, apart from life? No, always the swell must heave upon her -and break against the barriers. Always she must be embroiled in -the seethe and rage and passion, endless, endless, going on for -ever. And she wanted to draw away. She wanted at last her own -innocence and peace. She did not want her sons to force upon her -any more the old brutal story of desire and offerings and deep, -deep-hidden rage of unsatisfied men against women. She wanted to -be beyond it all, to know the peace and innocence of age. - -She had never been a woman to work much. So that now she -would stand often at the garden-gate, watching the scant world -go by. And the sight of children pleased her, made her happy. -She had usually an apple or a few sweets in her pocket. She -liked children to smile at her. - -She never went to her husband's grave. She spoke of him -simply, as if he were alive. Sometimes the tears would run down -her face, in helpless sadness. Then she recovered, and was -herself again, happy. - -On wet days, she stayed in bed. Her bedroom was her city of -refuge, where she could lie down and muse and muse. Sometimes -Fred would read to her. But that did not mean much. She had so -many dreams to dream over, such an unsifted store. She wanted -time. - -Her chief friend at this period was Ursula. The little girl -and the musing, fragile woman of sixty seemed to understand the -same language. At Cossethay all was activity and passion, -everything moved upon poles of passion. Then there were four -children younger than Ursula, a throng of babies, all the time -many lives beating against each other. - -So that for the eldest child, the peace of the grandmother's -bedroom was exquisite. Here Ursula came as to a hushed, -paradisal land, here her own existence became simple and -exquisite to her as if she were a flower. - -Always on Saturdays she came down to the Marsh, and always -clutching a little offering, either a little mat made of strips -of coloured, woven paper, or a tiny basket made in the -kindergarten lesson, or a little crayon drawing of a bird. - -When she appeared in the doorway, Tilly, ancient but still in -authority, would crane her skinny neck to see who it was. - -"Oh, it's you, is it?" she said. "I thought we should be -seein' you. My word, that's a bobby-dazzlin' posy you've -brought!" - -It was curious how Tilly preserved the spirit of Tom -Brangwen, who was dead, in the Marsh. Ursula always connected -her with her grandfather. - -This day the child had brought a tight little nosegay of -pinks, white ones, with a rim of pink ones. She was very proud -of it, and very shy because of her pride. - -"Your gran'mother's in her bed. Wipe your shoes well if -you're goin' up, and don't go burstin' in on her like a -skyrocket. My word, but that's a fine posy! Did you do it all by -yourself, an' all?" - -Tilly stealthily ushered her into the bedroom. The child -entered with a strange, dragging hesitation characteristic of -her when she was moved. Her grandmother was sitting up in bed, -wearing a little grey woollen jacket. - -The child hesitated in silence near the bed, clutching the -nosegay in front of her. Her childish eyes were shining. The -grandmother's grey eyes shone with a similar light. - -"How pretty!" she said. "How pretty you have made them! What -a darling little bunch." - -Ursula, glowing, thrust them into her grandmother's hand, -saying, "I made them you." - -"That is how the peasants tied them at home," said the -grandmother, pushing the pinks with her fingers, and smelling -them. "Just such tight little bunches! And they make wreaths for -their hair--they weave the stalks. Then they go round with -wreaths in their hair, and wearing their best aprons." - -Ursula immediately imagined herself in this story-land. - -"Did you used to have a wreath in your hair, -grandmother?" - -"When I was a little girl, I had golden hair, something like -Katie's. Then I used to have a wreath of little blue flowers, -oh, so blue, that come when the snow is gone. Andrey, the -coachman, used to bring me the very first." - -They talked, and then Tilly brought the tea-tray, set for -two. Ursula had a special green and gold cup kept for herself at -the Marsh. There was thin bread and butter, and cress for tea. -It was all special and wonderful. She ate very daintily, with -little fastidious bites. - -"Why do you have two wedding-rings, grandmother?--Must -you?" asked the child, noticing her grandmother's ivory coloured -hand with blue veins, above the tray. - -"If I had two husbands, child." - -Ursula pondered a moment. - -"Then you must wear both rings together?" - -"Yes." - -"Which was my grandfather's ring?" - -The woman hesitated. - -"This grandfather whom you knew? This was his ring, the red -one. The yellow one was your other grandfather's whom you never -knew." - -Ursula looked interestedly at the two rings on the proffered -finger. - -"Where did he buy it you?" she asked. - -"This one? In Warsaw, I think." - -"You didn't know my own grandfather then?" - -"Not this grandfather." - -Ursula pondered this fascinating intelligence. - -"Did he have white whiskers as well?" - -"No, his beard was dark. You have his brows, I think." - -Ursula ceased and became self-conscious. She at once -identified herself with her Polish grandfather. - -"And did he have brown eyes?" - -"Yes, dark eyes. He was a clever man, as quick as a lion. He -was never still." - -Lydia still resented Lensky. When she thought of him, she was -always younger than he, she was always twenty, or twenty-five, -and under his domination. He incorporated her in his ideas as if -she were not a person herself, as if she were just his -aide-de-camp, or part of his baggage, or one among his surgical -appliances. She still resented it. And he was always only -thirty: he had died when he was thirty-four. She did not feel -sorry for him. He was older than she. Yet she still ached in the -thought of those days. - -"Did you like my first grandfather best?" asked Ursula. - -"I liked them both," said the grandmother. - -And, thinking, she became again Lensky's girl-bride. He was -of good family, of better family even than her own, for she was -half German. She was a young girl in a house of insecure -fortune. And he, an intellectual, a clever surgeon and -physician, had loved her. How she had looked up to him! She -remembered her first transports when he talked to her, the -important young man with the severe black beard. He had seemed -so wonderful, such an authority. After her own lax household, -his gravity and confident, hard authority seemed almost God-like -to her. For she had never known it in her life, all her -surroundings had been loose, lax, disordered, a welter. - -"Miss Lydia, will you marry me?" he had said to her in -German, in his grave, yet tremulous voice. She had been afraid -of his dark eyes upon her. They did not see her, they were fixed -upon her. And he was hard, confident. She thrilled with the -excitement of it, and accepted. During the courtship, his kisses -were a wonder to her. She always thought about them, and -wondered over them. She never wanted to kiss him back. In her -idea, the man kissed, and the woman examined in her soul the -kisses she had received. - -She had never quite recovered from her prostration of the -first days, or nights, of marriage. He had taken her to Vienna, -and she was utterly alone with him, utterly alone in another -world, everything, everything foreign, even he foreign to her. -Then came the real marriage, passion came to her, and she became -his slave, he was her lord, her lord. She was the girl-bride, -the slave, she kissed his feet, she had thought it an honour to -touch his body, to unfasten his boots. For two years, she had -gone on as his slave, crouching at his feet, embracing his -knees. - -Children had come, he had followed his ideas. She was there -for him, just to keep him in condition. She was to him one of -the baser or material conditions necessary for his welfare in -prosecuting his ideas, of nationalism, of liberty, of -science. - -But gradually, at twenty-three, twenty-four, she began to -realize that she too might consider these ideas. By his -acceptance of her self-subordination, he exhausted the feeling -in her. There were those of his associates who would discuss the -ideas with her, though he did not wish to do so himself. She -adventured into the minds of other men. His, then, was not the -only male mind! She did not exist, then, just as his attribute! -She began to perceive the attention of other men. An excitement -came over her. She remembered now the men who had paid her -court, when she was married, in Warsaw. - -Then the rebellion broke out, and she was inspired too. She -would go as a nurse at her husband's side. He worked like a -lion, he wore his life out. And she followed him helplessly. But -she disbelieved in him. He was so separate, he ignored so much. -He counted too much on himself. His work, his ideas,--did -nothing else matter? - -Then the children were dead, and for her, everything became -remote. He became remote. She saw him, she saw him go white when -he heard the news, then frown, as if he thought, "Why -have they died now, when I have no time to grieve?" - -"He has no time to grieve," she had said, in her remote, -awful soul. "He has no time. It is so important, what he does! -He is then so self-important, this half-frenzied man! Nothing -matters, but this work of rebellion! He has not time to grieve, -nor to think of his children! He had not time even to beget -them, really." - -She had let him go on alone. But, in the chaos, she had -worked by his side again. And out of the chaos, she had fled -with him to London. - -He was a broken, cold man. He had no affection for her, nor -for anyone. He had failed in his work, so everything had failed. -He stiffened, and died. - -She could not subscribe. He had failed, everything had -failed, yet behind the failure was the unyielding passion of -life. The individual effort might fail, but not the human joy. -She belonged to the human joy. - -He died and went his way, but not before there was another -child. And this little Ursula was his grandchild. She was glad -of it. For she still honoured him, though he had been -mistaken. - -She, Lydia Brangwen, was sorry for him now. He was -dead--he had scarcely lived. He had never known her. He had -lain with her, but he had never known her. He had never received -what she could give him. He had gone away from her empty. So, he -had never lived. So, he had died and passed away. Yet there had -been strength and power in him. - -She could scarcely forgive him that he had never lived. If it -were not for Anna, and for this little Ursula, who had his -brows, there would be no more left of him than of a broken -vessel thrown away, and just remembered. - -Tom Brangwen had served her. He had come to her, and taken -from her. He had died and gone his way into death. But he had -made himself immortal in his knowledge with her. So she had her -place here, in life, and in immortality. For he had taken his -knowledge of her into death, so that she had her place in death. -"In my father's house are many mansions." - -She loved both her husbands. To one she had been a naked -little girl-bride, running to serve him. The other she loved out -of fulfilment, because he was good and had given her being, -because he had served her honourably, and become her man, one -with her. - -She was established in this stretch of life, she had come to -herself. During her first marriage, she had not existed, except -through him, he was the substance and she the shadow running at -his feet. She was very glad she had come to her own self. She -was grateful to Brangwen. She reached out to him in gratitude, -into death. - -In her heart she felt a vague tenderness and pity for her -first husband, who had been her lord. He was so wrong when he -died. She could not bear it, that he had never lived, never -really become himself. And he had been her lord! Strange, it all -had been! Why had he been her lord? He seemed now so far off, so -without bearing on her. - -"Which did you, grandmother?" - -"What?" - -"Like best." - -"I liked them both. I married the first when I was quite a -girl. Then I loved your grandfather when I was a woman. There is -a difference." - -They were silent for a time. - -"Did you cry when my first grandfather died?" the child -asked. - -Lydia Brangwen rocked herself on the bed, thinking aloud. - -"When we came to England, he hardly ever spoke, he was too -much concerned to take any notice of anybody. He grew thinner -and thinner, till his cheeks were hollow and his mouth stuck -out. He wasn't handsome any more. I knew he couldn't bear being -beaten, I thought everything was lost in the world. Only I had -your mother a baby, it was no use my dying. - -"He looked at me with his black eyes, almost as if he hated -me, when he was ill, and said, 'It only wanted this. It only -wanted that I should leave you and a young child to starve in -this London.' I told him we should not starve. But I was young, -and foolish, and frightened, which he knew. - -"He was bitter, and he never gave way. He lay beating his -brains, to see what he could do. 'I don't know what you will -do,' he said. 'I am no good, I am a failure from beginning to -end. I cannot even provide for my wife and child!' - -"But you see, it was not for him to provide for us. My life -went on, though his stopped, and I married your grandfather. - -"I ought to have known, I ought to have been able to say to -him: 'Don't be so bitter, don't die because this has failed. You -are not the beginning and the end.' But I was too young, he had -never let me become myself, I thought he was truly the beginning -and the end. So I let him take all upon himself. Yet all did not -depend on him. Life must go on, and I must marry your -grandfather, and have your Uncle Tom, and your Uncle Fred. We -cannot take so much upon ourselves." - -The child's heart beat fast as she listened to these things. -She could not understand, but she seemed to feel far-off things. -It gave her a deep, joyous thrill, to know she hailed from far -off, from Poland, and that dark-bearded impressive man. Strange, -her antecedents were, and she felt fate on either side of her -terrible. - -Almost every day, Ursula saw her grandmother, and every time, -they talked together. Till the grandmother's sayings and -stories, told in the complete hush of the Marsh bedroom, -accumulated with mystic significance, and became a sort of Bible -to the child. - -And Ursula asked her deepest childish questions of her -grandmother. - -"Will somebody love me, grandmother?" - -"Many people love you, child. We all love you." - -"But when I am grown up, will somebody love me?" - -"Yes, some man will love you, child, because it's your -nature. And I hope it will be somebody who will love you for -what you are, and not for what he wants of you. But we have a -right to what we want." - -Ursula was frightened, hearing these things. Her heart sank, -she felt she had no ground under her feet. She clung to her -grandmother. Here was peace and security. Here, from her -grandmother's peaceful room, the door opened on to the greater -space, the past, which was so big, that all it contained seemed -tiny, loves and births and deaths, tiny units and features -within a vast horizon. That was a great relief, to know the tiny -importance of the individual, within the great past. - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE WIDENING CIRCLE - -It was very burdensome to Ursula, that she was the eldest of -the family. By the time she was eleven, she had to take to -school Gudrun and Theresa and Catherine. The boy, William, -always called Billy, so that he should not be confused with his -father, was a lovable, rather delicate child of three, so he -stayed at home as yet. There was another baby girl, called -Cassandra. - -The children went for a time to the little church school just -near the Marsh. It was the only place within reach, and being so -small, Mrs. Brangwen felt safe in sending her children there, -though the village boys did nickname Ursula "Urtler", and Gudrun -"Good-runner", and Theresa "Tea-pot". - -Gudrun and Ursula were co-mates. The second child, with her -long, sleepy body and her endless chain of fancies, would have -nothing to do with realities. She was not for them, she was for -her own fancies. Ursula was the one for realities. So Gudrun -left all such to her elder sister, and trusted in her -implicitly, indifferently. Ursula had a great tenderness for her -co-mate sister. - -It was no good trying to make Gudrun responsible. She floated -along like a fish in the sea, perfect within the medium of her -own difference and being. Other existence did not trouble her. -Only she believed in Ursula, and trusted to Ursula. - -The eldest child was very much fretted by her responsibility -for the other young ones. Especially Theresa, a sturdy, -bold-eyed thing, had a faculty for warfare. - -"Our Ursula, Billy Pillins has lugged my hair." - -"What did you say to him?" - -"I said nothing." - -Then the Brangwen girls were in for a feud with the -Pillinses, or Phillipses. - -"You won't pull my hair again, Billy Pillins," said Theresa, -walking with her sisters, and looking superbly at the freckled, -red-haired boy. - -"Why shan't I?" retorted Billy Pillins. - -"You won't because you dursn't," said the tiresome -Theresa. - -"You come here, then, Tea-pot, an' see if I dursna." - -Up marched Tea-pot, and immediately Billy Pillins lugged her -black, snaky locks. In a rage she flew at him. Immediately in -rushed Ursula and Gudrun, and little Katie, in clashed the other -Phillipses, Clem and Walter, and Eddie Anthony. Then there was a -fray. The Brangwen girls were well-grown and stronger than many -boys. But for pinafores and long hair, they would have carried -easy victories. They went home, however, with hair lugged and -pinafores torn. It was a joy to the Phillips boys to rip the -pinafores of the Brangwen girls. - -Then there was an outcry. Mrs. Brangwen would not have -it; no, she would not. All her innate dignity and -standoffishness rose up. Then there was the vicar lecturing the -school. "It was a sad thing that the boys of Cossethay could not -behave more like gentlemen to the girls of Cossethay. Indeed, -what kind of boy was it that should set upon a girl, and kick -her, and beat her, and tear her pinafore? That boy deserved -severe castigation, and the name of coward, for no boy -who was not a coward--etc., etc." - -Meanwhile much hang-dog fury in the Pillinses' hearts, much -virtue in the Brangwen girls', particularly in Theresa's. And -the feud continued, with periods of extraordinary amity, when -Ursula was Clem Phillips's sweetheart, and Gudrun was Walter's, -and Theresa was Billy's, and even the tiny Katie had to be Eddie -Ant'ny's sweetheart. There was the closest union. At every -possible moment the little gang of Brangwens and Phillipses flew -together. Yet neither Ursula nor Gudrun would have any real -intimacy with the Phillips boys. It was a sort of fiction to -them, this alliance and this dubbing of sweethearts. - -Again Mrs. Brangwen rose up. - -"Ursula, I will not have you raking the roads with -lads, so I tell you. Now stop it, and the rest will stop -it." - -How Ursula hated always to represent the little -Brangwen club. She could never be herself, no, she was always -Ursula-Gudrun-Theresa-Catherine--and later even Billy was -added on to her. Moreover, she did not want the Phillipses -either. She was out of taste with them. - -However, the Brangwen-Pillins coalition readily broke down, -owing to the unfair superiority of the Brangwens. The Brangwens -were rich. They had free access to the Marsh Farm. The school -teachers were almost respectful to the girls, the vicar spoke to -them on equal terms. The Brangwen girls presumed, they tossed -their heads. - -"You're not ivrybody, Urtler Brangwin, ugly-mug," said -Clem Phillips, his face going very red. - -"I'm better than you, for all that," retorted Urtler. - -"You think you are--wi' a face like -that--Ugly Mug,--Urtler Brangwin," he began to jeer, -trying to set all the others in cry against her. Then there was -hostility again. How she hated their jeering. She became -cold against the Phillipses. Ursula was very proud in her -family. The Brangwen girls had all a curious blind dignity, even -a kind of nobility in their bearing. By some result of breed and -upbringing, they seemed to rush along their own lives without -caring that they existed to other people. Never from the start -did it occur to Ursula that other people might hold a low -opinion of her. She thought that whosoever knew her, knew she -was enough and accepted her as such. She thought it was a world -of people like herself. She suffered bitterly if she were forced -to have a low opinion of any person, and she never forgave that -person. - -This was maddening to many little people. All their lives, -the Brangwens were meeting folk who tried to pull them down to -make them seem little. Curiously, the mother was aware of what -would happen, and was always ready to give her children the -advantage of the move. - -When Ursula was twelve, and the common school and the -companionship of the village children, niggardly and begrudging, -was beginning to affect her, Anna sent her with Gudrun to the -Grammar School in Nottingham. This was a great release for -Ursula. She had a passionate craving to escape from the -belittling circumstances of life, the little jealousies, the -little differences, the little meannesses. It was a torture to -her that the Phillipses were poorer and meaner than herself, -that they used mean little reservations, took petty little -advantages. She wanted to be with her equals: but not by -diminishing herself. She did want Clem Phillips to be her -equal. But by some puzzling, painful fate or other, when he was -really there with her, he produced in her a tight feeling in the -head. She wanted to beat her forehead, to escape. - -Then she found that the way to escape was easy. One departed -from the whole circumstance. One went away to the Grammar -School, and left the little school, the meagre teachers, the -Phillipses whom she had tried to love but who had made her fail, -and whom she could not forgive. She had an instinctive fear of -petty people, as a deer is afraid of dogs. Because she was -blind, she could not calculate nor estimate people. She must -think that everybody was just like herself. - -She measured by the standard of her own people: her father -and mother, her grandmother, her uncles. Her beloved father, so -utterly simple in his demeanour, yet with his strong, dark soul -fixed like a root in unexpressed depths that fascinated and -terrified her: her mother, so strangely free of all money and -convention and fear, entirely indifferent to the world, standing -by herself, without connection: her grandmother, who had come -from so far and was centred in so wide an horizon: people must -come up to these standards before they could be Ursula's -people. - -So even as a girl of twelve she was glad to burst the narrow -boundary of Cossethay, where only limited people lived. Outside, -was all vastness, and a throng of real, proud people whom she -would love. - -Going to school by train, she must leave home at a quarter to -eight in the morning, and she did not arrive again till -half-past five at evening. Of this she was glad, for the house -was small and overful. It was a storm of movement, whence there -had been no escape. She hated so much being in charge. - -The house was a storm of movement. The children were healthy -and turbulent, the mother only wanted their animal well-being. -To Ursula, as she grew a little older, it became a nightmare. -When she saw, later, a Rubens picture with storms of naked -babies, and found this was called "Fecundity", she shuddered, -and the world became abhorrent to her. She knew as a child what -it was to live amidst storms of babies, in the heat and swelter -of fecundity. And as a child, she was against her mother, -passionately against her mother, she craved for some -spirituality and stateliness. - -In bad weather, home was a bedlam. Children dashed in and out -of the rain, to the puddles under the dismal yew trees, across -the wet flagstones of the kitchen, whilst the cleaning-woman -grumbled and scolded; children were swarming on the sofa, -children were kicking the piano in the parlour, to make it sound -like a beehive, children were rolling on the hearthrug, legs in -air, pulling a book in two between them, children, fiendish, -ubiquitous, were stealing upstairs to find out where our Ursula -was, whispering at bedroom doors, hanging on the latch, calling -mysteriously, "Ursula! Ursula!" to the girl who had locked -herself in to read. And it was hopeless. The locked door excited -their sense of mystery, she had to open to dispel the lure. -These children hung on to her with round-eyed excited -questions. - -The mother flourished amid all this. - -"Better have them noisy than ill," she said. - -But the growing girls, in turn, suffered bitterly. Ursula was -just coming to the stage when Andersen and Grimm were being left -behind for the "Idylls of the King" and romantic -love-stories. - - "Elaine the fair Elaine the lovable, - Elaine the lily maid of Astolat, - High in her chamber in a tower to the east - Guarded the sacred shield of Launcelot." - -How she loved it! How she leaned in her bedroom window with -her black, rough hair on her shoulders, and her warm face all -rapt, and gazed across at the churchyard and the little church, -which was a turreted castle, whence Launcelot would ride just -now, would wave to her as he rode by, his scarlet cloak passing -behind the dark yew trees and between the open space: whilst -she, ah, she, would remain the lonely maid high up and isolated -in the tower, polishing the terrible shield, weaving it a -covering with a true device, and waiting, waiting, always remote -and high. - -At which point there would be a faint scuffle on the stairs, -a light-pitched whispering outside the door, and a creaking of -the latch: then Billy, excited, whispering: - -"It's locked--it's locked." - -Then the knocking, kicking at the door with childish knees, -and the urgent, childish: - -"Ursula--our Ursula? Ursula? Eh, our Ursula?" - -No reply. - -"Ursula! Eh--our Ursula?" the name was shouted now Still -no answer. - -"Mother, she won't answer," came the yell. "She's dead." - -"Go away--I'm not dead. What do you want?" came the -angry voice of the girl. - -"Open the door, our Ursula," came the complaining cry. It was -all over. She must open the door. She heard the screech of the -bucket downstairs dragged across the flagstones as the woman -washed the kitchen floor. And the children were prowling in the -bedroom, asking: - -"What were you doing? What had you locked the door for?" Then -she discovered the key of the parish room, and betook herself -there, and sat on some sacks with her books. There began another -dream. - -She was the only daughter of the old lord, she was gifted -with magic. Day followed day of rapt silence, whilst she -wandered ghost-like in the hushed, ancient mansion, or flitted -along the sleeping terraces. - -Here a grave grief attacked her: that her hair was dark. She -must have fair hair and a white skin. She was rather -bitter about her black mane. - -Never mind, she would dye it when she grew up, or bleach it -in the sun, till it was bleached fair. Meanwhile she wore a fair -white coif of pure Venetian lace. - -She flitted silently along the terraces, where jewelled -lizards basked upon the stone, and did not move when her shadow -fell upon them. In the utter stillness she heard the tinkle of -the fountain, and smelled the roses whose blossoms hung rich and -motionless. So she drifted, drifted on the wistful feet of -beauty, past the water and the swans, to the noble park, where, -underneath a great oak, a doe all dappled lay with her four fine -feet together, her fawn nestling sun-coloured beside her. - -Oh, and this doe was her familiar. It would talk to her, -because she was a magician, it would tell her stories as if the -sunshine spoke. - -Then one day, she left the door of the parish room unlocked, -careless and unheeding as she always was; the children found -their way in, Katie cut her finger and howled, Billy hacked -notches in the fine chisels, and did much damage. There was a -great commotion. - -The crossness of the mother was soon finished. Ursula locked -up the room again, and considered all was over. Then her father -came in with the notched tools, his forehead knotted. - -"Who the deuce opened the door?" he cried in anger. - -"It was Ursula who opened the door," said her mother. He had -a duster in his hand. He turned and flapped the cloth hard -across the girl's face. The cloth stung, for a moment the girl -was as if stunned. Then she remained motionless, her face closed -and stubborn. But her heart was blazing. In spite of herself the -tears surged higher, in spite of her they surged higher. - -In spite of her, her face broke, she made a curious gulping -grimace, and the tears were falling. So she went away, desolate. -But her blazing heart was fierce and unyielding. He watched her -go, and a pleasurable pain filled him, a sense of triumph and -easy power, followed immediately by acute pity. - -"I'm sure that was unnecessary--to hit the girl across -the face," said the mother coldly. - -"A flip with the duster won't hurt her," he said. - -"Nor will it do her any good." - -For days, for weeks, Ursula's heart burned from this rebuff. -She felt so cruelly vulnerable. Did he not know how vulnerable -she was, how exposed and wincing? He, of all people, knew. And -he wanted to do this to her. He wanted to hurt her right through -her closest sensitiveness, he wanted to treat her with shame, to -maim her with insult. - -Her heart burnt in isolation, like a watchfire lighted. She -did not forget, she did not forget, she never forgot. When she -returned to her love for her father, the seed of mistrust and -defiance burned unquenched, though covered up far from sight. -She no longer belonged to him unquestioned. Slowly, slowly, the -fire of mistrust and defiance burned in her, burned away her -connection with him. - -She ran a good deal alone, having a passion for all moving, -active things. She loved the little brooks. Wherever she found a -little running water, she was happy. It seemed to make her run -and sing in spirit along with it. She could sit for hours by a -brook or stream, on the roots of the alders, and watch the water -hasten dancing over the stones, or among the twigs of a fallen -branch. Sometimes, little fish vanished before they had become -real, like hallucinations, sometimes wagtails ran by the water's -brink, sometimes other little birds came to drink. She saw a -kingfisher darting blue--and then she was very happy. The -kingfisher was the key to the magic world: he was witness of the -border of enchantment. - -But she must move out of the intricately woven illusion of -her life: the illusion of a father whose life was an Odyssey in -an outer world; the illusion of her grandmother, of realities so -shadowy and far-off that they became as mystic -symbols:--peasant-girls with wreaths of blue flowers in -their hair, the sledges and the depths of winter; the -dark-bearded young grandfather, marriage and war and death; then -the multitude of illusions concerning herself, how she was truly -a princess of Poland, how in England she was under a spell, she -was not really this Ursula Brangwen; then the mirage of her -reading: out of the multicoloured illusion of this her life, she -must move on, to the Grammar School in Nottingham. - -She was shy, and she suffered. For one thing, she bit her -nails, and had a cruel consciousness in her finger-tips, a -shame, an exposure. Out of all proportion, this shame haunted -her. She spent hours of torture, conjuring how she might keep -her gloves on: if she might say her hands were scalded, if she -might seem to forget to take off her gloves. - -For she was going to inherit her own estate, when she went to -the High School. There, each girl was a lady. There, she was -going to walk among free souls, her co-mates and her equals, and -all petty things would be put away. Ah, if only she did not bite -her nails! If only she had not this blemish! She wanted so much -to be perfect--without spot or blemish, living the high, -noble life. - -It was a grief to her that her father made such a poor -introduction. He was brief as ever, like a boy saying his -errand, and his clothes looked ill-fitting and casual. Whereas -Ursula would have liked robes and a ceremonial of introduction -to this, her new estate. - -She made a new illusion of school. Miss Grey, the -headmistress, had a certain silvery, school-mistressy beauty of -character. The school itself had been a gentleman's house. Dark, -sombre lawns separated it from the dark, select avenue. But its -rooms were large and of good appearance, and from the back, one -looked over lawns and shrubbery, over the trees and the grassy -slope of the Arboretum, to the town which heaped the hollow with -its roofs and cupolas and its shadows. - -So Ursula seated herself upon the hill of learning, looking -down on the smoke and confusion and the manufacturing, engrossed -activity of the town. She was happy. Up here, in the Grammar -School, she fancied the air was finer, beyond the factory smoke. -She wanted to learn Latin and Greek and French and mathematics. -She trembled like a postulant when she wrote the Greek alphabet -for the first time. - -She was upon another hill-slope, whose summit she had not -scaled. There was always the marvellous eagerness in her heart, -to climb and to see beyond. A Latin verb was virgin soil to her: -she sniffed a new odour in it; it meant something, though she -did not know what it meant. But she gathered it up: it was -significant. When she knew that: - - x2-y2 = (x + y)(x-y) - -then she felt that she had grasped something, that she was -liberated into an intoxicating air, rare and unconditioned. And -she was very glad as she wrote her French exercise: - -"J'AI DONNE LE PAIN A MON PETIT FRERE." - -In all these things there was the sound of a bugle to her -heart, exhilarating, summoning her to perfect places. She never -forgot her brown "Longman's First French Grammar", nor her "Via -Latina" with its red edges, nor her little grey Algebra book. -There was always a magic in them. - -At learning she was quick, intelligent, instinctive, but she -was not "thorough". If a thing did not come to her -instinctively, she could not learn it. And then, her mad rage of -loathing for all lessons, her bitter contempt of all teachers -and schoolmistresses, her recoil to a fierce, animal arrogance -made her detestable. - -She was a free, unabateable animal, she declared in her -revolts: there was no law for her, nor any rule. She existed for -herself alone. Then ensued a long struggle with everybody, in -which she broke down at last, when she had run the full length -of her resistance, and sobbed her heart out, desolate; and -afterwards, in a chastened, washed-out, bodiless state, she -received the understanding that would not come before, and went -her way sadder and wiser. - -Ursula and Gudrun went to school together. Gudrun was a shy, -quiet, wild creature, a thin slip of a thing hanging back from -notice or twisting past to disappear into her own world again. -She seemed to avoid all contact, instinctively, and pursued her -own intent way, pursuing half-formed fancies that had no -relation to anyone else. - -She was not clever at all. She thought Ursula clever enough -for two. Ursula understood, so why should she, Gudrun, bother -herself? The younger girl lived her religious, responsible life -in her sister, by proxy. For herself, she was indifferent and -intent as a wild animal, and as irresponsible. - -When she found herself at the bottom of the class, she -laughed, lazily, and was content, saying she was safe now. She -did not mind her father's chagrin nor her mother's tinge of -mortification. - -"What do I pay for you to go to Nottingham for?" her father -asked, exasperated. - -"Well, Dad, you know you needn't pay for me," she replied, -nonchalant. "I'm ready to stop at home." - -She was happy at home, Ursula was not. Slim and unwilling -abroad, Gudrun was easy in her own house as a wild thing in its -lair. Whereas Ursula, attentive and keen abroad, at home was -reluctant, uneasy, unwilling to be herself, or unable. - -Nevertheless Sunday remained the maximum day of the week for -both. Ursula turned passionately to it, to the sense of eternal -security it gave. She suffered anguish of fears during the -week-days, for she felt strong powers that would not recognize -her. There was upon her always a fear and a dislike of -authority. She felt she could always do as she wanted if she -managed to avoid a battle with Authority and the authorised -Powers. But if she gave herself away, she would be lost, -destroyed. There was always the menace against her. - -This strange sense of cruelty and ugliness always imminent, -ready to seize hold upon her this feeling of the grudging power -of the mob lying in wait for her, who was the exception, formed -one of the deepest influences of her life. Wherever she was, at -school, among friends, in the street, in the train, she -instinctively abated herself, made herself smaller, feigned to -be less than she was, for fear that her undiscovered self should -be seen, pounced upon, attacked by brutish resentment of the -commonplace, the average Self. - -She was fairly safe at school, now. She knew how to take her -place there, and how much of herself to reserve. But she was -free only on Sundays. When she was but a girl of fourteen, she -began to feel a resentment growing against her in her own home. -She knew she was the disturbing influence there. But as yet, on -Sundays, she was free, really free, free to be herself, without -fear or misgiving. - -Even at its stormiest, Sunday was a blessed day. Ursula woke -to it with a feeling of immense relief. She wondered why her -heart was so light. Then she remembered it was Sunday. A -gladness seemed to burst out around her, a feeling of great -freedom. The whole world was for twenty-four hours revoked, put -back. Only the Sunday world existed. - -She loved the very confusion of the household. It was lucky -if the children slept till seven o'clock. Usually, soon after -six, a chirp was heard, a voice, an excited chirrup began, -announcing the creation of a new day, there was a thudding of -quick little feet, and the children were up and about, -scampering in their shirts, with pink legs and glistening, -flossy hair all clean from the Saturday's night bathing, their -souls excited by their bodies' cleanliness. - -As the house began to teem with rushing, half-naked clean -children, one of the parents rose, either the mother, easy and -slatternly, with her thick, dark hair loosely coiled and -slipping over one ear, or the father, warm and comfortable, with -ruffled black hair and shirt unbuttoned at the neck. - -Then the girls upstairs heard the continual: - -"Now then, Billy, what are you up to?" in the father's -strong, vibrating voice: or the mother's dignified: - -"I have said, Cassie, I will not have it." - -It was amazing how the father's voice could ring out like a -gong, without his being in the least moved, and how the mother -could speak like a queen holding an audience, though her blouse -was sticking out all round and her hair was not fastened up and -the children were yelling a pandemonium. - -Gradually breakfast was produced, and the elder girls came -down into the babel, whilst half-naked children flitted round -like the wrong ends of cherubs, as Gudrun said, watching the -bare little legs and the chubby tails appearing and -disappearing. - -Gradually the young ones were captured, and nightdresses -finally removed, ready for the clean Sunday shirt. But before -the Sunday shirt was slipped over the fleecy head, away darted -the naked body, to wallow in the sheepskin which formed the -parlour rug, whilst the mother walked after, protesting sharply, -holding the shirt like a noose, and the father's bronze voice -rang out, and the naked child wallowing on its back in the deep -sheepskin announced gleefully: - -"I'm bading in the sea, mother." - -"Why should I walk after you with your shirt?" said the -mother. "Get up now." - -"I'm bading in the sea, mother," repeated the wallowing, -naked figure. - -"We say bathing, not bading," said the mother, with her -strange, indifferent dignity. "I am waiting here with your -shirt." - -At length shirts were on, and stockings were paired, and -little trousers buttoned and little petticoats tied behind. The -besetting cowardice of the family was its shirking of the garter -question. - -"Where are your garters, Cassie?" - -"I don't know." - -"Well, look for them." - -But not one of the elder Brangwens would really face the -situation. After Cassie had grovelled under all the furniture -and blacked up all her Sunday cleanliness, to the infinite grief -of everybody, the garter was forgotten in the new washing of the -young face and hands. - -Later, Ursula would be indignant to see Miss Cassie marching -into church from Sunday school with her stocking sluthered down -to her ankle, and a grubby knee showing. - -"It's disgraceful!" cried Ursula at dinner. "People will -think we're pigs, and the children are never washed." - -"Never mind what people think," said the mother superbly. "I -see that the child is bathed properly, and if I satisfy myself I -satisfy everybody. She can't keep her stocking up and no garter, -and it isn't the child's fault she was let to go without -one." - -The garter trouble continued in varying degrees, but till -each child wore long skirts or long trousers, it was not -removed. - -On this day of decorum, the Brangwen family went to church by -the high-road, making a detour outside all the garden-hedge, -rather than climb the wall into the churchyard. There was no law -of this, from the parents. The children themselves were the -wardens of the Sabbath decency, very jealous and instant with -each other. - -It came to be, gradually, that after church on Sundays the -house was really something of a sanctuary, with peace breathing -like a strange bird alighted in the rooms. Indoors, only reading -and tale-telling and quiet pursuits, such as drawing, were -allowed. Out of doors, all playing was to be carried on -unobtrusively. If there were noise, yelling or shouting, then -some fierce spirit woke up in the father and the elder children, -so that the younger were subdued, afraid of being -excommunicated. - -The children themselves preserved the Sabbath. If Ursula in -her vanity sang: - - "Il etait un' bergere - Et ron-ron-ron petit patapon," - -Theresa was sure to cry: - -"That's not a Sunday song, our Ursula." - -"You don't know," replied Ursula, superior. Nevertheless, she -wavered. And her song faded down before she came to the end. - -Because, though she did not know it, her Sunday was very -precious to her. She found herself in a strange, undefined -place, where her spirit could wander in dreams, unassailed. - -The white-robed spirit of Christ passed between olive trees. -It was a vision, not a reality. And she herself partook of the -visionary being. There was the voice in the night calling, -"Samuel, Samuel!" And still the voice called in the night. But -not this night, nor last night, but in the unfathomed night of -Sunday, of the Sabbath silence. - -There was Sin, the serpent, in whom was also wisdom. There -was Judas with the money and the kiss. - -But there was no actual Sin. If Ursula slapped Theresa -across the face, even on a Sunday, that was not Sin, the -everlasting. It was misbehaviour. If Billy played truant from -Sunday school, he was bad, he was wicked, but he was not a -Sinner. - -Sin was absolute and everlasting: wickedness and badness were -temporary and relative. When Billy, catching up the local -jargon, called Cassie a "sinner", everybody detested him. Yet -when there came to the Marsh a flippetty-floppetty foxhound -puppy, he was mischievously christened "Sinner". - -The Brangwens shrank from applying their religion to their -own immediate actions. They wanted the sense of the eternal and -immortal, not a list of rules for everyday conduct. Therefore -they were badly-behaved children, headstrong and arrogant, -though their feelings were generous. They had, -moreover--intolerable to their ordinary neighbours--a -proud gesture, that did not fit with the jealous idea of the -democratic Christian. So that they were always extraordinary, -outside of the ordinary. - -How bitterly Ursula resented her first acquaintance with -evangelical teachings. She got a peculiar thrill from the -application of salvation to her own personal case. "Jesus died -for me, He suffered for me." There was a pride and a thrill in -it, followed almost immediately by a sense of dreariness. Jesus -with holes in His hands and feet: it was distasteful to her. The -shadowy Jesus with the Stigmata: that was her own vision. But -Jesus the actual man, talking with teeth and lips, telling one -to put one's finger into His wounds, like a villager gloating in -his sores, repelled her. She was enemy of those who insisted on -the humanity of Christ. If He were just a man, living in -ordinary human life, then she was indifferent. - -But it was the jealousy of vulgar people which must insist on -the humanity of Christ. It was the vulgar mind which would allow -nothing extra-human, nothing beyond itself to exist. It was the -dirty, desecrating hands of the revivalists which wanted to drag -Jesus into this everyday life, to dress Jesus up in trousers and -frock-coat, to compel Him to a vulgar equality of footing. It -was the impudent suburban soul which would ask, "What would -Jesus do, if he were in my shoes?" - -Against all this, the Brangwens stood at bay. If any one, it -was the mother who was caught by, or who was most careless of -the vulgar clamour. She would have nothing extra-human. She -never really subscribed, all her life, to Brangwen's mystical -passion. - -But Ursula was with her father. As she became adolescent, -thirteen, fourteen, she set more and more against her mother's -practical indifference. To Ursula, there was something callous, -almost wicked in her mother's attitude. What did Anna Brangwen, -in these years, care for God or Jesus or Angels? She was the -immediate life of to-day. Children were still being born to her, -she was throng with all the little activities of her family. And -almost instinctively she resented her husband's slavish service -to the Church, his dark, subject hankering to worship an unseen -God. What did the unrevealed God matter, when a man had a young -family that needed fettling for? Let him attend to the immediate -concerns of his life, not go projecting himself towards the -ultimate. - -But Ursula was all for the ultimate. She was always in revolt -against babies and muddled domesticity. To her Jesus was another -world, He was not of this world. He did not thrust His hands -under her face and, pointing to His wounds, say: - -"Look, Ursula Brangwen, I got these for your sake. Now do as -you're told." - -To her, Jesus was beautifully remote, shining in the -distance, like a white moon at sunset, a crescent moon beckoning -as it follows the sun, out of our ken. Sometimes dark clouds -standing very far off, pricking up into a clear yellow band of -sunset, of a winter evening, reminded her of Calvary, sometimes -the full moon rising blood-red upon the hill terrified her with -the knowledge that Christ was now dead, hanging heavy and dead -upon the Cross. - -On Sundays, this visionary world came to pass. She heard the -long hush, she knew the marriage of dark and light was taking -place. In church, the Voice sounded, re-echoing not from this -world, as if the Church itself were a shell that still spoke the -language of creation. - -"The Sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were -fair: and they took them wives of all which they chose. - -"And the Lord said, My spirit shall not always strive with -Man, for that he also is flesh; yet his days shall be an hundred -and twenty years. - -"There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after -that, when the Sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, -and they bare children unto them, the same became mighty men -which were of old, men of renown." - -Over this Ursula was stirred as by a call from far off. In -those days, would not the Sons of God have found her fair, would -she not have been taken to wife by one of the Sons of God? It -was a dream that frightened her, for she could not understand -it. - -Who were the sons of God? Was not Jesus the only begotten -Son? Was not Adam the only man created from God? Yet there were -men not begotten by Adam. Who were these, and whence did they -come? They too must derive from God. Had God many offspring, -besides Adam and besides Jesus, children whose origin the -children of Adam cannot recognize? And perhaps these children, -these sons of God, had known no expulsion, no ignominy of the -fall. - -These came on free feet to the daughters of men, and saw they -were fair, and took them to wife, so that the women conceived -and brought forth men of renown. This was a genuine fate. She -moved about in the essential days, when the sons of God came in -unto the daughters of men. - -Nor would any comparison of myths destroy her passion in the -knowledge. Jove had become a bull, or a man, in order to love a -mortal woman. He had begotten in her a giant, a hero. - -Very good, so he had, in Greece. For herself, she was no -Grecian woman. Not Jove nor Pan nor any of those gods, not even -Bacchus nor Apollo, could come to her. But the Sons of God who -took to wife the daughters of men, these were such as should -take her to wife. - -She clung to the secret hope, the aspiration. She lived a -dual life, one where the facts of daily life encompassed -everything, being legion, and the other wherein the facts of -daily life were superseded by the eternal truth. So utterly did -she desire the Sons of God should come to the daughters of men; -and she believed more in her desire and its fulfilment than in -the obvious facts of life. The fact that a man was a man, did -not state his descent from Adam, did not exclude that he was -also one of the unhistoried, unaccountable Sons of God. As yet, -she was confused, but not denied. - -Again she heard the Voice: - -"It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, -than for a rich man to enter into heaven." - -But it was explained, the needle's eye was a little gateway -for foot passengers, through which the great, humped camel with -his load could not possibly squeeze himself: or perhaps at a -great risk, if he were a little camel, he might get through. For -one could not absolutely exclude the rich man from heaven, said -the Sunday school teachers. - -It pleased her also to know, that in the East one must use -hyperbole, or else remain unheard; because the Eastern man must -see a thing swelling to fill all heaven, or dwindled to a mere -nothing, before he is suitably impressed. She immediately -sympathized with this Eastern mind. - -Yet the words continued to have a meaning that was untouched -either by the knowledge of gateways or hyperboles. The -historical, or local, or psychological interest in the words was -another thing. There remained unaltered the inexplicable value -of the saying. What was this relation between a needle's eye, a -rich man, and heaven? What sort of a needle's eye, what sort of -a rich man, what sort of heaven? Who knows? It means the -Absolute World, and can never be more than half interpreted in -terms of the relative world. - -But must one apply the speech literally? Was her father a -rich man? Couldn't he get to heaven? Or was he only a half-rich -man? Or was he merely a poor man? At any rate, unless he gave -everything away to the poor, he would find it much harder to get -to heaven. The needle's eye would be too tight for him. She -almost wished he were penniless poor. If one were coming to the -base of it, any man was rich who was not as poor as the -poorest. - -She had her qualms, when in imagination she saw her father -giving away their piano and the two cows, and the capital at the -bank, to the labourers of the district, so that they, the -Brangwens, should be as poor as the Wherrys. And she did not -want it. She was impatient. - -"Very well," she thought, "we'll forego that heaven, that's -all--at any rate the needle's eye sort." And she dismissed -the problem. She was not going to be as poor as the Wherrys, not -for all the sayings on earth--the miserable squalid -Wherrys. - -So she reverted to the non-literal application of the -scriptures. Her father very rarely read, but he had collected -many books of reproductions, and he would sit and look at these, -curiously intent, like a child, yet with a passion that was not -childish. He loved the early Italian painters, but particularly -Giotto and Fra Angelico and Filippo Lippi. The great -compositions cast a spell over him. How many times had he turned -to Raphael's "Dispute of the Sacrament" or Fra Angelico's "Last -Judgment" or the beautiful, complicated renderings of the -Adoration of the Magi, and always, each time, he received the -same gradual fulfilment of delight. It had to do with the -establishment of a whole mystical, architectural conception -which used the human figure as a unit. Sometimes he had to hurry -home, and go to the Fra Angelico "Last Judgment". The pathway of -open graves, the huddled earth on either side, the seemly heaven -arranged above, the singing process to paradise on the one hand, -the stuttering descent to hell on the other, completed and -satisfied him. He did not care whether or not he believed in -devils or angels. The whole conception gave him the deepest -satisfaction, and he wanted nothing more. - -Ursula, accustomed to these pictures from her childhood, -hunted out their detail. She adored Fra Angelico's flowers and -light and angels, she liked the demons and enjoyed the hell. But -the representation of the encircled God, surrounded by all the -angels on high, suddenly bored her. The figure of the Most High -bored her, and roused her resentment. Was this the culmination -and the meaning of it all, this draped, null figure? The angels -were so lovely, and the light so beautiful. And only for this, -to surround such a banality for God! - -She was dissatisfied, but not fit as yet to criticize. There -was yet so much to wonder over. Winter came, pine branches were -torn down in the snow, the green pine needles looked rich upon -the ground. There was the wonderful, starry, straight track of a -pheasant's footsteps across the snow imprinted so clear; there -was the lobbing mark of the rabbit, two holes abreast, two holes -following behind; the hare shoved deeper shafts, slanting, and -his two hind feet came down together and made one large pit; the -cat podded little holes, and birds made a lacy pattern. - -Gradually there gathered the feeling of expectation. -Christmas was coming. In the shed, at nights, a secret candle -was burning, a sound of veiled voices was heard. The boys were -learning the old mystery play of St. George and Beelzebub. Twice -a week, by lamplight, there was choir practice in the church, -for the learning of old carols Brangwen wanted to hear. The -girls went to these practices. Everywhere was a sense of mystery -and rousedness. Everybody was preparing for something. - -The time came near, the girls were decorating the church, -with cold fingers binding holly and fir and yew about the -pillars, till a new spirit was in the church, the stone broke -out into dark, rich leaf, the arches put forth their buds, and -cold flowers rose to blossom in the dim, mystic atmosphere. -Ursula must weave mistletoe over the door, and over the screen, -and hang a silver dove from a sprig of yew, till dusk came down, -and the church was like a grove. - -In the cow-shed the boys were blacking their faces for a -dress-rehearsal; the turkey hung dead, with opened, speckled -wings, in the dairy. The time was come to make pies, in -readiness. - -The expectation grew more tense. The star was risen into the -sky, the songs, the carols were ready to hail it. The star was -the sign in the sky. Earth too should give a sign. As evening -drew on, hearts beat fast with anticipation, hands were full of -ready gifts. There were the tremulously expectant words of the -church service, the night was past and the morning was come, the -gifts were given and received, joy and peace made a flapping of -wings in each heart, there was a great burst of carols, the -Peace of the World had dawned, strife had passed away, every -hand was linked in hand, every heart was singing. - -It was bitter, though, that Christmas Day, as it drew on to -evening, and night, became a sort of bank holiday, flat and -stale. The morning was so wonderful, but in the afternoon and -evening the ecstasy perished like a nipped thing, like a bud in -a false spring. Alas, that Christmas was only a domestic feast, -a feast of sweetmeats and toys! Why did not the grown-ups also -change their everyday hearts, and give way to ecstasy? Where was -the ecstasy? - -How passionately the Brangwens craved for it, the ecstasy. -The father was troubled, dark-faced and disconsolate, on -Christmas night, because the passion was not there, because the -day was become as every day, and hearts were not aflame. Upon -the mother was a kind of absentness, as ever, as if she were -exiled for all her life. Where was the fiery heart of joy, now -the coming was fulfilled; where was the star, the Magi's -transport, the thrill of new being that shook the earth? - -Still it was there, even if it were faint and inadequate. The -cycle of creation still wheeled in the Church year. After -Christmas, the ecstasy slowly sank and changed. Sunday followed -Sunday, trailing a fine movement, a finely developed -transformation over the heart of the family. The heart that was -big with joy, that had seen the star and had followed to the -inner walls of the Nativity, that there had swooned in the great -light, must now feel the light slowly withdrawing, a shadow -falling, darkening. The chill crept in, silence came over the -earth, and then all was darkness. The veil of the temple was -rent, each heart gave up the ghost, and sank dead. - -They moved quietly, a little wanness on the lips of the -children, at Good Friday, feeling the shadow upon their hearts. -Then, pale with a deathly scent, came the lilies of -resurrection, that shone coldly till the Comforter was -given. - -But why the memory of the wounds and the death? Surely Christ -rose with healed hands and feet, sound and strong and glad? -Surely the passage of the cross and the tomb was forgotten? But -no--always the memory of the wounds, always the smell of -grave-clothes? A small thing was Resurrection, compared with the -Cross and the death, in this cycle. - -So the children lived the year of christianity, the epic of -the soul of mankind. Year by year the inner, unknown drama went -on in them, their hearts were born and came to fulness, suffered -on the cross, gave up the ghost, and rose again to unnumbered -days, untired, having at least this rhythm of eternity in a -ragged, inconsequential life. - -But it was becoming a mechanical action now, this drama: -birth at Christmas for death at Good Friday. On Easter Sunday -the life-drama was as good as finished. For the Resurrection was -shadowy and overcome by the shadow of death, the Ascension was -scarce noticed, a mere confirmation of death. - -What was the hope and the fulfilment? Nay, was it all only a -useless after-death, a wan, bodiless after-death? Alas, and alas -for the passion of the human heart, that must die so long before -the body was dead. - -For from the grave, after the passion and the trial of -anguish, the body rose torn and chill and colourless. Did not -Christ say, "Mary!" and when she turned with outstretched hands -to him, did he not hasten to add, "Touch me not; for I am not -yet ascended to my father." - -Then how could the hands rejoice, or the heart be glad, -seeing themselves repulsed. Alas, for the resurrection of the -dead body! Alas, for the wavering, glimmering appearance of the -risen Christ. Alas, for the Ascension into heaven, which is a -shadow within death, a complete passing away. - -Alas, that so soon the drama is over; that life is ended at -thirty-three; that the half of the year of the soul is cold and -historiless! Alas, that a risen Christ has no place with us! -Alas, that the memory of the passion of Sorrow and Death and the -Grave holds triumph over the pale fact of Resurrection! - -But why? Why shall I not rise with my body whole and perfect, -shining with strong life? Why, when Mary says: Rabboni, shall I -not take her in my arms and kiss her and hold her to my breast? -Why is the risen body deadly, and abhorrent with wounds? - -The Resurrection is to life, not to death. Shall I not see -those who have risen again walk here among men perfect in body -and spirit, whole and glad in the flesh, living in the flesh, -loving in the flesh, begetting children in the flesh, arrived at -last to wholeness, perfect without scar or blemish, healthy -without fear of ill health? Is this not the period of manhood -and of joy and fulfilment, after the Resurrection? Who shall be -shadowed by Death and the Cross, being risen, and who shall fear -the mystic, perfect flesh that belongs to heaven? - -Can I not, then, walk this earth in gladness, being risen -from sorrow? Can I not eat with my brother happily, and with joy -kiss my beloved, after my resurrection, celebrate my marriage in -the flesh with feastings, go about my business eagerly, in the -joy of my fellows? Is heaven impatient for me, and bitter -against this earth, that I should hurry off, or that I should -linger pale and untouched? Is the flesh which was crucified -become as poison to the crowds in the street, or is it as a -strong gladness and hope to them, as the first flower blossoming -out of the earth's humus? - - - -CHAPTER XII - -FIRST LOVE - -As Ursula passed from girlhood towards womanhood, gradually -the cloud of self-responsibility gathered upon her. She became -aware of herself, that she was a separate entity in the midst of -an unseparated obscurity, that she must go somewhere, she must -become something. And she was afraid, troubled. Why, oh why must -one grow up, why must one inherit this heavy, numbing -responsibility of living an undiscovered life? Out of the -nothingness and the undifferentiated mass, to make something of -herself! But what? In the obscurity and pathlessness to take a -direction! But whither? How take even one step? And yet, how -stand still? This was torment indeed, to inherit the -responsibility of one's own life. - -The religion which had been another world for her, a glorious -sort of play-world, where she lived, climbing the tree with the -short-statured man, walking shakily on the sea like the -disciple, breaking the bread into five thousand portions, like -the Lord, giving a great picnic to five thousand people, now -fell away from reality, and became a tale, a myth, an illusion, -which, however much one might assert it to be true an historical -fact, one knew was not true--at least, for this -present--day life of ours. There could, within the limits -of this life we know, be no Feeding of the Five Thousand. And -the girl had come to the point where she held that that which -one cannot experience in daily life is not true for oneself. - -So, the old duality of life, wherein there had been a weekday -world of people and trains and duties and reports, and besides -that a Sunday world of absolute truth and living mystery, of -walking upon the waters and being blinded by the face of the -Lord, of following the pillar of cloud across the desert and -watching the bush that crackled yet did not burn away, this old, -unquestioned duality suddenly was found to be broken apart. The -weekday world had triumphed over the Sunday world. The Sunday -world was not real, or at least, not actual. And one lived by -action. - -Only the weekday world mattered. She herself, Ursula -Brangwen, must know how to take the weekday life. Her body must -be a weekday body, held in the world's estimate. Her soul must -have a weekday value, known according to the world's -knowledge. - -Well, then, there was a weekday life to live, of action and -deeds. And so there was a necessity to choose one's action and -one's deeds. One was responsible to the world for what one -did. - -Nay, one was more than responsible to the world. One was -responsible to oneself. There was some puzzling, tormenting -residue of the Sunday world within her, some persistent Sunday -self, which insisted upon a relationship with the now shed-away -vision world. How could one keep up a relationship with that -which one denied? Her task was now to learn the week-day -life. - -How to act, that was the question? Whither to go, how to -become oneself? One was not oneself, one was merely a -half-stated question. How to become oneself, how to know the -question and the answer of oneself, when one was merely an -unfixed something--nothing, blowing about like the winds of -heaven, undefined, unstated. - -She turned to the visions, which had spoken far-off words -that ran along the blood like ripples of an unseen wind, she -heard the words again, she denied the vision, for she must be a -weekday person, to whom visions were not true, and she demanded -only the weekday meaning of the words. - -There were words spoken by the vision: and words must -have a weekday meaning, since words were weekday stuff. Let them -speak now: let them bespeak themselves in weekday terms. The -vision should translate itself into weekday terms. - -"Sell all thou hast, and give to the poor," she heard on -Sunday morning. That was plain enough, plain enough for Monday -morning too. As she went down the hill to the station, going to -school, she took the saying with her. - -"Sell all thou hast, and give to the poor." - -Did she want to do that? Did she want to sell her -pearl-backed brush and mirror, her silver candlestick, her -pendant, her lovely little necklace, and go dressed in drab like -the Wherrys: the unlovely uncombed Wherrys, who were the "poor" -to her? She did not. - -She walked this Monday morning on the verge of misery. For -she did want to do what was right. And she didn't want to do -what the gospels said. She didn't want to be poor--really -poor. The thought was a horror to her: to live like the Wherrys, -so ugly, to be at the mercy of everybody. - -"Sell that thou hast, and give to the poor." - -One could not do it in real life. How dreary and hopeless it -made her! - -Nor could one turn the other cheek. Theresa slapped Ursula on -the face. Ursula, in a mood of Christian humility, silently -presented the other side of her face. Which Theresa, in -exasperation at the challenge, also hit. Whereupon Ursula, with -boiling heart, went meekly away. - -But anger, and deep, writhing shame tortured her, so she was -not easy till she had again quarrelled with Theresa and had -almost shaken her sister's head off. - -"That'll teach you," she said, grimly. - -And she went away, unchristian but clean. - -There was something unclean and degrading about this humble -side of Christianity. Ursula suddenly revolted to the other -extreme. - -"I hate the Wherrys, and I wish they were dead. Why does my -father leave us in the lurch like this, making us be poor and -insignificant? Why is he not more? If we had a father as he -ought to be, he would be Earl William Brangwen, and I should be -the Lady Ursula? What right have I to be poor? crawling -along the lane like vermin? If I had my rights I should be -seated on horseback in a green riding-habit, and my groom would -be behind me. And I should stop at the gates of the cottages, -and enquire of the cottage woman who came out with a child in -her arms, how did her husband, who had hurt his foot. And I -would pat the flaxen head of the child, stooping from my horse, -and I would give her a shilling from my purse, and order -nourishing food to be sent from the hall to the cottage." - -So she rode in her pride. And sometimes, she dashed into -flames to rescue a forgotten child; or she dived into the canal -locks and supported a boy who was seized with cramp; or she -swept up a toddling infant from the feet of a runaway horse: -always imaginatively, of course. - -But in the end there returned the poignant yearning from the -Sunday world. As she went down in the morning from Cossethay and -saw Ilkeston smoking blue and tender upon its hill, then her -heart surged with far-off words: - -"Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem--how often would I have -gathered thy children together as a hen gathereth her chickens -under her wings, and ye would not--" - -The passion rose in her for Christ, for the gathering under -the wings of security and warmth. But how did it apply to the -weekday world? What could it mean, but that Christ should clasp -her to his breast, as a mother clasps her child? And oh, for -Christ, for him who could hold her to his breast and lose her -there. Oh, for the breast of man, where she should have refuge -and bliss for ever! All her senses quivered with passionate -yearning. - -Vaguely she knew that Christ meant something else: that in -the vision-world He spoke of Jerusalem, something that did not -exist in the everyday world. It was not houses and factories He -would hold in His bosom: nor householders nor factory-workers -nor poor people: but something that had no part in the weekday -world, nor seen nor touched with weekday hands and eyes. - -Yet she must have it in weekday terms--she must. -For all her life was a weekday life, now, this was the whole. So -he must gather her body to his breast, that was strong with a -broad bone, and which sounded with the beating of the heart, and -which was warm with the life of which she partook, the life of -the running blood. - -So she craved for the breast of the Son of Man, to lie there. -And she was ashamed in her soul, ashamed. For whereas Christ -spoke for the Vision to answer, she answered from the weekday -fact. It was a betrayal, a transference of meaning, from the -vision world, to the matter-of-fact world. So she was ashamed of -her religious ecstasy, and dreaded lest any one should see -it. - -Early in the year, when the lambs came, and shelters were -built of straw, and on her uncle's farm the men sat at night -with a lantern and a dog, then again there swept over her this -passionate confusion between the vision world and the weekday -world. Again she felt Jesus in the countryside. Ah, he would -lift up the lambs in his arms! Ah, and she was the lamb. Again, -in the morning, going down the lane, she heard the ewe call, and -the lambs came running, shaking and twinkling with new-born -bliss. And she saw them stooping, nuzzling, groping to the -udder, to find the teats, whilst the mother turned her head -gravely and sniffed her own. And they were sucking, vibrating -with bliss on their little, long legs, their throats stretched -up, their new bodies quivering to the stream of blood-warm, -loving milk. - -Oh, and the bliss, the bliss! She could scarcely tear herself -away to go to school. The little noses nuzzling at the udder, -the little bodies so glad and sure, the little black legs, -crooked, the mother standing still, yielding herself to their -quivering attraction--then the mother walked calmly -away. - -Jesus--the vision world--the everyday -world--all mixed inextricably in a confusion of pain and -bliss. It was almost agony, the confusion, the inextricability. -Jesus, the vision, speaking to her, who was non-visionary! And -she would take his words of the spirit and make them to pander -to her own carnality. - -This was a shame to her. The confusing of the spirit world -with the material world, in her own soul, degraded her. She -answered the call of the spirit in terms of immediate, everyday -desire. - -"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I -will give you rest." - -It was the temporal answer she gave. She leapt with sensuous -yearning to respond to Christ. If she could go to him really, -and lay her head on his breast, to have comfort, to be made much -of, caressed like a child! - -All the time she walked in a confused heat of religious -yearning. She wanted Jesus to love her deliciously, to take her -sensuous offering, to give her sensuous response. For weeks she -went in a muse of enjoyment. - -And all the time she knew underneath that she was playing -false, accepting the passion of Jesus for her own physical -satisfaction. But she was in such a daze, such a tangle. How -could she get free? - -She hated herself, she wanted to trample on herself, destroy -herself. How could one become free? She hated religion, because -it lent itself to her confusion. She abused everything. She -wanted to become hard, indifferent, brutally callous to -everything but just the immediate need, the immediate -satisfaction. To have a yearning towards Jesus, only that she -might use him to pander to her own soft sensation, use him as a -means of reacting upon herself, maddened her in the end. There -was then no Jesus, no sentimentality. With all the bitter hatred -of helplessness she hated sentimentality. - -At this period came the young Skrebensky. She was nearly -sixteen years old, a slim, smouldering girl, deeply reticent, -yet lapsing into unreserved expansiveness now and then, when she -seemed to give away her whole soul, but when in fact she only -made another counterfeit of her soul for outward presentation. -She was sensitive in the extreme, always tortured, always -affecting a callous indifference to screen herself. - -She was at this time a nuisance on the face of the earth, -with her spasmodic passion and her slumberous torment. She -seemed to go with all her soul in her hands, yearning, to the -other person. Yet all the while, deep at the bottom of her was a -childish antagonism of distrust. She thought she loved everybody -and believed in everybody. But because she could not love -herself nor believe in herself, she mistrusted everybody with -the mistrust of a serpent or a captured bird. Her starts of -revulsion and hatred were more inevitable than her impulses of -love. - -So she wrestled through her dark days of confusion, soulless, -uncreated, unformed. - -One evening, as she was studying in the parlour, her head -buried in her hands, she heard new voices in the kitchen -speaking. At once, from its apathy, her excitable spirit started -and strained to listen. It seemed to crouch, to lurk under -cover, tense, glaring forth unwilling to be seen. - -There were two strange men's voices, one soft and candid, -veiled with soft candour, the other veiled with easy mobility, -running quickly. Ursula sat quite tense, shocked out of her -studies, lost. She listened all the time to the sound of the -voices, scarcely heeding the words. - -The first speaker was her Uncle Tom. She knew the naive -candour covering the girding and savage misery of his soul. Who -was the other speaker? Whose voice ran on so easy, yet with an -inflamed pulse? It seemed to hasten and urge her forward, that -other voice. - -"I remember you," the young man's voice was saying. "I -remember you from the first time I saw you, because of your dark -eyes and fair face." - -Mrs. Brangwen laughed, shy and pleased. - -"You were a curly-headed little lad," she said. - -"Was I? Yes, I know. They were very proud of my curls." - -And a laugh ran to silence. - -"You were a very well-mannered lad, I remember," said her -father. - -"Oh! did I ask you to stay the night? I always used to ask -people to stay the night. I believe it was rather trying for my -mother." - -There was a general laugh. Ursula rose. She had to go. - -At the click of the latch everybody looked round. The girl -hung in the doorway, seized with a moment's fierce confusion. -She was going to be good-looking. Now she had an attractive -gawkiness, as she hung a moment, not knowing how to carry her -shoulders. Her dark hair was tied behind, her yellow-brown eyes -shone without direction. Behind her, in the parlour, was the -soft light of a lamp upon open books. - -A superficial readiness took her to her Uncle Tom, who kissed -her, greeting her with warmth, making a show of intimate -possession of her, and at the same time leaving evident his own -complete detachment. - -But she wanted to turn to the stranger. He was standing back -a little, waiting. He was a young man with very clear greyish -eyes that waited until they were called upon, before they took -expression. - -Something in his self-possessed waiting moved her, and she -broke into a confused, rather beautiful laugh as she gave him -her hand, catching her breath like an excited child. His hand -closed over hers very close, very near, he bowed, and his eyes -were watching her with some attention. She felt proud--her -spirit leapt to life. - -"You don't know Mr. Skrebensky, Ursula," came her Uncle Tom's -intimate voice. She lifted her face with an impulsive flash to -the stranger, as if to declare a knowledge, laughing her -palpitating, excited laugh. - -His eyes became confused with roused lights, his detached -attention changed to a readiness for her. He was a young man of -twenty-one, with a slender figure and soft brown hair brushed up -on the German fashion straight from his brow. - -"Are you staying long?" she asked. - -"I've got a month's leave," he said, glancing at Tom -Brangwen. "But I've various places I must go to--put in -some time here and there." - -He brought her a strong sense of the outer world. It was as -if she were set on a hill and could feel vaguely the whole world -lying spread before her. - -"What have you a month's leave from?" she asked. - -"I'm in the Engineers--in the Army." - -"Oh!" she exclaimed, glad. - -"We're taking you away from your studies," said her -Uncle Tom. - -"Oh, no," she replied quickly. - -Skrebensky laughed, young and inflammable. - -"She won't wait to be taken away," said her father. But that -seemed clumsy. She wished he would leave her to say her own -things. - -"Don't you like study?" asked Skrebensky, turning to her, -putting the question from his own case. - -"I like some things," said Ursula. "I like Latin and -French--and grammar." - -He watched her, and all his being seemed attentive to her, -then he shook his head. - -"I don't," he said. "They say all the brains of the army are -in the Engineers. I think that's why I joined them--to get -the credit of other people's brains." - -He said this quizzically and with chagrin. And she became -alert to him. It interested her. Whether he had brains or not, -he was interesting. His directness attracted her, his -independent motion. She was aware of the movement of his life -over against hers. - -"I don't think brains matter," she said. - -"What does matter then?" came her Uncle Tom's intimate, -caressing, half-jeering voice. - -She turned to him. - -"It matters whether people have courage or not," she -said. - -"Courage for what?" asked her uncle. - -"For everything." - -Tom Brangwen gave a sharp little laugh. The mother and father -sat silent, with listening faces. Skrebensky waited. She was -speaking for him. - -"Everything's nothing," laughed her uncle. - -She disliked him at that moment. - -"She doesn't practice what she preaches," said her father, -stirring in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. "She -has courage for mighty little." - -But she would not answer. Skrebensky sat still, waiting. His -face was irregular, almost ugly, flattish, with a rather thick -nose. But his eyes were pellucid, strangely clear, his brown -hair was soft and thick as silk, he had a slight moustache. His -skin was fine, his figure slight, beautiful. Beside him, her -Uncle Tom looked full-blown, her father seemed uncouth. Yet he -reminded her of her father, only he was finer, and he seemed to -be shining. And his face was almost ugly. - -He seemed simply acquiescent in the fact of his own being, as -if he were beyond any change or question. He was himself. There -was a sense of fatality about him that fascinated her. He made -no effort to prove himself to other people. Let it be accepted -for what it was, his own being. In its isolation it made no -excuse or explanation for itself. - -So he seemed perfectly, even fatally established, he did not -asked to be rendered before he could exist, before he could have -relationship with another person. - -This attracted Ursula very much. She was so used to unsure -people who took on a new being with every new influence. Her -Uncle Tom was always more or less what the other person would -have him. In consequence, one never knew the real Uncle Tom, -only a fluid, unsatisfactory flux with a more or less consistent -appearance. - -But, let Skrebensky do what he would, betray himself -entirely, he betrayed himself always upon his own -responsibility. He permitted no question about himself. He was -irrevocable in his isolation. - -So Ursula thought him wonderful, he was so finely -constituted, and so distinct, self-contained, self-supporting. -This, she said to herself, was a gentleman, he had a nature like -fate, the nature of an aristocrat. - -She laid hold of him at once for her dreams. Here was one -such as those Sons of God who saw the daughters of men, that -they were fair. He was no son of Adam. Adam was servile. Had not -Adam been driven cringing out of his native place, had not the -human race been a beggar ever since, seeking its own being? But -Anton Skrebensky could not beg. He was in possession of himself, -of that, and no more. Other people could not really give him -anything nor take anything from him. His soul stood alone. - -She knew that her mother and father acknowledged him. The -house was changed. There had been a visit paid to the house. -Once three angels stood in Abraham's doorway, and greeted him, -and stayed and ate with him, leaving his household enriched for -ever when they went. - -The next day she went down to the Marsh according to -invitation. The two men were not come home. Then, looking -through the window, she saw the dogcart drive up, and Skrebensky -leapt down. She saw him draw himself together, jump, laugh to -her uncle, who was driving, then come towards her to the house. -He was so spontaneous and revealed in his movements. He was -isolated within his own clear, fine atmosphere, and as still as -if fated. - -His resting in his own fate gave him an appearance of -indolence, almost of languor: he made no exuberant movement. -When he sat down, he seemed to go loose, languid. - -"We are a little late," he said. - -"Where have you been?" - -"We went to Derby to see a friend of my father's." - -"Who?" - -It was an adventure to her to put direct questions and get -plain answers. She knew she might do it with this man. - -"Why, he is a clergyman too--he is my guardian--one -of them." - -Ursula knew that Skrebensky was an orphan. - -"Where is really your home now?" she asked. - -"My home?--I wonder. I am very fond of my -colonel--Colonel Hepburn: then there are my aunts: but my -real home, I suppose, is the army." - -"Do you like being on your own?" - -His clear, greenish-grey eyes rested on her a moment, and, as -he considered, he did not see her. - -"I suppose so," he said. "You see my father--well, he -was never acclimatized here. He wanted--I don't know what -he wanted--but it was a strain. And my mother--I -always knew she was too good to me. I could feel her being too -good to me--my mother! Then I went away to school so early. -And I must say, the outside world was always more naturally a -home to me than the vicarage--I don't know why." - -"Do you feel like a bird blown out of its own latitude?" she -asked, using a phrase she had met. - -"No, no. I find everything very much as I like it." - -He seemed more and more to give her a sense of the vast -world, a sense of distances and large masses of humanity. It -drew her as a scent draws a bee from afar. But also it hurt -her. - -It was summer, and she wore cotton frocks. The third time he -saw her she had on a dress with fine blue-and-white stripes, -with a white collar, and a large white hat. It suited her -golden, warm complexion. - -"I like you best in that dress," he said, standing with his -head slightly on one side, and appreciating her in a perceiving, -critical fashion. - -She was thrilled with a new life. For the first time she was -in love with a vision of herself: she saw as it were a fine -little reflection of herself in his eyes. And she must act up to -this: she must be beautiful. Her thoughts turned swiftly to -clothes, her passion was to make a beautiful appearance. Her -family looked on in amazement at the sudden transformation of -Ursula. She became elegant, really elegant, in figured cotton -frocks she made for herself, and hats she bent to her fancy. An -inspiration was upon her. - -He sat with a sort of languor in her grandmother's rocking -chair, rocking slowly, languidly, backward and forward, as -Ursula talked to him. - -"You are not poor, are you?" she said. - -"Poor in money? I have about a hundred and fifty a year of my -own--so I am poor or rich, as you like. I am poor enough, -in fact." - -"But you will earn money?" - -"I shall have my pay--I have my pay now. I've got my -commission. That is another hundred and fifty." - -"You will have more, though?" - -"I shan't have more than 200 pounds a year for ten years to -come. I shall always be poor, if I have to live on my pay." - -"Do you mind it?" - -"Being poor? Not now--not very much. I may later. -People--the officers, are good to me. Colonel Hepburn has a -sort of fancy for me--he is a rich man, I suppose." - -A chill went over Ursula. Was he going to sell himself in -some way? - -"Is Colonel Hepburn married?" - -"Yes--with two daughters." - -But she was too proud at once to care whether Colonel -Hepburn's daughter wanted to marry him or not. - -There came a silence. Gudrun entered, and Skrebensky still -rocked languidly on the chair. - -"You look very lazy," said Gudrun. - -"I am lazy," he answered. - -"You look really floppy," she said. - -"I am floppy," he answered. - -"Can't you stop?" asked Gudrun. - -"No--it's the perpetuum mobile." - -"You look as if you hadn't a bone in your body." - -"That's how I like to feel." - -"I don't admire your taste." - -"That's my misfortune." - -And he rocked on. - -Gudrun seated herself behind him, and as he rocked back, she -caught his hair between her finger and thumb, so that it tugged -him as he swung forward again. He took no notice. There was only -the sound of the rockers on the floor. In silence, like a crab, -Gudrun caught a strand of his hair each time he rocked back. -Ursula flushed, and sat in some pain. She saw the irritation -gathering on his brow. - -At last he leapt up, suddenly, like a steel spring going off, -and stood on the hearthrug. - -"Damn it, why can't I rock?" he asked petulantly, -fiercely. - -Ursula loved him for his sudden, steel-like start out of the -languor. He stood on the hearthrug fuming, his eyes gleaming -with anger. - -Gudrun laughed in her deep, mellow fashion. - -"Men don't rock themselves," she said. - -"Girls don't pull men's hair," he said. - -Gudrun laughed again. - -Ursula sat amused, but waiting. And he knew Ursula was -waiting for him. It roused his blood. He had to go to her, to -follow her call. - -Once he drove her to Derby in the dog-cart. He belonged to -the horsey set of the sappers. They had lunch in an inn, and -went through the market, pleased with everything. He bought her -a copy of Wuthering Heights from a bookstall. Then they found a -little fair in progress and she said: - -"My father used to take me in the swingboats." - -"Did you like it?" he asked. - -"Oh, it was fine," she said. - -"Would you like to go now?" - -"Love it," she said, though she was afraid. But the prospect -of doing an unusual, exciting thing was attractive to her. - -He went straight to the stand, paid the money, and helped her -to mount. He seemed to ignore everything but just what he was -doing. Other people were mere objects of indifference to him. -She would have liked to hang back, but she was more ashamed to -retreat from him than to expose herself to the crowd or to dare -the swingboat. His eyes laughed, and standing before her with -his sharp, sudden figure, he set the boat swinging. She was not -afraid, she was thrilled. His colour flushed, his eyes shone -with a roused light, and she looked up at him, her face like a -flower in the sun, so bright and attractive. So they rushed -through the bright air, up at the sky as if flung from a -catapult, then falling terribly back. She loved it. The motion -seemed to fan their blood to fire, they laughed, feeling the -flames. - -After the swingboats, they went on the roundabouts to calm -down, he twisting astride on his jerky wooden steed towards her, -and always seeming at his ease, enjoying himself. A zest of -antagonism to the convention made him fully himself. As they sat -on the whirling carousal, with the music grinding out, she was -aware of the people on the earth outside, and it seemed that he -and she were riding carelessly over the faces of the crowd, -riding for ever buoyantly, proudly, gallantly over the upturned -faces of the crowd, moving on a high level, spurning the common -mass. - -When they must descend and walk away, she was unhappy, -feeling like a giant suddenly cut down to ordinary level, at the -mercy of the mob. - -They left the fair, to return for the dog-cart. Passing the -large church, Ursula must look in. But the whole interior was -filled with scaffolding, fallen stone and rubbish were heaped on -the floor, bits of plaster crunched underfoot, and the place -re-echoed to the calling of secular voices and to blows of the -hammer. - -She had come to plunge in the utter gloom and peace for a -moment, bringing all her yearning, that had returned on her -uncontrolled after the reckless riding over the face of the -crowd, in the fair. After pride, she wanted comfort, solace, for -pride and scorn seemed to hurt her most of all. - -And she found the immemorial gloom full of bits of falling -plaster, and dust of floating plaster, smelling of old lime, -having scaffolding and rubbish heaped about, dust cloths over -the altar. - -"Let us sit down a minute," she said. - -They sat unnoticed in the back pew, in the gloom, and she -watched the dirty, disorderly work of bricklayers and -plasterers. Workmen in heavy boots walking grinding down the -aisles, calling out in a vulgar accent: - -"Hi, mate, has them corner mouldin's come?" - -There were shouts of coarse answer from the roof of the -church. The place echoed desolate. - -Skrebensky sat close to her. Everything seemed wonderful, if -dreadful to her, the world tumbling into ruins, and she and he -clambering unhurt, lawless over the face of it all. He sat close -to her, touching her, and she was aware of his influence upon -her. But she was glad. It excited her to feel the press of him -upon her, as if his being were urging her to something. - -As they drove home, he sat near to her. And when he swayed to -the cart, he swayed in a voluptuous, lingering way, against her, -lingering as he swung away to recover balance. Without speaking, -he took her hand across, under the wrap, and with his unseeing -face lifted to the road, his soul intent, he began with his one -hand to unfasten the buttons of her glove, to push back her -glove from her hand, carefully laying bare her hand. And the -close-working, instinctive subtlety of his fingers upon her hand -sent the young girl mad with voluptuous delight. His hand was so -wonderful, intent as a living creature skilfully pushing and -manipulating in the dark underworld, removing her glove and -laying bare her palm, her fingers. Then his hand closed over -hers, so firm, so close, as if the flesh knitted to one thing -his hand and hers. Meanwhile his face watched the road and the -ears of the horse, he drove with steady attention through the -villages, and she sat beside him, rapt, glowing, blinded with a -new light. Neither of them spoke. In outward attention they were -entirely separate. But between them was the compact of his flesh -with hers, in the hand-clasp. - -Then, in a strange voice, affecting nonchalance and -superficiality he said to her: - -"Sitting in the church there reminded me of Ingram." - -"Who is Ingram?" she asked. - -She also affected calm superficiality. But she knew that -something forbidden was coming. - -"He is one of the other men with me down at Chatham--a -subaltern--but a year older than I am." - -"And why did the church remind you of him?" - -"Well, he had a girl in Rochester, and they always sat in a -particular corner in the cathedral for their love-making." - -"How nice!" she cried, impulsively. - -They misunderstood each other. - -"It had its disadvantages though. The verger made a row about -it." - -"What a shame! Why shouldn't they sit in a cathedral?" - -"I suppose they all think it a profanity--except you and -Ingram and the girl." - -"I don't think it a profanity--I think it's right, to -make love in a cathedral." - -She said this almost defiantly, in despite of her own -soul. - -He was silent. - -"And was she nice?" - -"Who? Emily? Yes, she was rather nice. She was a milliner, -and she wouldn't be seen in the streets with Ingram. It was -rather sad, really, because the verger spied on them, and got to -know their names and then made a regular row. It was a common -tale afterwards." - -"What did she do?" - -"She went to London, into a big shop. Ingram still goes up to -see her." - -"Does he love her?" - -"It's a year and a half he's been with her now." - -"What was she like?" - -"Emily? Little, shy-violet sort of girl with nice -eyebrows." - -Ursula meditated this. It seemed like real romance of the -outer world. - -"Do all men have lovers?" she asked, amazed at her own -temerity. But her hand was still fastened with his, and his face -still had the same unchanging fixity of outward calm. - -"They're always mentioning some amazing fine woman or other, -and getting drunk to talk about her. Most of them dash up to -London the moment they are free." - -"What for?" - -"To some amazing fine woman or other." - -"What sort of woman?" - -"Various. Her name changes pretty frequently, as a rule. One -of the fellows is a perfect maniac. He keeps a suit-case always -ready, and the instant he is at liberty, he bolts with it to the -station, and changes in the train. No matter who is in the -carriage, off he whips his tunic, and performs at least the top -half of his toilet." - -Ursula quivered and wondered. - -"Why is he in such a hurry?" she asked. - -Her throat was becoming hard and difficult. - -"He's got a woman in his mind, I suppose." - -She was chilled, hardened. And yet this world of passions and -lawlessness was fascinating to her. It seemed to her a splendid -recklessness. Her adventure in life was beginning. It seemed -very splendid. - -That evening she stayed at the Marsh till after dark, and -Skrebensky escorted her home. For she could not go away from -him. And she was waiting, waiting for something more. - -In the warm of the early night, with the shadows new about -them, she felt in another, harder, more beautiful, less personal -world. Now a new state should come to pass. - -He walked near to her, and with the same, silent, intent -approach put his arm round her waist, and softly, very softly, -drew her to him, till his arm was hard and pressed in upon her; -she seemed to be carried along, floating, her feet scarce -touching the ground, borne upon the firm, moving surface of his -body, upon whose side she seemed to lie, in a delicious swoon of -motion. And whilst she swooned, his face bent nearer to her, her -head was leaned on his shoulder, she felt his warm breath on her -face. Then softly, oh softly, so softly that she seemed to faint -away, his lips touched her cheek, and she drifted through -strands of heat and darkness. - -Still she waited, in her swoon and her drifting, waited, like -the Sleeping Beauty in the story. She waited, and again his face -was bent to hers, his lips came warm to her face, their -footsteps lingered and ceased, they stood still under the trees, -whilst his lips waited on her face, waited like a butterfly that -does not move on a flower. She pressed her breast a little -nearer to him, he moved, put both his arms round her, and drew -her close. - -And then, in the darkness, he bent to her mouth, softly, and -touched her mouth with his mouth. She was afraid, she lay still -on his arm, feeling his lips on her lips. She kept still, -helpless. Then his mouth drew near, pressing open her mouth, a -hot, drenching surge rose within her, she opened her lips to -him, in pained, poignant eddies she drew him nearer, she let him -come farther, his lips came and surging, surging, soft, oh soft, -yet oh, like the powerful surge of water, irresistible, till -with a little blind cry, she broke away. - -She heard him breathing heavily, strangely, beside her. A -terrible and magnificent sense of his strangeness possessed her. -But she shrank a little now, within herself. Hesitating, they -continued to walk on, quivering like shadows under the ash trees -of the hill, where her grandfather had walked with his daffodils -to make his proposal, and where her mother had gone with her -young husband, walking close upon him as Ursula was now walking -upon Skrebensky. - -Ursula was aware of the dark limbs of the trees stretching -overhead, clothed with leaves, and of fine ash leaves tressing -the summer night. - -They walked with their bodies moving in complex unity, close -together. He held her hand, and they went the long way round by -the road, to be farther. Always she felt as if she were -supported off her feet, as if her feet were light as little -breezes in motion. - -He would kiss her again--but not again that night with -the same deep--reaching kiss. She was aware now, aware of -what a kiss might be. And so, it was more difficult to come to -him. - -She went to bed feeling all warm with electric warmth, as if -the gush of dawn were within her, upholding her. And she slept -deeply, sweetly, oh, so sweetly. In the morning she felt sound -as an ear of wheat, fragrant and firm and full. - -They continued to be lovers, in the first wondering state of -unrealization. Ursula told nobody; she was entirely lost in her -own world. - -Yet some strange affectation made her seek for a spurious -confidence. She had at school a quiet, meditative, -serious-souled friend called Ethel, and to Ethel must Ursula -confide the story. Ethel listened absorbedly, with bowed, -unbetraying head, whilst Ursula told her secret. Oh, it was so -lovely, his gentle, delicate way of making love! Ursula talked -like a practiced lover. - -"Do you think," asked Ursula, "it is wicked to let a man kiss -you--real kisses, not flirting?" - -"I should think," said Ethel, "it depends." - -"He kissed me under the ash trees on Cossethay hill--do -you think it was wrong?" - -"When?" - -"On Thursday night when he was seeing me home--but real -kisses--real--. He is an officer in the army." - -"What time was it?" asked the deliberate Ethel. - -"I don't know--about half-past nine." - -There was a pause. - -"I think it's wrong," said Ethel, lifting her head with -impatience. "You don't know him." - -She spoke with some contempt. - -"Yes, I do. He is half a Pole, and a Baron too. In England he -is equivalent to a Lord. My grandmother was his father's -friend." - -But the two friends were hostile. It was as if Ursula -wanted to divide herself from her acquaintances, in -asserting her connection with Anton, as she now called him. - -He came a good deal to Cossethay, because her mother was fond -of him. Anna Brangwen became something of a grande dame -with Skrebensky, very calm, taking things for granted. - -"Aren't the children in bed?" cried Ursula petulantly, as she -came in with the young man. - -"They will be in bed in half an hour," said the mother. - -"There is no peace," cried Ursula. - -"The children must live, Ursula," said her mother. - -And Skrebensky was against Ursula in this. Why should she be -so insistent? - -But then, as Ursula knew, he did not have the perpetual -tyranny of young children about him. He treated her mother with -great courtliness, to which Mrs. Brangwen returned an easy, -friendly hospitality. Something pleased the girl in her mother's -calm assumption of state. It seemed impossible to abate Mrs. -Brangwen's position. She could never be beneath anyone in public -relation. Between Brangwen and Skrebensky there was an -unbridgeable silence. Sometimes the two men made a slight -conversation, but there was no interchange. Ursula rejoiced to -see her father retreating into himself against the young -man. - -She was proud of Skrebensky in the house. His lounging, -languorous indifference irritated her and yet cast a spell over -her. She knew it was the outcome of a spirit of -laissez-aller combined with profound young vitality. Yet -it irritated her deeply. - -Notwithstanding, she was proud of him as he lounged in his -lambent fashion in her home, he was so attentive and courteous -to her mother and to herself all the time. It was wonderful to -have his awareness in the room. She felt rich and augmented by -it, as if she were the positive attraction and he the flow -towards her. And his courtesy and his agreement might be all her -mother's, but the lambent flicker of his body was for herself. -She held it. - -She must ever prove her power. - -"I meant to show you my little wood-carving," she said. - -"I'm sure it's not worth showing, that," said her father. - -"Would you like to see it?" she asked, leaning towards the -door. - -And his body had risen from the chair, though his face seemed -to want to agree with her parents. - -"It is in the shed," she said. - -And he followed her out of the door, whatever his feelings -might be. - -In the shed they played at kisses, really played at kisses. -It was a delicious, exciting game. She turned to him, her face -all laughing, like a challenge. And he accepted the challenge at -once. He twined his hand full of her hair, and gently, with his -hand wrapped round with hair behind her head, gradually brought -her face nearer to his, whilst she laughed breathless with -challenge, and his eyes gleamed with answer, with enjoyment of -the game. And he kissed her, asserting his will over her, and -she kissed him back, asserting her deliberate enjoyment of him. -Daring and reckless and dangerous they knew it was, their game, -each playing with fire, not with love. A sort of defiance of all -the world possessed her in it--she would kiss him just -because she wanted to. And a dare-devilry in him, like a -cynicism, a cut at everything he pretended to serve, retaliated -in him. - -She was very beautiful then, so wide opened, so radiant, so -palpitating, exquisitely vulnerable and poignantly, wrongly, -throwing herself to risk. It roused a sort of madness in him. -Like a flower shaking and wide-opened in the sun, she tempted -him and challenged him, and he accepted the challenge, something -went fixed in him. And under all her laughing, poignant -recklessness was the quiver of tears. That almost sent him mad, -mad with desire, with pain, whose only issue was through -possession of her body. - -So, shaken, afraid, they went back to her parents in the -kitchen, and dissimulated. But something was roused in both of -them that they could not now allay. It intensified and -heightened their senses, they were more vivid, and powerful in -their being. But under it all was a poignant sense of -transience. It was a magnificent self-assertion on the part of -both of them, he asserted himself before her, he felt himself -infinitely male and infinitely irresistible, she asserted -herself before him, she knew herself infinitely desirable, and -hence infinitely strong. And after all, what could either of -them get from such a passion but a sense of his or of her own -maximum self, in contradistinction to all the rest of life? -Wherein was something finite and sad, for the human soul at its -maximum wants a sense of the infinite. - -Nevertheless, it was begun now, this passion, and must go on, -the passion of Ursula to know her own maximum self, limited and -so defined against him. She could limit and define herself -against him, the male, she could be her maximum self, female, oh -female, triumphant for one moment in exquisite assertion against -the male, in supreme contradistinction to the male. - -The next afternoon, when he came, prowling, she went with him -across to the church. Her father was gradually gathering in -anger against him, her mother was hardening in anger against -her. But the parents were naturally tolerant in action. - -They went together across the churchyard, Ursula and -Skrebensky, and ran to hiding in the church. It was dimmer in -there than the sunny afternoon outside, but the mellow glow -among the bowed stone was very sweet. The windows burned in ruby -and in blue, they made magnificent arras to their bower of -secret stone. - -"What a perfect place for a rendezvous," he said, in a -hushed voice, glancing round. - -She too glanced round the familiar interior. The dimness and -stillness chilled her. But her eyes lit up with daring. Here, -here she would assert her indomitable gorgeous female self, -here. Here she would open her female flower like a flame, in -this dimness that was more passionate than light. - -They hung apart a moment, then wilfully turned to each other -for the desired contact. She put her arms round him, she cleaved -her body to his, and with her hands pressed upon his shoulders, -on his back, she seemed to feel right through him, to know his -young, tense body right through. And it was so fine, so hard, -yet so exquisitely subject and under her control. She reached -him her mouth and drank his full kiss, drank it fuller and -fuller. - -And it was so good, it was very, very good. She seemed to be -filled with his kiss, filled as if she had drunk strong, glowing -sunshine. She glowed all inside, the sunshine seemed to beat -upon her heart underneath, she had drunk so beautifully. - -She drew away, and looked at him radiant, exquisitely, -glowingly beautiful, and satisfied, but radiant as an illumined -cloud. - -To him this was bitter, that she was so radiant and -satisfied. She laughed upon him, blind to him, so full of her -own bliss, never doubting but that he was the same as she was. -And radiant as an angel she went with him out of the church, as -if her feet were beams of light that walked on flowers for -footsteps. - -He went beside her, his soul clenched, his body unsatisfied. -Was she going to make this easy triumph over him? For him, there -was now no self-bliss, only pain and confused anger. - -It was high summer, and the hay-harvest was almost over. It -would be finished on Saturday. On Saturday, however, Skrebensky -was going away. He could not stay any longer. - -Having decided to go he became very tender and loving to her, -kissing her gently, with such soft, sweet, insidious closeness -that they were both of them intoxicated. - -The very last Friday of his stay he met her coming out of -school, and took her to tea in the town. Then he had a motor-car -to drive her home. - -Her excitement at riding in a motor-car was greatest of all. -He too was very proud of this last coup. He saw Ursula kindle -and flare up to the romance of the situation. She raised her -head like a young horse snuffing with wild delight. - -The car swerved round a corner, and Ursula was swung against -Skrebensky. The contact made her aware of him. With a swift, -foraging impulse she sought for his hand and clasped it in her -own, so close, so combined, as if they were two children. - -The wind blew in on Ursula's face, the mud flew in a soft, -wild rush from the wheels, the country was blackish green, with -the silver of new hay here and there, and masses of trees under -a silver-gleaming sky. - -Her hand tightened on his with a new consciousness, troubled. -They did not speak for some time, but sat, hand-fast, with -averted, shining faces. - -And every now and then the car swung her against him. And -they waited for the motion to bring them together. Yet they -stared out of the windows, mute. - -She saw the familiar country racing by. But now, it was no -familiar country, it was wonderland. There was the Hemlock Stone -standing on its grassy hill. Strange it looked on this wet, -early summer evening, remote, in a magic land. Some rooks were -flying out of the trees. - -Ah, if only she and Skrebensky could get out, dismount into -this enchanted land where nobody had ever been before! Then they -would be enchanted people, they would put off the dull, -customary self. If she were wandering there, on that hill-slope -under a silvery, changing sky, in which many rooks melted like -hurrying showers of blots! If they could walk past the wetted -hay-swaths, smelling the early evening, and pass in to the wood -where the honeysuckle scent was sweet on the cold tang in the -air, and showers of drops fell when one brushed a bough, cold -and lovely on the face! - -But she was here with him in the car, close to him, and the -wind was rushing on her lifted, eager face, blowing back the -hair. He turned and looked at her, at her face clean as a -chiselled thing, her hair chiselled back by the wind, her fine -nose keen and lifted. - -It was agony to him, seeing her swift and clean-cut and -virgin. He wanted to kill himself, and throw his detested -carcase at her feet. His desire to turn round on himself and -rend himself was an agony to him. - -Suddenly she glanced at him. He seemed to be crouching -towards her, reaching, he seemed to wince between the brows. But -instantly, seeing her lighted eyes and radiant face, his -expression changed, his old reckless laugh shone to her. She -pressed his hand in utter delight, and he abided. And suddenly -she stooped and kissed his hand, bent her head and caught it to -her mouth, in generous homage. And the blood burned in him. Yet -he remained still, he made no move. - -She started. They were swinging into Cossethay. Skrebensky -was going to leave her. But it was all so magic, her cup was so -full of bright wine, her eyes could only shine. - -He tapped and spoke to the man. The car swung up by the yew -trees. She gave him her hand and said good-bye, naive and brief -as a schoolgirl. And she stood watching him go, her face -shining. The fact of his driving on meant nothing to her, she -was so filled by her own bright ecstacy. She did not see him go, -for she was filled with light, which was of him. Bright with an -amazing light as she was, how could she miss him. - -In her bedroom she threw her arms in the air in clear pain of -magnificence. Oh, it was her transfiguration, she was beyond -herself. She wanted to fling herself into all the hidden -brightness of the air. It was there, it was there, if she could -but meet it. - -But the next day she knew he had gone. Her glory had partly -died down--but never from her memory. It was too real. Yet -it was gone by, leaving a wistfulness. A deeper yearning came -into her soul, a new reserve. - -She shrank from touch and question. She was very proud, but -very new, and very sensitive. Oh, that no one should lay hands -on her! - -She was happier running on by herself. Oh, it was a joy to -run along the lanes without seeing things, yet being with them. -It was such a joy to be alone with all one's riches. - -The holidays came, when she was free. She spent most of her -time running on by herself, curled up in a squirrel-place in the -garden, lying in a hammock in the coppice, while the birds came -near--near--so near. Oh, in rainy weather, she flitted -to the Marsh, and lay hidden with her book in a hay-loft. - -All the time, she dreamed of him, sometimes definitely, but -when she was happiest, only vaguely. He was the warm colouring -of her dreams, he was the hot blood beating within them. - -When she was less happy, out of sorts, she pondered over his -appearance, his clothes, the buttons with his regimental badge, -which he had given her. Or she tried to imagine his life in -barracks. Or she conjured up a vision of herself as she appeared -in his eyes. - -His birthday was in August, and she spent some pains on -making him a cake. She felt that it would not be in good taste -for her to give him a present. - -Their correspondence was brief, mostly an exchange of -post-cards, not at all frequent. But with her cake she must send -him a letter. - -"Dear Anton. The sunshine has come back specially for your -birthday, I think. I made the cake myself, and wish you many -happy returns of the day. Don't eat it if it is not good. Mother -hopes you will come and see us when you are near enough. - - "I am - - "Your Sincere Friend, - - "Ursula Brangwen." - -It bored her to write a letter even to him. After all, -writing words on paper had nothing to do with him and her. - -The fine weather had set in, the cutting machine went on from -dawn till sunset, chattering round the fields. She heard from -Skrebensky; he too was on duty in the country, on Salisbury -Plain. He was now a second lieutenant in a Field Troop. He would -have a few days off shortly, and would come to the Marsh for the -wedding. - -Fred Brangwen was going to marry a schoolmistress out of -Ilkeston as soon as corn-harvest was at an end. - -The dim blue-and-gold of a hot, sweet autumn saw the close of -the corn-harvest. To Ursula, it was as if the world had opened -its softest purest flower, its chicory flower, its meadow -saffron. The sky was blue and sweet, the yellow leaves down the -lane seemed like free, wandering flowers as they chittered round -the feet, making a keen, poignant, almost unbearable music to -her heart. And the scents of autumn were like a summer madness -to her. She fled away from the little, purple-red -button-chrysanthemums like a frightened dryad, the bright yellow -little chrysanthemums smelled so strong, her feet seemed to -dither in a drunken dance. - -Then her Uncle Tom appeared, always like the cynical Bacchus -in the picture. He would have a jolly wedding, a harvest supper -and a wedding feast in one: a tent in the home close, and a band -for dancing, and a great feast out of doors. - -Fred demurred, but Tom must be satisfied. Also Laura, a -handsome, clever girl, the bride, she also must have a great and -jolly feast. It appealed to her educated sense. She had been to -Salisbury Training College, knew folk-songs and -morris-dancing. - -So the preparations were begun, directed by Tom Brangwen. A -marquee was set up on the home close, two large bonfires were -prepared. Musicians were hired, feast made ready. - -Skrebensky was to come, arriving in the morning. Ursula had a -new white dress of soft crepe, and a white hat. She liked to -wear white. With her black hair and clear golden skin, she -looked southern, or rather tropical, like a Creole. She wore no -colour whatsoever. - -She trembled that day as she appeared to go down to the -wedding. She was to be a bridesmaid. Skrebensky would not arrive -till afternoon. The wedding was at two o'clock. - -As the wedding-party returned home, Skrebensky stood in the -parlour at the Marsh. Through the window he saw Tom Brangwen, -who was best man, coming up the garden path most elegant in -cut-away coat and white slip and spats, with Ursula laughing on -his arm. Tom Brangwen was handsome, with his womanish colouring -and dark eyes and black close-cut moustache. But there was -something subtly coarse and suggestive about him for all his -beauty; his strange, bestial nostrils opened so hard and wide, -and his well-shaped head almost disquieting in its nakedness, -rather bald from the front, and all its soft fulness -betrayed. - -Skrebensky saw the man rather than the woman. She saw only -the slender, unchangeable youth waiting there inscrutable, like -her fate. He was beyond her, with his loose, slightly horsey -appearance, that made him seem very manly and foreign. Yet his -face was smooth and soft and impressionable. She shook hands -with him, and her voice was like the rousing of a bird startled -by the dawn. - -"Isn't it nice," she cried, "to have a wedding?" - -There were bits of coloured confetti lodged on her dark -hair. - -Again the confusion came over him, as if he were losing -himself and becoming all vague, undefined, inchoate. Yet he -wanted to be hard, manly, horsey. And he followed her. - -There was a light tea, and the guests scattered. The real -feast was for the evening. Ursula walked out with Skrebensky -through the stackyard to the fields, and up the embankment to -the canal-side. - -The new corn-stacks were big and golden as they went by, an -army of white geese marched aside in braggart protest. Ursula -was light as a white ball of down. Skrebensky drifted beside -her, indefinite, his old from loosened, and another self, grey, -vague, drifting out as from a bud. They talked lightly, of -nothing. - -The blue way of the canal wound softly between the autumn -hedges, on towards the greenness of a small hill. On the left -was the whole black agitation of colliery and railway and the -town which rose on its hill, the church tower topping all. The -round white dot of the clock on the tower was distinct in the -evening light. - -That way, Ursula felt, was the way to London, through the -grim, alluring seethe of the town. On the other hand was the -evening, mellow over the green water-meadows and the winding -alder trees beside the river, and the pale stretches of stubble -beyond. There the evening glowed softly, and even a pee-wit was -flapping in solitude and peace. - -Ursula and Anton Skrebensky walked along the ridge of the -canal between. The berries on the hedges were crimson and bright -red, above the leaves. The glow of evening and the wheeling of -the solitary pee-wit and the faint cry of the birds came to meet -the shuffling noise of the pits, the dark, fuming stress of the -town opposite, and they two walked the blue strip of water-way, -the ribbon of sky between. - -He was looking, Ursula thought, very beautiful, because of a -flush of sunburn on his hands and face. He was telling her how -he had learned to shoe horses and select cattle fit for -killing. - -"Do you like to be a soldier?" she asked. - -"I am not exactly a soldier," he replied. - -"But you only do things for wars," she said. - -"Yes." - -"Would you like to go to war?" - -"I? Well, it would be exciting. If there were a war I would -want to go." - -A strange, distracted feeling came over her, a sense of -potent unrealities. - -"Why would you want to go?" - -"I should be doing something, it would be genuine. It's a -sort of toy-life as it is." - -"But what would you be doing if you went to war?" - -"I would be making railways or bridges, working like a -nigger." - -"But you'd only make them to be pulled down again when the -armies had done with them. It seems just as much a game." - -"If you call war a game." - -"What is it?" - -"It's about the most serious business there is, -fighting." - -A sense of hard separateness came over her. - -"Why is fighting more serious than anything else?" she -asked. - -"You either kill or get killed--and I suppose it is -serious enough, killing." - -"But when you're dead you don't matter any more," she -said. - -He was silenced for a moment. - -"But the result matters," he said. "It matters whether we -settle the Mahdi or not." - -"Not to you--nor me--we don't care about -Khartoum." - -"You want to have room to live in: and somebody has to make -room." - -"But I don't want to live in the desert of Sahara--do -you?" she replied, laughing with antagonism. - -"I don't--but we've got to back up those who do. - -"Why have we?" - -"Where is the nation if we don't?" - -"But we aren't the nation. There are heaps of other people -who are the nation." - -"They might say they weren't either." - -"Well, if everybody said it, there wouldn't be a nation. But -I should still be myself," she asserted brilliantly. - -"You wouldn't be yourself if there were no nation." - -"Why not?" - -"Because you'd just be a prey to everybody and anybody." - -"How a prey?" - -"They'd come and take everything you'd got." - -"Well, they couldn't take much even then. I don't care what -they take. I'd rather have a robber who carried me off than a -millionaire who gave me everything you can buy." - -"That's because you are a romanticist." - -"Yes, I am. I want to be romantic. I hate houses that never -go away, and people just living in the houses. It's all so stiff -and stupid. I hate soldiers, they are stiff and wooden. What do -you fight for, really?" - -"I would fight for the nation." - -"For all that, you aren't the nation. What would you do for -yourself?" - -"I belong to the nation and must do my duty by the -nation." - -"But when it didn't need your services in -particular--when there is no fighting? What would you do -then?" - -He was irritated. - -"I would do what everybody else does." - -"What?" - -"Nothing. I would be in readiness for when I was needed." - -The answer came in exasperation. - -"It seems to me," she answered, "as if you weren't -anybody--as if there weren't anybody there, where you are. -Are you anybody, really? You seem like nothing to me." - -They had walked till they had reached a wharf, just above a -lock. There an empty barge, painted with a red and yellow cabin -hood, but with a long, coal-black hold, was lying moored. A man, -lean and grimy, was sitting on a box against the cabin-side by -the door, smoking, and nursing a baby that was wrapped in a drab -shawl, and looking into the glow of evening. A woman bustled -out, sent a pail dashing into the canal, drew her water, and -bustled in again. Children's voices were heard. A thin blue -smoke ascended from the cabin chimney, there was a smell of -cooking. - -Ursula, white as a moth, lingered to look. Skrebensky -lingered by her. The man glanced up. - -"Good evening," he called, half impudent, half attracted. He -had blue eyes which glanced impudently from his grimy face. - -"Good evening," said Ursula, delighted. "Isn't it -nice now?" - -"Ay," said the man, "very nice." - -His mouth was red under his ragged, sandy moustache. His -teeth were white as he laughed. - -"Oh, but--" stammered Ursula, laughing, "it is. Why do -you say it as if it weren't?" - -"'Appen for them as is childt-nursin' it's none so rosy." - -"May I look inside your barge?" asked Ursula. - -"There's nobody'll stop you; you come if you like." - -The barge lay at the opposite bank, at the wharf. It was the -Annabel, belonging to J. Ruth of Loughborough. The man -watched Ursula closely from his keen, twinkling eyes. His fair -hair was wispy on his grimed forehead. Two dirty children -appeared to see who was talking. - -Ursula glanced at the great lock gates. They were shut, and -the water was sounding, spurting and trickling down in the gloom -beyond. On this side the bright water was almost to the top of -the gate. She went boldly across, and round to the wharf. - -Stooping from the bank, she peeped into the cabin, where was -a red glow of fire and the shadowy figure of a woman. She did -want to go down. - -"You'll mess your frock," said the man, warningly. - -"I'll be careful," she answered. "May I come?" - -"Ay, come if you like." - -She gathered her skirts, lowered her foot to the side of the -boat, and leapt down, laughing. Coal-dust flew up. - -The woman came to the door. She was plump and sandy-haired, -young, with an odd, stubby nose. - -"Oh, you will make a mess of yourself," she cried, -surprised and laughing with a little wonder. - -"I did want to see. Isn't it lovely living on a barge?" asked -Ursula. - -"I don't live on one altogether," said the woman -cheerfully. - -"She's got her parlour an' her plush suite in Loughborough," -said her husband with just pride. - -Ursula peeped into the cabin, where saucepans were boiling -and some dishes were on the table. It was very hot. Then she -came out again. The man was talking to the baby. It was a -blue-eyed, fresh-faced thing with floss of red-gold hair. - -"Is it a boy or a girl?" she asked. - -"It's a girl--aren't you a girl, eh?" he shouted at the -infant, shaking his head. Its little face wrinkled up into the -oddest, funniest smile. - -"Oh!" cried Ursula. "Oh, the dear! Oh, how nice when she -laughs!" - -"She'll laugh hard enough," said the father. - -"What is her name?" asked Ursula. - -"She hasn't got a name, she's not worth one," said the man. -"Are you, you fag-end o' nothing?" he shouted to the baby. The -baby laughed. - -"No we've been that busy, we've never took her to th' -registry office," came the woman's voice. "She was born on th' -boat here." - -"But you know what you're going to call her?" asked -Ursula. - -"We did think of Gladys Em'ly," said the mother. - -"We thought of nowt o' th' sort," said the father. - -"Hark at him! What do you want?' cried the mother in -exasperation. - -"She'll be called Annabel after th' boat she was born -on." - -"She's not, so there," said the mother, viciously defiant - -The father sat in humorous malice, grinning. - -"Well, you'll see," he said. - -And Ursula could tell, by the woman's vibrating exasperation, -that he would never give way. - -"They're all nice names," she said. "Call her Gladys Annabel -Emily." - -"Nay, that's heavy-laden, if you like," he answered. - -"You see!" cried the woman. "He's that pig-headed!" - -"And she's so nice, and she laughs, and she hasn't even got a -name," crooned Ursula to the child. - -"Let me hold her," she added. - -He yielded her the child, that smelt of babies. But it had -such blue, wide, china blue eyes, and it laughed so oddly, with -such a taking grimace, Ursula loved it. She cooed and talked to -it. It was such an odd, exciting child. - -"What's your name?" the man suddenly asked of her. - -"My name is Ursula--Ursula Brangwen," she replied. - -"Ursula!" he exclaimed, dumbfounded. - -"There was a Saint Ursula. It's a very old name," she added -hastily, in justification. - -"Hey, mother!" he called. - -There was no answer. - -"Pem!" he called, "can't y'hear?" - -"What?" came the short answer. - -"What about 'Ursula'?" he grinned. - -"What about what?" came the answer, and the woman -appeared in the doorway, ready for combat. - -"Ursula--it's the lass's name there," he said, -gently. - -The woman looked the young girl up and down. Evidently she -was attracted by her slim, graceful, new beauty, her effect of -white elegance, and her tender way of holding the child. - -"Why, how do you write it?" the mother asked, awkward now she -was touched. Ursula spelled out her name. The man looked at the -woman. A bright, confused flush came over the mother's face, a -sort of luminous shyness. - -"It's not a common name, is it!" she exclaimed, -excited as by an adventure. - -"Are you goin' to have it then?" he asked. - -"I'd rather have it than Annabel," she said, decisively. - -"An' I'd rather have it than Gladys Em'ler," he replied. - -There was a silence, Ursula looked up. - -"Will you really call her Ursula?" she asked. - -"Ursula Ruth," replied the man, laughing vainly, as pleased -as if he had found something. - -It was now Ursula's turn to be confused. - -"It does sound awfully nice," she said. "I must give -her something. And I haven't got anything at all." - -She stood in her white dress, wondering, down there in the -barge. The lean man sitting near to her watched her as if she -were a strange being, as if she lit up his face. His eyes smiled -on her, boldly, and yet with exceeding admiration -underneath. - -"Could I give her my necklace?" she said. - -It was the little necklace made of pieces of amethyst and -topaz and pearl and crystal, strung at intervals on a little -golden chain, which her Uncle Tom had given her. She was very -fond of it. She looked at it lovingly, when she had taken it -from her neck. - -"Is it valuable?" the man asked her, curiously. - -"I think so," she replied. - -"The stones and pearl are real; it is worth three or four -pounds," said Skrebensky from the wharf above. Ursula could tell -he disapproved of her. - -"I must give it to your baby--may I?" she said to -the bargee. - -He flushed, and looked away into the evening. - -"Nay," he said, "it's not for me to say." - -"What would your father and mother say?" cried the woman -curiously, from the door. - -"It is my own," said Ursula, and she dangled the little -glittering string before the baby. The infant spread its little -fingers. But it could not grasp. Ursula closed the tiny hand -over the jewel. The baby waved the bright ends of the string. -Ursula had given her necklace away. She felt sad. But she did -not want it back. - -The jewel swung from the baby's hand and fell in a little -heap on the coal-dusty bottom of the barge. The man groped for -it, with a kind of careful reverence. Ursula noticed the -coarsened, blunted fingers groping at the little jewelled heap. -The skin was red on the back of the hand, the fair hairs -glistened stiffly. It was a thin, sinewy, capable hand -nevertheless, and Ursula liked it. He took up the necklace -carefully, and blew the coal-dust from it, as it lay in the -hollow of his hand. He seemed still and attentive. He held out -his hand with the necklace shining small in its hard, black -hollow. - -"Take it back," he said. - -Ursula hardened with a kind of radiance. - -"No," she said. "It belongs to little Ursula." - -And she went to the infant and fastened the necklace round -its warm, soft, weak little neck. - -There was a moment of confusion, then the father bent over -his child: - -"What do you say?" he said. "Do you say thank you? Do you say -thank you, Ursula?" - -"Her name's Ursula now," said the mother, smiling a -little bit ingratiatingly from the door. And she came out to -examine the jewel on the child's neck. - -"It is Ursula, isn't it?" said Ursula Brangwen. - -The father looked up at her, with an intimate, half-gallant, -half-impudent, but wistful look. His captive soul loved her: but -his soul was captive, he knew, always. - -She wanted to go. He set a little ladder for her to climb up -to the wharf. She kissed the child, which was in its mother's -arms, then she turned away. The mother was effusive. The man -stood silent by the ladder. - -Ursula joined Skrebensky. The two young figures crossed the -lock, above the shining yellow water. The barge-man watched them -go. - -"I loved them," she was saying. "He was so -gentle--oh, so gentle! And the baby was such a dear!" - -"Was he gentle?" said Skrebensky. "The woman had been a -servant, I'm sure of that." - -Ursula winced. - -"But I loved his impudence--it was so gentle -underneath." - -She went hastening on, gladdened by having met the grimy, -lean man with the ragged moustache. He gave her a pleasant warm -feeling. He made her feel the richness of her own life. -Skrebensky, somehow, had created a deadness round her, a -sterility, as if the world were ashes. - -They said very little as they hastened home to the big -supper. He was envying the lean father of three children, for -his impudent directness and his worship of the woman in Ursula, -a worship of body and soul together, the man's body and soul -wistful and worshipping the body and spirit of the girl, with a -desire that knew the inaccessibility of its object, but was only -glad to know that the perfect thing existed, glad to have had a -moment of communion. - -Why could not he himself desire a woman so? Why did he never -really want a woman, not with the whole of him: never loved, -never worshipped, only just physically wanted her. - -But he would want her with his body, let his soul do as it -would. A kind of flame of physical desire was gradually beating -up in the Marsh, kindled by Tom Brangwen, and by the fact of the -wedding of Fred, the shy, fair, stiff-set farmer with the -handsome, half-educated girl. Tom Brangwen, with all his secret -power, seemed to fan the flame that was rising. The bride was -strongly attracted by him, and he was exerting his influence on -another beautiful, fair girl, chill and burning as the sea, who -said witty things which he appreciated, making her glint with -more, like phosphorescence. And her greenish eyes seemed to rock -a secret, and her hands like mother-of-pearl seemed luminous, -transparent, as if the secret were burning visible in them. - -At the end of supper, during dessert, the music began to -play, violins, and flutes. Everybody's face was lit up. A glow -of excitement prevailed. When the little speeches were over, and -the port remained unreached for any more, those who wished were -invited out to the open for coffee. The night was warm. - -Bright stars were shining, the moon was not yet up. And under -the stars burned two great, red, flameless fires, and round -these lights and lanterns hung, the marquee stood open before a -fire, with its lights inside. - -The young people flocked out into the mysterious night. There -was sound of laughter and voices, and a scent of coffee. The -farm-buildings loomed dark in the background. Figures, pale and -dark, flitted about, intermingling. The red fire glinted on a -white or a silken skirt, the lanterns gleamed on the transient -heads of the wedding guests. - -To Ursula it was wonderful. She felt she was a new being. The -darkness seemed to breathe like the sides of some great beast, -the haystacks loomed half-revealed, a crowd of them, a dark, -fecund lair just behind. Waves of delirious darkness ran through -her soul. She wanted to let go. She wanted to reach and be -amongst the flashing stars, she wanted to race with her feet and -be beyond the confines of this earth. She was mad to be gone. It -was as if a hound were straining on the leash, ready to hurl -itself after a nameless quarry into the dark. And she was the -quarry, and she was also the hound. The darkness was passionate -and breathing with immense, unperceived heaving. It was waiting -to receive her in her flight. And how could she start--and -how could she let go? She must leap from the known into the -unknown. Her feet and hands beat like a madness, her breast -strained as if in bonds. - -The music began, and the bonds began to slip. Tom Brangwen -was dancing with the bride, quick and fluid and as if in another -element, inaccessible as the creatures that move in the water. -Fred Brangwen went in with another partner. The music came in -waves. One couple after another was washed and absorbed into the -deep underwater of the dance. - -"Come," said Ursula to Skrebensky, laying her hand on his -arm. - -At the touch of her hand on his arm, his consciousness melted -away from him. He took her into his arms, as if into the sure, -subtle power of his will, and they became one movement, one dual -movement, dancing on the slippery grass. It would be endless, -this movement, it would continue for ever. It was his will and -her will locked in a trance of motion, two wills locked in one -motion, yet never fusing, never yielding one to the other. It -was a glaucous, intertwining, delicious flux and contest in -flux. - -They were both absorbed into a profound silence, into a deep, -fluid underwater energy that gave them unlimited strength. All -the dancers were waving intertwined in the flux of music. -Shadowy couples passed and repassed before the fire, the dancing -feet danced silently by into the darkness. It was a vision of -the depths of the underworld, under the great flood. - -There was a wonderful rocking of the darkness, slowly, a -great, slow swinging of the whole night, with the music playing -lightly on the surface, making the strange, ecstatic, rippling -on the surface of the dance, but underneath only one great flood -heaving slowly backwards to the verge of oblivion, slowly -forward to the other verge, the heart sweeping along each time, -and tightening with anguish as the limit was reached, and the -movement, at crises, turned and swept back. - -As the dance surged heavily on, Ursula was aware of some -influence looking in upon her. Something was looking at her. -Some powerful, glowing sight was looking right into her, not -upon her, but right at her. Out of the great distance, and yet -imminent, the powerful, overwhelming watch was kept upon her. -And she danced on and on with Skrebensky, while the great, white -watching continued, balancing all in its revelation. - -"The moon has risen," said Anton, as the music ceased, and -they found themselves suddenly stranded, like bits of jetsam on -a shore. She turned, and saw a great white moon looking at her -over the hill. And her breast opened to it, she was cleaved like -a transparent jewel to its light. She stood filled with the full -moon, offering herself. Her two breasts opened to make way for -it, her body opened wide like a quivering anemone, a soft, -dilated invitation touched by the moon. She wanted the moon to -fill in to her, she wanted more, more communion with the moon, -consummation. But Skrebensky put his arm round her, and led her -away. He put a big, dark cloak round her, and sat holding her -hand, whilst the moonlight streamed above the glowing fires. - -She was not there. Patiently she sat, under the cloak, with -Skrebensky holding her hand. But her naked self was away there -beating upon the moonlight, dashing the moonlight with her -breasts and her knees, in meeting, in communion. She half -started, to go in actuality, to fling away her clothing and flee -away, away from this dark confusion and chaos of people to the -hill and the moon. But the people stood round her like stones, -like magnetic stones, and she could not go, in actuality. -Skrebensky, like a load-stone weighed on her, the weight of his -presence detained her. She felt the burden of him, the blind, -persistent, inert burden. He was inert, and he weighed upon her. -She sighed in pain. Oh, for the coolness and entire liberty and -brightness of the moon. Oh, for the cold liberty to be herself, -to do entirely as she liked. She wanted to get right away. She -felt like bright metal weighted down by dark, impure magnetism. -He was the dross, people were the dross. If she could but get -away to the clean free moonlight. - -"Don't you like me to-night?" said his low voice, the voice -of the shadow over her shoulder. She clenched her hands in the -dewy brilliance of the moon, as if she were mad. - -"Don't you like me to-night?" repeated the soft voice. - -And she knew that if she turned, she would die. A strange -rage filled her, a rage to tear things asunder. Her hands felt -destructive, like metal blades of destruction. - -"Let me alone," she said. - -A darkness, an obstinacy settled on him too, in a kind of -inertia. He sat inert beside her. She threw off her cloak and -walked towards the moon, silver-white herself. He followed her -closely. - -The music began again and the dance. He appropriated her. -There was a fierce, white, cold passion in her heart. But he -held her close, and danced with her. Always present, like a soft -weight upon her, bearing her down, was his body against her as -they danced. He held her very close, so that she could feel his -body, the weight of him sinking, settling upon her, overcoming -her life and energy, making her inert along with him, she felt -his hands pressing behind her, upon her. But still in her body -was the subdued, cold, indomitable passion. She liked the dance: -it eased her, put her into a sort of trance. But it was only a -kind of waiting, of using up the time that intervened between -her and her pure being. She left herself against him, she let -him exert all his power over her, to bear her down. She received -all the force of his power. She even wished he might overcome -her. She was cold and unmoved as a pillar of salt. - -His will was set and straining with all its tension to -encompass him and compel her. If he could only compel her. He -seemed to be annihilated. She was cold and hard and compact of -brilliance as the moon itself, and beyond him as the moonlight -was beyond him, never to be grasped or known. If he could only -set a bond round her and compel her! - -So they danced four or five dances, always together, always -his will becoming more tense, his body more subtle, playing upon -her. And still he had not got her, she was hard and bright as -ever, intact. But he must weave himself round her, enclose her, -enclose her in a net of shadow, of darkness, so she would be -like a bright creature gleaming in a net of shadows, caught. -Then he would have her, he would enjoy her. How he would enjoy -her, when she was caught. - -At last, when the dance was over, she would not sit down, she -walked away. He came with his arm round her, keeping her upon -the movement of his walking. And she seemed to agree. She was -bright as a piece of moonlight, as bright as a steel blade, he -seemed to be clasping a blade that hurt him. Yet he would clasp -her, if it killed him. - -They went towards the stackyard. There he saw, with something -like terror, the great new stacks of corn glistening and -gleaming transfigured, silvery and present under the night-blue -sky, throwing dark, substantial shadows, but themselves majestic -and dimly present. She, like glimmering gossamer, seemed to burn -among them, as they rose like cold fires to the silvery-bluish -air. All was intangible, a burning of cold, glimmering, -whitish-steely fires. He was afraid of the great -moon-conflagration of the cornstacks rising above him. His heart -grew smaller, it began to fuse like a bead. He knew he would -die. - -She stood for some moments out in the overwhelming luminosity -of the moon. She seemed a beam of gleaming power. She was afraid -of what she was. Looking at him, at his shadowy, unreal, -wavering presence a sudden lust seized her, to lay hold of him -and tear him and make him into nothing. Her hands and wrists -felt immeasurably hard and strong, like blades. He waited there -beside her like a shadow which she wanted to dissipate, destroy -as the moonlight destroys a darkness, annihilate, have done -with. She looked at him and her face gleamed bright and -inspired. She tempted him. - -And an obstinacy in him made him put his arm round her and -draw her to the shadow. She submitted: let him try what he could -do. Let him try what he could do. He leaned against the side of -the stack, holding her. The stack stung him keenly with a -thousand cold, sharp flames. Still obstinately he held her. - -And timorously, his hands went over her, over the salt, -compact brilliance of her body. If he could but have her, how he -would enjoy her! If he could but net her brilliant, cold, -salt-burning body in the soft iron of his own hands, net her, -capture her, hold her down, how madly he would enjoy her. He -strove subtly, but with all his energy, to enclose her, to have -her. And always she was burning and brilliant and hard as salt, -and deadly. Yet obstinately, all his flesh burning and -corroding, as if he were invaded by some consuming, scathing -poison, still he persisted, thinking at last he might overcome -her. Even, in his frenzy, he sought for her mouth with his -mouth, though it was like putting his face into some awful -death. She yielded to him, and he pressed himself upon her in -extremity, his soul groaning over and over: - -"Let me come--let me come." - -She took him in the kiss, hard her kiss seized upon him, hard -and fierce and burning corrosive as the moonlight. She seemed to -be destroying him. He was reeling, summoning all his strength to -keep his kiss upon her, to keep himself in the kiss. - -But hard and fierce she had fastened upon him, cold as the -moon and burning as a fierce salt. Till gradually his warm, soft -iron yielded, yielded, and she was there fierce, corrosive, -seething with his destruction, seething like some cruel, -corrosive salt around the last substance of his being, -destroying him, destroying him in the kiss. And her soul -crystallized with triumph, and his soul was dissolved with agony -and annihilation. So she held him there, the victim, consumed, -annihilated. She had triumphed: he was not any more. - -Gradually she began to come to herself. Gradually a sort of -daytime consciousness came back to her. Suddenly the night was -struck back into its old, accustomed, mild reality. Gradually -she realized that the night was common and ordinary, that the -great, blistering, transcendent night did not really exist. She -was overcome with slow horror. Where was she? What was this -nothingness she felt? The nothingness was Skrebensky. Was he -really there?--who was he? He was silent, he was not there. -What had happened? Had she been mad: what horrible thing had -possessed her? She was filled with overpowering fear of herself, -overpowering desire that it should not be, that other burning, -corrosive self. She was seized with a frenzied desire that what -had been should never be remembered, never be thought of, never -be for one moment allowed possible. She denied it with all her -might. With all her might she turned away from it. She was good, -she was loving. Her heart was warm, her blood was dark and warm -and soft. She laid her hand caressively on Anton's shoulder. - -"Isn't it lovely?" she said, softly, coaxingly, caressingly. -And she began to caress him to life again. For he was dead. And -she intended that he should never know, never become aware of -what had been. She would bring him back from the dead without -leaving him one trace of fact to remember his annihilation -by. - -She exerted all her ordinary, warm self, she touched him, she -did him homage of loving awareness. And gradually he came back -to her, another man. She was soft and winning and caressing. She -was his servant, his adoring slave. And she restored the whole -shell of him. She restored the whole form and figure of him. But -the core was gone. His pride was bolstered up, his blood ran -once more in pride. But there was no core to him: as a distinct -male he had no core. His triumphant, flaming, overweening heart -of the intrinsic male would never beat again. He would be -subject now, reciprocal, never the indomitable thing with a core -of overweening, unabateable fire. She had abated that fire, she -had broken him. - -But she caressed him. She would not have him remember what -had been. She would not remember herself. - -"Kiss me, Anton, kiss me," she pleaded. - -He kissed her, but she knew he could not touch her. His arms -were round her, but they had not got her. She could feel his -mouth upon her, but she was not at all compelled by it. - -"Kiss me," she whispered, in acute distress, "kiss me." - -And he kissed her as she bade him, but his heart was hollow. -She took his kisses, outwardly. But her soul was empty and -finished. - -Looking away, she saw the delicate glint of oats dangling -from the side of the stack, in the moonlight, something proud -and royal, and quite impersonal. She had been proud with them, -where they were, she had been also. But in this temporary warm -world of the commonplace, she was a kind, good girl. She reached -out yearningly for goodness and affection. She wanted to be kind -and good. - -They went home through the night that was all pale and -glowing around, with shadows and glimmerings and presences. -Distinctly, she saw the flowers in the hedge-bottoms, she saw -the thin, raked sheaves flung white upon the thorny hedge. - -How beautiful, how beautiful it was! She thought with anguish -how wildly happy she was to-night, since he had kissed her. But -as he walked with his arm round her waist, she turned with a -great offering of herself to the night that glistened -tremendous, a magnificent godly moon white and candid as a -bridegroom, flowers silvery and transformed filling up the -shadows. - -He kissed her again, under the yew trees at home, and she -left him. She ran from the intrusion of her parents at home, to -her bedroom, where, looking out on the moonlit country, she -stretched up her arms, hard, hard, in bliss, agony offering -herself to the blond, debonair presence of the night. - -But there was a wound of sorrow, she had hurt herself, as if -she had bruised herself, in annihilating him. She covered up her -two young breasts with her hands, covering them to herself; and -covering herself with herself, she crouched in bed, to -sleep. - -In the morning the sun shone, she got up strong and dancing. -Skrebensky was still at the Marsh. He was coming to church. How -lovely, how amazing life was! On the fresh Sunday morning she -went out to the garden, among the yellows and the deep-vibrating -reds of autumn, she smelled the earth and felt the gossamer, the -cornfields across the country were pale and unreal, everywhere -was the intense silence of the Sunday morning, filled with -unacquainted noises. She smelled the body of the earth, it -seemed to stir its powerful flank beneath her as she stood. In -the bluish air came the powerful exudation, the peace was the -peace of strong, exhausted breathing, the reds and yellows and -the white gleam of stubble were the quivers and motion of the -last subsiding transports and clear bliss of fulfilment. - -The church-bells were ringing when he came. She looked up in -keen anticipation at his entry. But he was troubled and his -pride was hurt. He seemed very much clothed, she was conscious -of his tailored suit. - -"Wasn't it lovely last night?" she whispered to him. - -"Yes," he said. But his face did not open nor become -free. - -The service and the singing in church that morning passed -unnoticed by her. She saw the coloured glow of the windows, the -forms of the worshippers. Only she glanced at the book of -Genesis, which was her favourite book in the Bible. - -"And God blessed Noah and his sons, and said unto them, Be -fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth. - -"And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be upon every -beast of the earth, and upon every fowl of the air, upon all -that moveth upon the earth, and upon all the fishes in the sea; -into your hand are they delivered. - -"Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you; even -as the green herb have I given you all things." - -But Ursula was not moved by the history this morning. -Multiplying and replenishing the earth bored her. Altogether it -seemed merely a vulgar and stock-raising sort of business. She -was left quite cold by man's stock-breeding lordship over beast -and fishes. - -"And you, be ye fruitful and multiply; bring forth abundantly -in the earth, and multiply therein." - -In her soul she mocked at this multiplication, every cow -becoming two cows, every turnip ten turnips. - -"And God said; This is the token of the covenant which I make -between me and you and every living creature that is with you, -for perpetual generations; - -"I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be a token of a -covenant between me and the earth. - -"And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the -earth, that a bow shall be seen in the cloud; - -"And I will remember my covenant, which is between me and you -and every living creature of all flesh, and the waters shall no -more become a flood to destroy all flesh." - -"Destroy all flesh," why "flesh" in particular? Who was this -lord of flesh? After all, how big was the Flood? Perhaps a few -dryads and fauns had just run into the hills and the farther -valleys and woods, frightened, but most had gone on blithely -unaware of any flood at all, unless the nymphs should tell them. -It pleased Ursula to think of the naiads in Asia Minor meeting -the nereids at the mouth of the streams, where the sea washed -against the fresh, sweet tide, and calling to their sisters the -news of Noah's Flood. They would tell amusing accounts of Noah -in his ark. Some nymphs would relate how they had hung on the -side of the ark, peeped in, and heard Noah and Shem and Ham and -Japeth, sitting in their place under the rain, saying, how they -four were the only men on earth now, because the Lord had -drowned all the rest, so that they four would have everything to -themselves, and be masters of every thing, sub-tenants under the -great Proprietor. - -Ursula wished she had been a nymph. She would have laughed -through the window of the ark, and flicked drops of the flood at -Noah, before she drifted away to people who were less important -in their Proprietor and their Flood. - -What was God, after all? If maggots in a dead dog be but God -kissing carrion, what then is not God? She was surfeited of this -God. She was weary of the Ursula Brangwen who felt troubled -about God. What ever God was, He was, and there was no need for -her to trouble about Him. She felt she had now all licence. - -Skrebensky sat beside her, listening to the sermon, to the -voice of law and order. "The very hairs of your head are all -numbered." He did not believe it. He believed his own things -were quite at his own disposal. You could do as you liked with -your own things, so long as you left other people's alone. - -Ursula caressed him and made love to him. Nevertheless he -knew she wanted to react upon him and to destroy his being. She -was not with him, she was against him. But her making love to -him, her complete admiration of him, in open life, gratified -him. - -She caught him out of himself, and they were lovers, in a -young, romantic, almost fantastic way. He gave her a little -ring. They put it in Rhine wine, in their glass, and she drank, -then he drank. They drank till the ring lay exposed at the -bottom of the glass. Then she took the simple jewel, and tied it -on a thread round her neck, where she wore it. - -He asked her for a photograph when he was going away. She -went in great excitement to the photographer, with five -shillings. The result was an ugly little picture of herself with -her mouth on one side. She wondered over it and admired it. - -He saw only the live face of the girl. The picture hurt him. -He kept it, he always remembered it, but he could scarcely bear -to see it. There was a hurt to his soul in the clear, fearless -face that was touched with abstraction. Its abstraction was -certainly away from him. - -Then war was declared with the Boers in South Africa, and -everywhere was a fizz of excitement. He wrote that he might have -to go. And he sent her a box of sweets. - -She was slightly dazed at the thought of his going to the -war, not knowing how to feel. It was a sort of romantic -situation that she knew so well in fiction she hardly understood -it in fact. Underneath a top elation was a sort of dreariness, -deep, ashy disappointment. - -However, she secreted the sweets under her bed, and ate them -all herself, when she went to bed, and when she woke in the -morning. All the time she felt very guilty and ashamed, but she -simply did not want to share them. - -That box of sweets remained stuck in her mind afterwards. Why -had she secreted them and eaten them every one? Why? She did not -feel guilty--she only knew she ought to feel guilty. And -she could not make up her mind. Curiously monumental that box of -sweets stood up, now it was empty. It was a crux for her. What -was she to think of it? - -The idea of war altogether made her feel uneasy, uneasy. When -men began organized fighting with each other it seemed to her as -if the poles of the universe were cracking, and the whole might -go tumbling into the bottomless pit. A horrible bottomless -feeling she had. Yet of course there was the minted -superscription of romance and honour and even religion about -war. She was very confused. - -Skrebensky was busy, he could not come to see her. She asked -for no assurance, no security. What was between them, was, and -could not be altered by avowals. She knew that by instinct, she -trusted to the intrinsic reality. - -But she felt an agony of helplessness. She could do nothing. -Vaguely she knew the huge powers of the world rolling and -crashing together, darkly, clumsily, stupidly, yet colossal, so -that one was brushed along almost as dust. Helpless, helpless, -swirling like dust! Yet she wanted so hard to rebel, to rage, to -fight. But with what? - -Could she with her hands fight the face of the earth, beat -the hills in their places? Yet her breast wanted to fight, to -fight the whole world. And these two small hands were all she -had to do it with. - -The months went by, and it was Christmas--the snowdrops -came. There was a little hollow in the wood near Cossethay, -where snowdrops grew wild. She sent him some in a box, and he -wrote her a quick little note of thanks--very grateful and -wistful he seemed. Her eyes grew childlike and puzzled. Puzzled -from day to day she went on, helpless, carried along by all that -must happen. - -He went about at his duties, giving himself up to them. At -the bottom of his heart his self, the soul that aspired and had -true hope of self-effectuation lay as dead, still-born, a dead -weight in his womb. Who was he, to hold important his personal -connection? What did a man matter personally? He was just a -brick in the whole great social fabric, the nation, the modern -humanity. His personal movements were small, and entirely -subsidiary. The whole form must be ensured, not ruptured, for -any personal reason whatsoever, since no personal reason could -justify such a breaking. What did personal intimacy matter? One -had to fill one's place in the whole, the great scheme of man's -elaborate civilization, that was all. The Whole -mattered--but the unit, the person, had no importance, -except as he represented the Whole. - -So Skrebensky left the girl out and went his way, serving -what he had to serve, and enduring what he had to endure, -without remark. To his own intrinsic life, he was dead. And he -could not rise again from the dead. His soul lay in the tomb. -His life lay in the established order of things. He had his five -senses too. They were to be gratified. Apart from this, he -represented the great, established, extant Idea of life, and as -this he was important and beyond question. - -The good of the greatest number was all that mattered. That -which was the greatest good for them all, collectively, was the -greatest good for the individual. And so, every man must give -himself to support the state, and so labour for the greatest -good of all. One might make improvements in the state, perhaps, -but always with a view to preserving it intact. - -No highest good of the community, however, would give him the -vital fulfilment of his soul. He knew this. But he did not -consider the soul of the individual sufficiently important. He -believed a man was important in so far as he represented all -humanity. - -He could not see, it was not born in him to see, that the -highest good of the community as it stands is no longer the -highest good of even the average individual. He thought that, -because the community represents millions of people, therefore -it must be millions of times more important than any individual, -forgetting that the community is an abstraction from the many, -and is not the many themselves. Now when the statement of the -abstract good for the community has become a formula lacking in -all inspiration or value to the average intelligence, then the -"common good" becomes a general nuisance, representing the -vulgar, conservative materialism at a low level. - -And by the highest good of the greatest number is chiefly -meant the material prosperity of all classes. Skrebensky did not -really care about his own material prosperity. If he had been -penniless--well, he would have taken his chances. Therefore -how could he find his highest good in giving up his life for the -material prosperity of everybody else! What he considered an -unimportant thing for himself he could not think worthy of every -sacrifice on behalf of other people. And that which he would -consider of the deepest importance to himself as an -individual--oh, he said, you mustn't consider the community -from that standpoint. No--no--we know what the -community wants; it wants something solid, it wants good wages, -equal opportunities, good conditions of living, that's what the -community wants. It doesn't want anything subtle or difficult. -Duty is very plain-keep in mind the material, the immediate -welfare of every man, that's all. - -So there came over Skrebensky a sort of nullity, which more -and more terrified Ursula. She felt there was something hopeless -which she had to submit to. She felt a great sense of disaster -impending. Day after day was made inert with a sense of -disaster. She became morbidly sensitive, depressed, -apprehensive. It was anguish to her when she saw one rook slowly -flapping in the sky. That was a sign of ill-omen. And the -foreboding became so black and so powerful in her, that she was -almost extinguished. - -Yet what was the matter? At the worst he was only going away. -Why did she mind, what was it she feared? She did not know. Only -she had a black dread possessing her. When she went at night and -saw the big, flashing stars they seemed terrible, by day she was -always expecting some charge to be made against her. - -He wrote in March to say that he was going to South Africa in -a short time, but before he went, he would snatch a day at the -Marsh. - -As if in a painful dream, she waited suspended, unresolved. -She did not know, she could not understand. Only she felt that -all the threads of her fate were being held taut, in suspense. -She only wept sometimes as she went about, saying blindly: - -"I am so fond of him, I am so fond of him." - -He came. But why did he come? She looked at him for a sign. -He gave no sign. He did not even kiss her. He behaved as if he -were an affable, usual acquaintance. This was superficial, but -what did it hide? She waited for him, she wanted him to make -some sign. - -So the whole of the day they wavered and avoided contact, -until evening. Then, laughing, saying he would be back in six -months' time and would tell them all about it, he shook hands -with her mother and took his leave. - -Ursula accompanied him into the lane. The night was windy, -the yew trees seethed and hissed and vibrated. The wind seemed -to rush about among the chimneys and the church-tower. It was -dark. - -The wind blew Ursula's face, and her clothes cleaved to her -limbs. But it was a surging, turgid wind, instinct with -compressed vigour of life. And she seemed to have lost -Skrebensky. Out there in the strong, urgent night she could not -find him. - -"Where are you?" she asked. - -"Here," came his bodiless voice. - -And groping, she touched him. A fire like lightning drenched -them. - -"Anton?" she said. - -"What?" he answered. - -She held him with her hands in the darkness, she felt his -body again with hers. - -"Don't leave me--come back to me," she said. - -"Yes," he said, holding her in his arms. - -But the male in him was scotched by the knowledge that she -was not under his spell nor his influence. He wanted to go away -from her. He rested in the knowledge that to-morrow he was going -away, his life was really elsewhere. His life was -elsewhere--his life was elsewhere--the centre of his -life was not what she would have. She was different--there -was a breach between them. They were hostile worlds. - -"You will come back to me?" she reiterated. - -"Yes," he said. And he meant it. But as one keeps an -appointment, not as a man returning to his fulfilment. - -So she kissed him, and went indoors, lost. He walked down to -the Marsh abstracted. The contact with her hurt him, and -threatened him. He shrank, he had to be free of her spirit. For -she would stand before him, like the angel before Balaam, and -drive him back with a sword from the way he was going, into a -wilderness. - -The next day she went to the station to see him go. She -looked at him, she turned to him, but he was always so strange -and null--so null. He was so collected. She thought it was -that which made him null. Strangely nothing he was. - -Ursula stood near him with a mute, pale face which he would -rather not see. There seemed some shame at the very root of -life, cold, dead shame for her. - -The three made a noticeable group on the station; the girl in -her fur cap and tippet and her olive green costume, pale, tense -with youth, isolated, unyielding; the soldierly young man in a -crush hat and a heavy overcoat, his face rather pale and -reserved above his purple scarf, his whole figure neutral; then -the elder man, a fashionable bowler hat pressed low over his -dark brows, his face warm-coloured and calm, his whole figure -curiously suggestive of full-blooded indifference; he was the -eternal audience, the chorus, the spectator at the drama; in his -own life he would have no drama. - -The train was rushing up. Ursula's heart heaved, but the ice -was frozen too strong upon it. - -"Good-bye," she said, lifting her hand, her face laughing -with her peculiar, blind, almost dazzling laugh. She wondered -what he was doing, when he stooped and kissed her. He should be -shaking hands and going. - -"Good-bye," she said again. - -He picked up his little bag and turned his back on her. There -was a hurry along the train. Ah, here was his carriage. He took -his seat. Tom Brangwen shut the door, and the two men shook -hands as the whistle went. - -"Good-bye--and good luck," said Brangwen. - -"Thank you--good-bye." - -The train moved off. Skrebensky stood at the carriage window, -waving, but not really looking to the two figures, the girl and -the warm-coloured, almost effeminately-dressed man Ursula waved -her handkerchief. The train gathered speed, it grew smaller and -smaller. Still it ran in a straight line. The speck of white -vanished. The rear of the train was small in the distance. Still -she stood on the platform, feeling a great emptiness about her. -In spite of herself her mouth was quivering: she did not want to -cry: her heart was dead cold. - -Her Uncle Tom had gone to an automatic machine, and was -getting matches. - -"Would you like some sweets?" he said, turning round. - -Her face was covered with tears, she made curious, downward -grimaces with her mouth, to get control. Yet her heart was not -crying--it was cold and earthy. - -"What kind would you like--any?" persisted her -uncle. - -"I should love some peppermint drops," she said, in a -strange, normal voice, from her distorted face. But in a few -moments she had gained control of herself, and was still, -detached. - -"Let us go into the town," he said, and he rushed her into a -train, moving to the town station. They went to a cafe to drink -coffee, she sat looking at people in the street, and a great -wound was in her breast, a cold imperturbability in her -soul. - -This cold imperturbability of spirit continued in her now. It -was as if some disillusion had frozen upon her, a hard -disbelief. Part of her had gone cold, apathetic. She was too -young, too baffled to understand, or even to know that she -suffered much. And she was too deeply hurt to submit. - -She had her blind agonies, when she wanted him, she wanted -him. But from the moment of his departure, he had become a -visionary thing of her own. All her roused torment and passion -and yearning she turned to him. - -She kept a diary, in which she wrote impulsive thoughts. -Seeing the moon in the sky, her own heart surcharged, she went -and wrote: - -"If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down." - -It meant so much to her, that sentence--she put into it -all the anguish of her youth and her young passion and yearning. -She called to him from her heart wherever she went, her limbs -vibrated with anguish towards him wherever she was, the -radiating force of her soul seemed to travel to him, endlessly, -endlessly, and in her soul's own creation, find him. - -But who was he, and where did he exist? In her own desire -only. - -She received a post-card from him, and she put it in her -bosom. It did not mean much to her, really. The second day, she -lost it, and never even remembered she had had it, till some -days afterwards. - -The long weeks went by. There came the constant bad news of -the war. And she felt as if all, outside there in the world, -were a hurt, a hurt against her. And something in her soul -remained cold, apathetic, unchanging. - -Her life was always only partial at this time, never did she -live completely. There was the cold, unliving part of her. Yet -she was madly sensitive. She could not bear herself. When a -dirty, red-eyed old woman came begging of her in the street, she -started away as from an unclean thing. And then, when the old -woman shouted acrid insults after her, she winced, her limbs -palpitated with insane torment, she could not bear herself. -Whenever she thought of the red-eyed old woman, a sort of -madness ran in inflammation over her flesh and her brain, she -almost wanted to kill herself. - -And in this state, her sexual life flamed into a kind of -disease within her. She was so overwrought and sensitive, that -the mere touch of coarse wool seemed to tear her nerves. - - - -CHAPTER XII - -SHAME - -Ursula had only two more terms at school. She was studying -for her matriculation examination. It was dreary work, for she -had very little intelligence when she was disjointed from -happiness. Stubbornness and a consciousness of impending fate -kept her half-heartedly pinned to it. She knew that soon she -would want to become a self-responsible person, and her dread -was that she would be prevented. An all-containing will in her -for complete independence, complete social independence, -complete independence from any personal authority, kept her -dullishly at her studies. For she knew that she had always her -price of ransom--her femaleness. She was always a woman, -and what she could not get because she was a human being, fellow -to the rest of mankind, she would get because she was a female, -other than the man. In her femaleness she felt a secret riches, -a reserve, she had always the price of freedom. - -However, she was sufficiently reserved about this last -resource. The other things should be tried first. There was the -mysterious man's world to be adventured upon, the world of daily -work and duty, and existence as a working member of the -community. Against this she had a subtle grudge. She wanted to -make her conquest also of this man's world. - -So she ground away at her work, never giving it up. Some -things she liked. Her subjects were English, Latin, French, -mathematics and history. Once she knew how to read French and -Latin, the syntax bored her. Most tedious was the close study of -English literature. Why should one remember the things one read? -Something in mathematics, their cold absoluteness, fascinated -her, but the actual practice was tedious. Some people in history -puzzled her and made her ponder, but the political parts angered -her, and she hated ministers. Only in odd streaks did she get a -poignant sense of acquisition and enrichment and enlarging from -her studies; one afternoon, reading As You Like It; once when, -with her blood, she heard a passage of Latin, and she knew how -the blood beat in a Roman's body; so that ever after she felt -she knew the Romans by contact. She enjoyed the vagaries of -English Grammar, because it gave her pleasure to detect the live -movements of words and sentences; and mathematics, the very -sight of the letters in Algebra, had a real lure for her. - -She felt so much and so confusedly at this time, that her -face got a queer, wondering, half-scared look, as if she were -not sure what might seize upon her at any moment out of the -unknown. - -Odd little bits of information stirred unfathomable passion -in her. When she knew that in the tiny brown buds of autumn were -folded, minute and complete, the finished flowers of the summer -nine months hence, tiny, folded up, and left there waiting, a -flash of triumph and love went over her. - -"I could never die while there was a tree," she said -passionately, sententiously, standing before a great ash in -worship. - -It was the people who, somehow, walked as an upright menace -to her. Her life at this time was unformed, palpitating, -essentially shrinking from all touch. She gave something to -other people, but she was never herself, since she had no self. -She was not afraid nor ashamed before trees, and birds, and the -sky. But she shrank violently from people, ashamed she was not -as they were, fixed, emphatic, but a wavering, undefined -sensibility only, without form or being. - -Gudrun was at this time a great comfort and shield to her. -The younger girl was a lithe, farouche animal, who -mistrusted all approach, and would have none of the petty -secrecies and jealousies of schoolgirl intimacy. She would have -no truck with the tame cats, nice or not, because she believed -that they were all only untamed cats with a nasty, untrustworthy -habit of tameness. - -This was a great stand-back for Ursula, who suffered agonies -when she thought a person disliked her, no matter how much she -despised that other person. How could anyone dislike her, Ursula -Brangwen? The question terrified her and was unanswerable. She -sought refuge in Gudrun's natural, proud indifference. - -It had been discovered that Gudrun had a talent for drawing. -This solved the problem of the girl's indifference to all study. -It was said of her, "She can draw marvellously." - -Suddenly Ursula found a queer awareness existed between -herself and her class-mistress, Miss Inger. The latter was a -rather beautiful woman of twenty-eight, a fearless-seeming, -clean type of modern girl whose very independence betrays her -sorrow. She was clever, and expert in what she did, accurate, -quick, commanding. - -To Ursula she had always given pleasure, because of her -clear, decided, yet graceful appearance. She carried her head -high, a little thrown back, and Ursula thought there was a look -of nobility in the way she twisted her smooth brown hair upon -her head. She always wore clean, attractive, well-fitting -blouses, and a well-made skirt. Everything about her was so -well-ordered, betraying a fine, clear spirit, that it was a -pleasure to sit in her class. - -Her voice was just as ringing and clear, and with unwavering, -finely-touched modulation. Her eyes were blue, clear, proud, she -gave one altogether the sense of a fine-mettled, scrupulously -groomed person, and of an unyielding mind. Yet there was an -infinite poignancy about her, a great pathos in her lonely, -proudly closed mouth. - -It was after Skrebensky had gone that there sprang up between -the mistress and the girl that strange awareness, then the -unspoken intimacy that sometimes connects two people who may -never even make each other's acquaintance. Before, they had -always been good friends, in the undistinguished way of the -class-room, with the professional relationship of mistress and -scholar always present. Now, however, another thing came to -pass. When they were in the room together, they were aware of -each other, almost to the exclusion of everything else. Winifred -Inger felt a hot delight in the lessons when Ursula was present, -Ursula felt her whole life begin when Miss Inger came into the -room. Then, with the beloved, subtly-intimate teacher present, -the girl sat as within the rays of some enrichening sun, whose -intoxicating heat poured straight into her veins. - -The state of bliss, when Miss Inger was present, was supreme -in the girl, but always eager, eager. As she went home, Ursula -dreamed of the schoolmistress, made infinite dreams of things -she could give her, of how she might make the elder woman adore -her. - -Miss Inger was a Bachelor of Arts, who had studied at -Newnham. She was a clergyman's daughter, of good family. But -what Ursula adored so much was her fine, upright, athletic -bearing, and her indomitably proud nature. She was proud and -free as a man, yet exquisite as a woman. - -The girl's heart burned in her breast as she set off for -school in the morning. So eager was her breast, so glad her -feet, to travel towards the beloved. Ah, Miss Inger, how -straight and fine was her back, how strong her loins, how calm -and free her limbs! - -Ursula craved ceaselessly to know if Miss Inger cared for -her. As yet no definite sign had been passed between the two. -Yet surely, surely Miss Inger loved her too, was fond of her, -liked her at least more than the rest of the scholars in the -class. Yet she was never certain. It might be that Miss Inger -cared nothing for her. And yet, and yet, with blazing heart, -Ursula felt that if only she could speak to her, touch her, she -would know. - -The summer term came, and with it the swimming class. Miss -Inger was to take the swimming class. Then Ursula trembled and -was dazed with passion. Her hopes were soon to be realized. She -would see Miss Inger in her bathing dress. - -The day came. In the great bath the water was glimmering pale -emerald green, a lovely, glimmering mass of colour within the -whitish marble-like confines. Overhead the light fell softly and -the great green body of pure water moved under it as someone -dived from the side. - -Ursula, trembling, hardly able to contain herself, pulled off -her clothes, put on her tight bathing-suit, and opened the door -of her cabin. Two girls were in the water. The mistress had not -appeared. She waited. A door opened. Miss Inger came out, -dressed in a rust-red tunic like a Greek girl's, tied round the -waist, and a red silk handkerchief round her head. How lovely -she looked! Her knees were so white and strong and proud, and -she was firm-bodied as Diana. She walked simply to the side of -the bath, and with a negligent movement, flung herself in. For a -moment Ursula watched the white, smooth, strong shoulders, and -the easy arms swimming. Then she too dived into the water. - -Now, ah now, she was swimming in the same water with her dear -mistress. The girl moved her limbs voluptuously, and swam by -herself, deliciously, yet with a craving of unsatisfaction. She -wanted to touch the other, to touch her, to feel her. - -"I will race you, Ursula," came the well-modulated voice. - -Ursula started violently. She turned to see the warm, -unfolded face of her mistress looking at her, to her. She was -acknowledged. Laughing her own beautiful, startled laugh, she -began to swim. The mistress was just ahead, swimming with easy -strokes. Ursula could see the head put back, the water -flickering upon the white shoulders, the strong legs kicking -shadowily. And she swam blinded with passion. Ah, the beauty of -the firm, white, cool flesh! Ah, the wonderful firm limbs. Ah, -if she did not so despise her own thin, dusky fragment of a -body, if only she too were fearless and capable. - -She swam on eagerly, not wanting to win, only wanting to be -near her mistress, to swim in a race with her. They neared the -end of the bath, the deep end. Miss Inger touched the pipe, -swung herself round, and caught Ursula round the waist in the -water, and held her for a moment. - -"I won," said Miss Inger, laughing. - -There was a moment of suspense. Ursula's heart was beating so -fast, she clung to the rail, and could not move. Her dilated, -warm, unfolded, glowing face turned to the mistress, as if to -her very sun. - -"Good-bye," said Miss Inger, and she swam away to the other -pupils, taking professional interest in them. - -Ursula was dazed. She could still feel the touch of the -mistress's body against her own--only this, only this. The -rest of the swimming time passed like a trance. When the call -was given to leave the water, Miss Inger walked down the bath -towards Ursula. Her rust-red, thin tunic was clinging to her, -the whole body was defined, firm and magnificent, as it seemed -to the girl. - -"I enjoyed our race, Ursula, did you?" said Miss Inger. - -The girl could only laugh with revealed, open, glowing -face. - -The love was now tacitly confessed. But it was some time -before any further progress was made. Ursula continued in -suspense, in inflamed bliss. - -Then one day, when she was alone, the mistress came near to -her, and touching her cheek with her fingers, said with some -difficulty. - -"Would you like to come to tea with me on Saturday, -Ursula?" - -The girl flushed all gratitude. - -"We'll go to a lovely little bungalow on the Soar, shall we? -I stay the week-ends there sometimes." - -Ursula was beside herself. She could not endure till the -Saturday came, her thoughts burned up like a fire. If only it -were Saturday, if only it were Saturday. - -Then Saturday came, and she set out. Miss Inger met her in -Sawley, and they walked about three miles to the bungalow. It -was a moist, warm cloudy day. - -The bungalow was a tiny, two-roomed shanty set on a steep -bank. Everything in it was exquisite. In delicious privacy, the -two girls made tea, and then they talked. Ursula need not be -home till about ten o'clock. - -The talk was led, by a kind of spell, to love. Miss Inger was -telling Ursula of a friend, how she had died in childbirth, and -what she had suffered; then she told of a prostitute, and of -some of her experiences with men. - -As they talked thus, on the little verandah of the bungalow, -the night fell, there was a little warm rain. - -"It is really stifling," said Miss Inger. - -They watched a train, whose lights were pale in the lingering -twilight, rushing across the distance. - -"It will thunder," said Ursula. - -The electric suspense continued, the darkness sank, they were -eclipsed. - -"I think I shall go and bathe," said Miss Inger, out of the -cloud-black darkness. - -"At night?" said Ursula. - -"It is best at night. Will you come?" - -"I should like to." - -"It is quite safe--the grounds are private. We had -better undress in the bungalow, for fear of the rain, then run -down." - -Shyly, stiffly, Ursula went into the bungalow, and began to -remove her clothes. The lamp was turned low, she stood in the -shadow. By another chair Winifred Inger was undressing. - -Soon the naked, shadowy figure of the elder girl came to the -younger. - -"Are you ready?" she said. - -"One moment." - -Ursula could hardly speak. The other naked woman stood by, -stood near, silent. Ursula was ready. - -They ventured out into the darkness, feeling the soft air of -night upon their skins. - -"I can't see the path," said Ursula. - -"It is here," said the voice, and the wavering, pallid figure -was beside her, a hand grasping her arm. And the elder held the -younger close against her, close, as they went down, and by the -side of the water, she put her arms round her, and kissed her. -And she lifted her in her arms, close, saying, softly: - -"I shall carry you into the water." - -[Ursula lay still in her mistress's arms, her forehead against the -beloved, maddening breast. - -"I shall put you in," said Winifred. - -But Ursula twined her body about her mistress.] - -After awhile the rain came down on their flushed, hot limbs, -startling, delicious. A sudden, ice-cold shower burst in a great -weight upon them. They stood up to it with pleasure. Ursula -received the stream of it upon her breasts and her limbs. It -made her cold, and a deep, bottomless silence welled up in her, -as if bottomless darkness were returning upon her. - -So the heat vanished away, she was chilled, as if from a -waking up. She ran indoors, a chill, non-existent thing, wanting -to get away. She wanted the light, the presence of other people, -the external connection with the many. Above all she wanted to -lose herself among natural surroundings. - -She took her leave of her mistress and returned home. She was -glad to be on the station with a crowd of Saturday-night people, -glad to sit in the lighted, crowded railway carriage. Only she -did not want to meet anybody she knew. She did not want to talk. -She was alone, immune. - -All this stir and seethe of lights and people was but the -rim, the shores of a great inner darkness and void. She wanted -very much to be on the seething, partially illuminated shore, -for within her was the void reality of dark space. - -For a time Miss Inger, her mistress, was gone; she was only a -dark void, and Ursula was free as a shade walking in an -underworld of extinction, of oblivion. Ursula was glad, with a -kind of motionless, lifeless gladness, that her mistress was -extinct, gone out of her. - -In the morning, however, the love was there again, burning, -burning. She remembered yesterday, and she wanted more, always -more. She wanted to be with her mistress. All separation from -her mistress was a restriction from living. Why could she not go -to her to-day, to-day? Why must she pace about revoked at -Cossethay whilst her mistress was elsewhere? She sat down and -wrote a burning, passionate love-letter: she could not help -it. - -The two women became intimate. Their lives seemed suddenly to -fuse into one, inseparable. Ursula went to Winifred's lodging, -she spent there her only living hours. Winifred was very fond of -water,--of swimming, of rowing. She belonged to various -athletic clubs. Many delicious afternoons the two girls spent in -a light boat on the river, Winifred always rowing. Indeed, -Winifred seemed to delight in having Ursula in her charge, in -giving things to the girl, in filling and enrichening her -life. - -So that Ursula developed rapidly during the few months of her -intimacy with her mistress. Winifred had had a scientific -education. She had known many clever people. She wanted to bring -Ursula to her own position of thought. - -They took religion and rid it of its dogmas, its falsehoods. -Winifred humanized it all. Gradually it dawned upon Ursula that -all the religion she knew was but a particular clothing to a -human aspiration. The aspiration was the real thing,--the -clothing was a matter almost of national taste or need. The -Greeks had a naked Apollo, the Christians a white-robed Christ, -the Buddhists a royal prince, the Egyptians their Osiris. -Religions were local and religion was universal. Christianity -was a local branch. There was as yet no assimilation of local -religions into universal religion. - -In religion there were the two great motives of fear and -love. The motive of fear was as great as the motive of love. -Christianity accepted crucifixion to escape from fear; "Do your -worst to me, that I may have no more fear of the worst." But -that which was feared was not necessarily all evil, and that -which was loved not necessarily all good. Fear shall become -reverence, and reverence is submission in identification; love -shall become triumph, and triumph is delight in -identification. - -So much she talked of religion, getting the gist of many -writings. In philosophy she was brought to the conclusion that -the human desire is the criterion of all truth and all good. -Truth does not lie beyond humanity, but is one of the products -of the human mind and feeling. There is really nothing to fear. -The motive of fear in religion is base, and must be left to the -ancient worshippers of power, worship of Moloch. - -We do not worship power, in our enlightened souls. Power is -degenerated to money and Napoleonic stupidity. - -Ursula could not help dreaming of Moloch. Her God was not -mild and gentle, neither Lamb nor Dove. He was the lion and the -eagle. Not because the lion and the eagle had power, but because -they were proud and strong; they were themselves, they were not -passive subjects of some shepherd, or pets of some loving woman, -or sacrifices of some priest. She was weary to death of mild, -passive lambs and monotonous doves. If the lamb might lie down -with the lion, it would be a great honour to the lamb, but the -lion's powerful heart would suffer no diminishing. She loved the -dignity and self-possession of lions. - -She did not see how lambs could love. Lambs could only be -loved. They could only be afraid, and tremblingly submit to -fear, and become sacrificial; or they could submit to love, and -become beloveds. In both they were passive. Raging, destructive -lovers, seeking the moment when fear is greatest, and triumph is -greatest, the fear not greater than the triumph, the triumph not -greater than the fear, these were no lambs nor doves. She -stretched her own limbs like a lion or a wild horse, her heart -was relentless in its desires. It would suffer a thousand -deaths, but it would still be a lion's heart when it rose from -death, a fiercer lion she would be, a surer, knowing herself -different from and separate from the great, conflicting universe -that was not herself. - -Winifred Inger was also interested in the Women's -Movement. - -"The men will do no more,--they have lost the capacity -for doing," said the elder girl. "They fuss and talk, but they -are really inane. They make everything fit into an old, inert -idea. Love is a dead idea to them. They don't come to one and -love one, they come to an idea, and they say 'You are my idea,' -so they embrace themselves. As if I were any man's idea! As if I -exist because a man has an idea of me! As if I will be betrayed -by him, lend him my body as an instrument for his idea, to be a -mere apparatus of his dead theory. But they are too fussy to be -able to act; they are all impotent, they can't take a -woman. They come to their own idea every time, and take that. -They are like serpents trying to swallow themselves because they -are hungry." - -Ursula was introduced by her friend to various women and men, -educated, unsatisfied people, who still moved within the smug -provincial society as if they were nearly as tame as their -outward behaviour showed, but who were inwardly raging and -mad. - -It was a strange world the girl was swept into, like a chaos, -like the end of the world. She was too young to understand it -all. Yet the inoculation passed into her, through her love for -her mistress. - -The examination came, and then school was over. It was the -long vacation. Winifred Inger went away to London. Ursula was -left alone in Cossethay. A terrible, outcast, almost poisonous -despair possessed her. It was no use doing anything, or being -anything. She had no connection with other people. Her lot was -isolated and deadly. There was nothing for her anywhere, but -this black disintegration. Yet, within all the great attack of -disintegration upon her, she remained herself. It was the -terrible core of all her suffering, that she was always herself. -Never could she escape that: she could not put off being -herself. - -She still adhered to Winifred Inger. But a sort of nausea was -coming over her. She loved her mistress. But a heavy, clogged -sense of deadness began to gather upon her, from the other -woman's contact. And sometimes she thought Winifred was ugly, -clayey. Her female hips seemed big and earthy, her ankles and -her arms were too thick. She wanted some fine intensity, instead -of this heavy cleaving of moist clay, that cleaves because it -has no life of its own. - -Winifred still loved Ursula. She had a passion for the fine -flame of the girl, she served her endlessly, would have done -anything for her. - -"Come with me to London," she pleaded to the girl. "I will -make it nice for you,--you shall do lots of things you will -enjoy." - -"No," said Ursula, stubbornly and dully. "No, I don't want to -go to London, I want to be by myself." - -Winifred knew what this meant. She knew that Ursula was -beginning to reject her. The fine, unquenchable flame of the -younger girl would consent no more to mingle with the perverted -life of the elder woman. Winifred knew it would come. But she -too was proud. At the bottom of her was a black pit of despair. -She knew perfectly well that Ursula would cast her off. - -And that seemed like the end of her life. But she was too -hopeless to rage. Wisely, economizing what was left of Ursula's -love, she went away to London, leaving the beloved girl -alone. - -And after a fortnight, Ursula's letters became tender again, -loving. Her Uncle Tom had invited her to go and stay with him. -He was managing a big, new colliery in Yorkshire. Would Winifred -come too? - -For now Ursula was imagining marriage for Winifred. She -wanted her to marry her Uncle Tom. Winifred knew this. She said -she would come to Wiggiston. She would now let fate do as it -liked with her, since there was nothing remaining to be done. -Tom Brangwen also saw Ursula's intention. He too was at the end -of his desires. He had done the things he had wanted to. They -had all ended in a disintegrated lifelessness of soul, which he -hid under an utterly tolerant good-humour. He no longer cared -about anything on earth, neither man nor woman, nor God nor -humanity. He had come to a stability of nullification. He did -not care any more, neither about his body nor about his soul. -Only he would preserve intact his own life. Only the simple, -superficial fact of living persisted. He was still healthy. He -lived. Therefore he would fill each moment. That had always been -his creed. It was not instinctive easiness: it was the -inevitable outcome of his nature. When he was in the absolute -privacy of his own life, he did as he pleased, unscrupulous, -without any ulterior thought. He believed neither in good nor -evil. Each moment was like a separate little island, isolated -from time, and blank, unconditioned by time. - -He lived in a large new house of red brick, standing outside -a mass of homogeneous red-brick dwellings, called Wiggiston. -Wiggiston was only seven years old. It had been a hamlet of -eleven houses on the edge of healthy, half-agricultural country. -Then the great seam of coal had been opened. In a year Wiggiston -appeared, a great mass of pinkish rows of thin, unreal dwellings -of five rooms each. The streets were like visions of pure -ugliness; a grey-black macadamized road, asphalt causeways, held -in between a flat succession of wall, window, and door, a -new-brick channel that began nowhere, and ended nowhere. -Everything was amorphous, yet everything repeated itself -endlessly. Only now and then, in one of the house-windows -vegetables or small groceries were displayed for sale. - -In the middle of the town was a large, open, shapeless space, -or market-place, of black trodden earth, surrounded by the same -flat material of dwellings, new red-brick becoming grimy, small -oblong windows, and oblong doors, repeated endlessly, with just, -at one corner, a great and gaudy public house, and somewhere -lost on one of the sides of the square, a large window opaque -and darkish green, which was the post office. - -The place had the strange desolation of a ruin. Colliers -hanging about in gangs and groups, or passing along the asphalt -pavements heavily to work, seemed not like living people, but -like spectres. The rigidity of the blank streets, the -homogeneous amorphous sterility of the whole suggested death -rather than life. There was no meeting place, no centre, no -artery, no organic formation. There it lay, like the new -foundations of a red-brick confusion rapidly spreading, like a -skin-disease. - -Just outside of this, on a little hill, was Tom Brangwen's -big, red-brick house. It looked from the front upon the edge of -the place, a meaningless squalor of ash-pits and closets and -irregular rows of the backs of houses, each with its small -activity made sordid by barren cohesion with the rest of the -small activities. Farther off was the great colliery that went -night and day. And all around was the country, green with two -winding streams, ragged with gorse, and heath, the darker woods -in the distance. - -The whole place was just unreal, just unreal. Even now, when -he had been there for two years, Tom Brangwen did not believe in -the actuality of the place. It was like some gruesome dream, -some ugly, dead, amorphous mood become concrete. - -Ursula and Winifred were met by the motor-car at the raw -little station, and drove through what seemed to them like the -horrible raw beginnings of something. The place was a moment of -chaos perpetuated, persisting, chaos fixed and rigid. Ursula was -fascinated by the many men who were there--groups of men -standing in the streets, four or five men walking in a gang -together, their dogs running behind or before. They were all -decently dressed, and most of them rather gaunt. The terrible -gaunt repose of their bearing fascinated her. Like creatures -with no more hope, but which still live and have passionate -being, within some utterly unliving shell, they passed -meaninglessly along, with strange, isolated dignity. It was as -if a hard, horny shell enclosed them all. - -Shocked and startled, Ursula was carried to her Uncle Tom's -house. He was not yet at home. His house was simply, but well -furnished. He had taken out a dividing wall, and made the whole -front of the house into a large library, with one end devoted to -his science. It was a handsome room, appointed as a laboratory -and reading room, but giving the same sense of hard, mechanical -activity, activity mechanical yet inchoate, and looking out on -the hideous abstraction of the town, and at the green meadows -and rough country beyond, and at the great, mathematical -colliery on the other side. - -They saw Tom Brangwen walking up the curved drive. He was -getting stouter, but with his bowler hat worn well set down on -his brows, he looked manly, handsome, curiously like any other -man of action. His colour was as fresh, his health as perfect as -ever, he walked like a man rather absorbed. - -Winifred Inger was startled when he entered the library, his -coat fastened and correct, his head bald to the crown, but not -shiny, rather like something naked that one is accustomed to see -covered, and his dark eyes liquid and formless. He seemed to -stand in the shadow, like a thing ashamed. And the clasp of his -hand was so soft and yet so forceful, that it chilled the heart. -She was afraid of him, repelled by him, and yet attracted. - -He looked at the athletic, seemingly fearless girl, and he -detected in her a kinship with his own dark corruption. -Immediately, he knew they were akin. - -His manner was polite, almost foreign, and rather cold. He -still laughed in his curious, animal fashion, suddenly wrinkling -up his wide nose, and showing his sharp teeth. The fine beauty -of his skin and his complexion, some almost waxen quality, hid -the strange, repellent grossness of him, the slight sense of -putrescence, the commonness which revealed itself in his rather -fat thighs and loins. - -Winifred saw at once the deferential, slightly servile, -slightly cunning regard he had for Ursula, which made the girl -at once so proud and so perplexed. - -"But is this place as awful as it looks?" the young girl -asked, a strain in her eyes. - -"It is just what it looks," he said. "It hides nothing." - -"Why are the men so sad?" - -"Are they sad?" he replied. - -"They seem unutterably, unutterably sad," said Ursula, out of -a passionate throat. - -"I don't think they are that. They just take it for -granted." - -"What do they take for granted?" - -"This--the pits and the place altogether." - -"Why don't they alter it?" she passionately protested. - -"They believe they must alter themselves to fit the pits and -the place, rather than alter the pits and the place to fit -themselves. It is easier," he said. - -"And you agree with them," burst out his niece, unable to -bear it. "You think like they do--that living human beings -must be taken and adapted to all kinds of horrors. We could -easily do without the pits." - -He smiled, uncomfortably, cynically. Ursula felt again the -revolt of hatred from him. - -"I suppose their lives are not really so bad," said Winifred -Inger, superior to the Zolaesque tragedy. - -He turned with his polite, distant attention. - -"Yes, they are pretty bad. The pits are very deep, and hot, -and in some places wet. The men die of consumption fairly often. -But they earn good wages." - -"How gruesome!" said Winifred Inger. - -"Yes," he replied gravely. It was his grave, solid, -self-contained manner which made him so much respected as a -colliery manager. - -The servant came in to ask where they would have tea. - -"Put it in the summer-house, Mrs. Smith," he said. - -The fair-haired, good-looking young woman went out. - -"Is she married and in service?" asked Ursula. - -"She is a widow. Her husband died of consumption a little -while ago." Brangwen gave a sinister little laugh. "He lay there -in the house-place at her mother's, and five or six other people -in the house, and died very gradually. I asked her if his death -wasn't a great trouble to her. 'Well,' she said, 'he was very -fretful towards the last, never satisfied, never easy, always -fret-fretting, an' never knowing what would satisfy him. So in -one way it was a relief when it was over--for him and for -everybody.' They had only been married two years, and she has -one boy. I asked her if she hadn't been very happy. 'Oh, yes, -sir, we was very comfortable at first, till he took -bad--oh, we was very comfortable--oh, yes--but, -you see, you get used to it. I've had my father and two brothers -go off just the same. You get used to it'." - -"It's a horrible thing to get used to," said Winifred Inger, -with a shudder. - -"Yes," he said, still smiling. "But that's how they are. -She'll be getting married again directly. One man or -another--it does not matter very much. They're all -colliers." - -"What do you mean?" asked Ursula. "They're all colliers?" - -"It is with the women as with us," he replied. "Her husband -was John Smith, loader. We reckoned him as a loader, he reckoned -himself as a loader, and so she knew he represented his job. -Marriage and home is a little side-show. - -"The women know it right enough, and take it for what it's -worth. One man or another, it doesn't matter all the world. The -pit matters. Round the pit there will always be the sideshows, -plenty of 'em." - -He looked round at the red chaos, the rigid, amorphous -confusion of Wiggiston. - -"Every man his own little side-show, his home, but the pit -owns every man. The women have what is left. What's left of this -man, or what is left of that--it doesn't matter altogether. -The pit takes all that really matters." - -"It is the same everywhere," burst out Winifred. "It is the -office, or the shop, or the business that gets the man, the -woman gets the bit the shop can't digest. What is he at home, a -man? He is a meaningless lump--a standing machine, a -machine out of work." - -"They know they are sold," said Tom Brangwen. "That's where -it is. They know they are sold to their job. If a woman talks -her throat out, what difference can it make? The man's sold to -his job. So the women don't bother. They take what they can -catch--and vogue la galere." - -"Aren't they very strict here?" asked Miss Inger. - -"Oh, no. Mrs. Smith has two sisters who have just changed -husbands. They're not very particular--neither are they -very interested. They go dragging along what is left from the -pits. They're not interested enough to be very immoral--it -all amounts to the same thing, moral or immoral--just a -question of pit-wages. The most moral duke in England makes two -hundred thousand a year out of these pits. He keeps the morality -end up." - -Ursula sat black-souled and very bitter, hearing the two of -them talk. There seemed something ghoulish even in their very -deploring of the state of things. They seemed to take a ghoulish -satisfaction in it. The pit was the great mistress. Ursula -looked out of the window and saw the proud, demonlike colliery -with her wheels twinkling in the heavens, the formless, squalid -mass of the town lying aside. It was the squalid heap of -side-shows. The pit was the main show, the raison d'etre -of all. - -How terrible it was! There was a horrible fascination -in it--human bodies and lives subjected in slavery to that -symmetric monster of the colliery. There was a swooning, -perverse satisfaction in it. For a moment she was dizzy. - -Then she recovered, felt herself in a great loneliness, -where-in she was sad but free. She had departed. No more would -she subscribe to the great colliery, to the great machine which -has taken us all captives. In her soul, she was against it, she -disowned even its power. It had only to be forsaken to be inane, -meaningless. And she knew it was meaningless. But it needed a -great, passionate effort of will on her part, seeing the -colliery, still to maintain her knowledge that it was -meaningless. - -But her Uncle Tom and her mistress remained there among the -horde, cynically reviling the monstrous state and yet adhering -to it, like a man who reviles his mistress, yet who is in love -with her. She knew her Uncle Tom perceived what was going on. -But she knew moreover that in spite of his criticism and -condemnation, he still wanted the great machine. His only happy -moments, his only moments of pure freedom were when he was -serving the machine. Then, and then only, when the machine -caught him up, was he free from the hatred of himself, could he -act wholely, without cynicism and unreality. - -His real mistress was the machine, and the real mistress of -Winifred was the machine. She too, Winifred, worshipped the -impure abstraction, the mechanisms of matter. There, there, in -the machine, in service of the machine, was she free from the -clog and degradation of human feeling. There, in the monstrous -mechanism that held all matter, living or dead, in its service, -did she achieve her consummation and her perfect unison, her -immortality. - -Hatred sprang up in Ursula's heart. If she could she would -smash the machine. Her soul's action should be the smashing of -the great machine. If she could destroy the colliery, and make -all the men of Wiggiston out of work, she would do it. Let them -starve and grub in the earth for roots, rather than serve such a -Moloch as this. - -She hated her Uncle Tom, she hated Winifred Inger. They went -down to the summer-house for tea. It was a pleasant place among -a few trees, at the end of a tiny garden, on the edge of a -field. Her Uncle Tom and Winifred seemed to jeer at her, to -cheapen her. She was miserable and desolate. But she would never -give way. - -Her coldness for Winifred should never cease. She knew it was -over between them. She saw gross, ugly movements in her -mistress, she saw a clayey, inert, unquickened flesh, that -reminded her of the great prehistoric lizards. One day her Uncle -Tom came in out of the broiling sunshine heated from walking. -Then the perspiration stood out upon his head and brow, his hand -was wet and hot and suffocating in its clasp. He too had -something marshy about him--the succulent moistness and -turgidity, and the same brackish, nauseating effect of a marsh, -where life and decaying are one. - -He was repellent to her, who was so dry and fine in her fire. -Her very bones seemed to bid him keep his distance from her. - -It was in these weeks that Ursula grew up. She stayed two -weeks at Wiggiston, and she hated it. All was grey, dry ash, -cold and dead and ugly. But she stayed. She stayed also to get -rid of Winifred. The girl's hatred and her sense of -repulsiveness in her mistress and in her uncle seemed to throw -the other two together. They drew together as if against -her. - -In hardness and bitterness of soul, Ursula knew that Winifred -was become her uncle's lover. She was glad. She had loved them -both. Now she wanted to be rid of them both. Their marshy, -bitter-sweet corruption came sick and unwholesome in her -nostrils. Anything, to get out of the foetid air. She would -leave them both for ever, leave for ever their strange, soft, -half-corrupt element. Anything to get away. - -One night Winifred came all burning into Ursula's bed, and -put her arms round the girl, holding her to herself in spite of -unwillingness, and said, - -"Dear, my dear--shall I marry Mr. Brangwen--shall -I?" - -The clinging, heavy, muddy question weighed on Ursula -intolerably. - -"Has he asked you?" she said, using all her might of hard -resistance. - -"He's asked me," said Winifred. "Do you want me to marry him, -Ursula?" - -"Yes," said Ursula. - -The arms tightened more on her. - -"I knew you did, my sweet--and I will marry him. You're -fond of him, aren't you?" - -"I've been awfully fond of him--ever since I was -a child." - -"I know--I know. I can see what you like in him. He is a -man by himself, he has something apart from the rest." - -"Yes," said Ursula. - -"But he's not like you, my dear--ha, he's not as good as -you. There's something even objectionable in him--his thick -thighs--" - -Ursula was silent. - -"But I'll marry him, my dear--it will be best. Now say -you love me." - -A sort of profession was extorted out of the girl. -Nevertheless her mistress went away sighing, to weep in her own -chamber. - -In two days' time Ursula left Wiggiston. Miss Inger went to -Nottingham. There was an engagement between her and Tom -Brangwen, which the uncle seemed to vaunt as if it were an -assurance of his validity. - -Brangwen and Winifred Inger continued engaged for another -term. Then they married. Brangwen had reached the age when he -wanted children. He wanted children. Neither marriage nor the -domestic establishment meant anything to him. He wanted to -propagate himself. He knew what he was doing. He had the -instinct of a growing inertia, of a thing that chooses its place -of rest in which to lapse into apathy, complete, profound -indifference. He would let the machinery carry him; husband, -father, pit-manager, warm clay lifted through the recurrent -action of day after day by the great machine from which it -derived its motion. As for Winifred, she was an educated woman, -and of the same sort as himself. She would make a good -companion. She was his mate. - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -THE MAN'S WORLD - -Ursula came back to Cossethay to fight with her mother. Her -schooldays were over. She had passed the matriculation -examination. Now she came home to face that empty period between -school and possible marriage. - -At first she thought it would be just like holidays all the -time, she would feel just free. Her soul was in chaos, blinded -suffering, maimed. She had no will left to think about herself. -For a time she must just lapse. - -But very shortly she found herself up against her mother. Her -mother had, at this time, the power to irritate and madden the -girl continuously. There were already seven children, yet Mrs. -Brangwen was again with child, the ninth she had borne. One had -died of diphtheria in infancy. - -Even this fact of her mother's pregnancy enraged the eldest -girl. Mrs. Brangwen was so complacent, so utterly fulfilled in -her breeding. She would not have the existence at all of -anything but the immediate, physical, common things. Ursula -inflamed in soul, was suffering all the anguish of youth's -reaching for some unknown ordeal, that it can't grasp, can't -even distinguish or conceive. Maddened, she was fighting all the -darkness she was up against. And part of this darkness was her -mother. To limit, as her mother did, everything to the ring of -physical considerations, and complacently to reject the reality -of anything else, was horrible. Not a thing did Mrs. Brangwen -care about, but the children, the house, and a little local -gossip. And she would not be touched, she would let -nothing else live near her. She went about, big with child, -slovenly, easy, having a certain lax dignity, taking her own -time, pleasing herself, always, always doing things for the -children, and feeling that she thereby fulfilled the whole of -womanhood. - -This long trance of complacent child-bearing had kept her -young and undeveloped. She was scarcely a day older than when -Gudrun was born. All these years nothing had happened save the -coming of the children, nothing had mattered but the bodies of -her babies. As her children came into consciousness, as they -began to suffer their own fulfilment, she cast them off. But she -remained dominant in the house. Brangwen continued in a kind of -rich drowse of physical heat, in connection with his wife. They -were neither of them quite personal, quite defined as -individuals, so much were they pervaded by the physical heat of -breeding and rearing their young. - -How Ursula resented it, how she fought against the close, -physical, limited life of herded domesticity! Calm, placid, -unshakeable as ever, Mrs. Brangwen went about in her dominance -of physical maternity. - -There were battles. Ursula would fight for things that -mattered to her. She would have the children less rude and -tyrannical, she would have a place in the house. But her -mother pulled her down, pulled her down. With all the cunning -instinct of a breeding animal, Mrs. Brangwen ridiculed and held -cheap Ursula's passions, her ideas, her pronunciations. Ursula -would try to insist, in her own home, on the right of women to -take equal place with men in the field of action and work. - -"Ay," said the mother, "there's a good crop of stockings -lying ripe for mending. Let that be your field of action." - -Ursula disliked mending stockings, and this retort maddened -her. She hated her mother bitterly. After a few weeks of -enforced domestic life, she had had enough of her home. The -commonness, the triviality, the immediate meaninglessness of it -all drove her to frenzy. She talked and stormed ideas, she -corrected and nagged at the children, she turned her back in -silent contempt on her breeding mother, who treated her with -supercilious indifference, as if she were a pretentious child -not to be taken seriously. - -Brangwen was sometimes dragged into the trouble. He loved -Ursula, therefore he always had a sense of shame, almost of -betrayal, when he turned on her. So he turned fiercely and -scathingly, and with a wholesale brutality that made Ursula go -white, mute, and numb. Her feelings seemed to be becoming -deadened in her, her temper hard and cold. - -Brangwen himself was in one of his states or flux. After all -these years, he began to see a loophole of freedom. For twenty -years he had gone on at this office as a draughtsman, doing work -in which he had no interest, because it seemed his allotted -work. The growing up of his daughters, their developing -rejection of old forms set him also free. - -He was a man of ceaseless activity. Blindly, like a mole, he -pushed his way out of the earth that covered him, working always -away from the physical element in which his life was captured. -Slowly, blindly, gropingly, with what initiative was left to -him, he made his way towards individual expression and -individual form. - -At last, after twenty years, he came back to his woodcarving, -almost to the point where he had left off his Adam and Eve -panel, when he was courting. But now he had knowledge and skill -without vision. He saw the puerility of his young conceptions, -he saw the unreal world in which they had been conceived. He now -had a new strength in his sense of reality. He felt as if he -were real, as if he handled real things. He had worked for many -years at Cossethay, building the organ for the church, restoring -the woodwork, gradually coming to a knowledge of beauty in the -plain labours. Now he wanted again to carve things that were -utterances of himself. - -But he could not quite hitch on--always he was too busy, -too uncertain, confused. Wavering, he began to study modelling. -To his surprise he found he could do it. Modelling in clay, in -plaster, he produced beautiful reproductions, really beautiful. -Then he set-to to make a head of Ursula, in high relief, in the -Donatello manner. In his first passion, he got a beautiful -suggestion of his desire. But the pitch of concentration would -not come. With a little ash in his mouth he gave up. He -continued to copy, or to make designs by selecting motives from -classic stuff. He loved the Della Robbia and Donatello as he had -loved Fra Angelico when he was a young man. His work had some of -the freshness, the naive alertness of the early Italians. But it -was only reproduction. - -Having reached his limit in modelling, he turned to painting. -But he tried water-colour painting after the manner of any other -amateur. He got his results but was not much interested. After -one or two drawings of his beloved church, which had the same -alertness as his modelling, he seemed to be incongruous with the -modern atmospheric way of painting, so that his church tower -stood up, really stood and asserted its standing, but was -ashamed of its own lack of meaning, he turned away again. - -He took up jewellery, read Benvenuto Cellini, pored over -reproductions of ornament, and began to make pendants in silver -and pearl and matrix. The first things he did, in his start of -discovery, were really beautiful. Those later were more -imitative. But, starting with his wife, he made a pendant each -for all his womenfolk. Then he made rings and bracelets. - -Then he took up beaten and chiselled metal work. When Ursula -left school, he was making a silver bowl of lovely shape. How he -delighted in it, almost lusted after it. - -All this time his only connection with the real outer world -was through his winter evening classes, which brought him into -contact with state education. About all the rest, he was -oblivious, and entirely indifferent--even about the war. -The nation did not exist to him. He was in a private retreat of -his own, that had neither nationality, nor any great -adherent. - -Ursula watched the newspapers, vaguely, concerning the war in -South Africa. They made her miserable, and she tried to have as -little to do with them as possible. But Skrebensky was out -there. He sent her an occasional post-card. But it was as if she -were a blank wall in his direction, without windows or outgoing. -She adhered to the Skrebensky of her memory. - -Her love for Winifred Inger wrenched her life as it seemed -from the roots and native soil where Skrebensky had belonged to -it, and she was aridly transplanted. He was really only a -memory. She revived his memory with strange passion, after the -departure of Winifred. He was to her almost the symbol of her -real life. It was as if, through him, in him, she might return -to her own self, which she was before she had loved Winifred, -before this deadness had come upon her, this pitiless -transplanting. But even her memories were the work of her -imagination. - -She dreamed of him and her as they had been together. She -could not dream of him progressively, of what he was doing now, -of what relation he would have to her now. Only sometimes she -wept to think how cruelly she had suffered when he left -her--ah, how she had suffered! She remembered what -she had written in her diary: - -"If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down." - -Ah, it was a dull agony to her to remember what she had been -then. For it was remembering a dead self. All that was dead -after Winifred. She knew the corpse of her young, loving self, -she knew its grave. And the young living self she mourned for -had scarcely existed, it was the creature of her -imagination. - -Deep within her a cold despair remained unchanging and -unchanged. No one would ever love her now--she would love -no one. The body of love was killed in her after Winifred, there -was something of the corpse in her. She would live, she would go -on, but she would have no lovers, no lover would want her any -more. She herself would want no lover. The vividest little flame -of desire was extinct in her for ever. The tiny, vivid germ that -contained the bud of her real self, her real love, was killed, -she would go on growing as a plant, she would do her best to -produce her minor flowers, but her leading flower was dead -before it was born, all her growth was the conveying of a corpse -of hope. - -The miserable weeks went on, in the poky house crammed with -children. What was her life--a sordid, formless, -disintegrated nothing; Ursula Brangwen a person without worth or -importance, living in the mean village of Cossethay, within the -sordid scope of Ilkeston. Ursula Brangwen, at seventeen, -worthless and unvalued, neither wanted nor needed by anybody, -and conscious herself of her own dead value. It would not bear -thinking of. - -But still her dogged pride held its own. She might be -defiled, she might be a corpse that should never be loved, she -might be a core-rotten stalk living upon the food that others -provided; yet she would give in to nobody. - -Gradually she became conscious that she could not go on -living at home as she was doing, without place or meaning or -worth. The very children that went to school held her -uselessness in contempt. She must do something. - -Her father said she had plenty to do to help her mother. From -her parents she would never get more than a hit in the face. She -was not a practical person. She thought of wild things, of -running away and becoming a domestic servant, of asking some man -to take her. - -She wrote to the mistress of the High School for advice. - -"I cannot see very clearly what you should do, Ursula," came -the reply, "unless you are willing to become an elementary -school teacher. You have matriculated, and that qualifies you to -take a post as uncertificated teacher in any school, at a salary -of about fifty pounds a year. - -"I cannot tell you how deeply I sympathize with you in your -desire to do something. You will learn that mankind is a great -body of which you are one useful member, you will take your own -place at the great task which humanity is trying to fulfil. That -will give you a satisfaction and a self-respect which nothing -else could give." - -Ursula's heart sank. It was a cold, dreary satisfaction to -think of. Yet her cold will acquiesced. This was what she -wanted. - -"You have an emotional nature," the letter went on, "a quick -natural response. If only you could learn patience and -self-discipline, I do not see why you should not make a good -teacher. The least you could do is to try. You need only serve a -year, or perhaps two years, as uncertificated teacher. Then you -would go to one of the training colleges, where I hope you would -take your degree. I most strongly urge and advise you to keep up -your studies always with the intention of taking a degree. That -will give you a qualification and a position in the world, and -will give you more scope to choose your own way. - -"I shall be proud to see one of my girls win her own -economical independence, which means so much more than it seems. -I shall be glad indeed to know that one more of my girls has -provided for herself the means of freedom to choose for -herself." - -It all sounded grim and desperate. Ursula rather hated it. -But her mother's contempt and her father's harshness had made -her raw at the quick, she knew the ignominy of being a -hanger-on, she felt the festering thorn of her mother's animal -estimation. - -At length she had to speak. Hard and shut down and silent -within herself, she slipped out one evening to the workshed. She -heard the tap-tap-tap of the hammer upon the metal. Her father -lifted his head as the door opened. His face was ruddy and -bright with instinct, as when he was a youth, his black -moustache was cut close over his wide mouth, his black hair was -fine and close as ever. But there was about him an abstraction, -a sort of instrumental detachment from human things. He was a -worker. He watched his daughter's hard, expressionless face. A -hot anger came over his breast and belly. - -"What now?" he said. - -"Can't I," she answered, looking aside, not looking at him, -"can't I go out to work?" - -"Go out to work, what for?" - -His voice was so strong, and ready, and vibrant. It irritated -her. - -"I want some other life than this." - -A flash of strong rage arrested all his blood for a -moment. - -"Some other life?" he repeated. "Why, what other life do you -want?" - -She hesitated. - -"Something else besides housework and hanging about. And I -want to earn something." - -Her curious, brutal hardness of speech, and the fierce -invincibility of her youth, which ignored him, made him also -harden with anger. - -"And how do you think you're going to earn anything?" -he asked. - -"I can become a teacher--I'm qualified by my -matric." - -He wished her matric. in hell. - -"And how much are you qualified to earn by your matric.?" he -asked, jeering. - -"Fifty pounds a year," she said. - -He was silent, his power taken out of his hand. - -He had always hugged a secret pride in the fact that his -daughters need not go out to work. With his wife's money and his -own they had four hundred a year. They could draw on the capital -if need be later on. He was not afraid for his old age. His -daughters might be ladies. - -Fifty pounds a year was a pound a week--which was enough -for her to live on independently. - -"And what sort of a teacher do you think you'd make? You -haven't the patience of a Jack-gnat with your own brothers and -sisters, let alone with a class of children. And I thought you -didn't like dirty, board-school brats." - -"They're not all dirty." - -"You'd find they're not all clean." - -There was silence in the workshop. The lamplight fell on the -burned silver bowl that lay between him, on mallet and furnace -and chisel. Brangwen stood with a queer, catlike light on his -face, almost like a smile. But it was no smile. - -"Can I try?" she said. - -"You can do what the deuce you like, and go where you -like." - -Her face was fixed and expressionless and indifferent. It -always sent him to a pitch of frenzy to see it like that. He -kept perfectly still. - -Cold, without any betrayal of feeling, she turned and left -the shed. He worked on, with all his nerves jangled. Then he had -to put down his tools and go into the house. - -In a bitter tone of anger and contempt he told his wife. -Ursula was present. There was a brief altercation, closed by -Mrs. Brangwen's saying, in a tone of biting superiority and -indifference: - -"Let her find out what it's like. She'll soon have had -enough." - -The matter was left there. But Ursula considered herself free -to act. For some days she made no move. She was reluctant to -take the cruel step of finding work, for she shrank with extreme -sensitiveness and shyness from new contact, new situations. Then -at length a sort of doggedness drove her. Her soul was full of -bitterness. - -She went to the Free Library in Ilkeston, copied out -addresses from the Schoolmistress, and wrote for -application forms. After two days she rose early to meet the -postman. As she expected, there were three long envelopes. - -Her heart beat painfully as she went up with them to her -bedroom. Her fingers trembled, she could hardly force herself to -look at the long, official forms she had to fill in. The whole -thing was so cruel, so impersonal. Yet it must be done. - -"Name (surname first):..." - -In a trembling hand she wrote, "Brangwen,--Ursula." - -"Age and date of birth:..." - -After a long time considering, she filled in that line. - -"Qualifications, with date of Examination:..." - -With a little pride she wrote: - -"London Matriculation Examination." - -"Previous experience and where obtained:..." - -Her heart sank as she wrote: - -"None." - -Still there was much to answer. It took her two hours to fill -in the three forms. Then she had to copy her testimonials from -her head-mistress and from the clergyman. - -At last, however, it was finished. She had sealed the three -long envelopes. In the afternoon she went down to Ilkeston to -post them. She said nothing of it all to her parents. As she -stamped her long letters and put them into the box at the main -post-office she felt as if already she was out of the reach of -her father and mother, as if she had connected herself with the -outer, greater world of activity, the man-made world. - -As she returned home, she dreamed again in her own fashion -her old, gorgeous dreams. One of her applications was to -Gillingham, in Kent, one to Kingston-on-Thames, and one to -Swanwick in Derbyshire. - -Gillingham was such a lovely name, and Kent was the Garden of -England. So that, in Gillingham, an old, old village by the -hopfields, where the sun shone softly, she came out of school in -the afternoon into the shadow of the plane trees by the gate, -and turned down the sleepy road towards the cottage where -cornflowers poked their blue heads through the old wooden fence, -and phlox stood built up of blossom beside the path. - -A delicate, silver-haired lady rose with delicate, ivory -hands uplifted as Ursula entered the room, and: - -"Oh, my dear, what do you think!" - -"What is it, Mrs. Wetherall?" - -Frederick had come home. Nay, his manly step was heard on the -stair, she saw his strong boots, his blue trousers, his -uniformed figure, and then his face, clean and keen as an -eagle's, and his eyes lit up with the glamour of strange seas, -ah, strange seas that had woven through his soul, as he -descended into the kitchen. - -This dream, with its amplifications, lasted her a mile of -walking. Then she went to Kingston-on-Thames. - -Kingston-on-Thames was an old historic place just south of -London. There lived the well-born dignified souls who belonged -to the metropolis, but who loved peace. There she met a -wonderful family of girls living in a large old Queen Anne -house, whose lawns sloped to the river, and in an atmosphere of -stately peace she found herself among her soul's intimates. They -loved her as sisters, they shared with her all noble -thoughts. - -She was happy again. In her musings she spread her poor, -clipped wings, and flew into the pure empyrean. - -Day followed day. She did not speak to her parents. Then came -the return of her testimonials from Gillingham. She was not -wanted, neither at Swanwick. The bitterness of rejection -followed the sweets of hope. Her bright feathers were in the -dust again. - -Then, suddenly, after a fortnight, came an intimation from -Kingston-on-Thames. She was to appear at the Education Office of -that town on the following Thursday, for an interview with the -Committee. Her heart stood still. She knew she would make the -Committee accept her. Now she was afraid, now that her removal -was imminent. Her heart quivered with fear and reluctance. But -underneath her purpose was fixed. - -She passed shadowily through the day, unwilling to tell her -news to her mother, waiting for her father. Suspense and fear -were strong upon her. She dreaded going to Kingston. Her easy -dreams disappeared from the grasp of reality. - -And yet, as the afternoon wore away, the sweetness of the -dream returned again. Kingston-on-Thames--there was such -sound of dignity to her. The shadow of history and the glamour -of stately progress enveloped her. The palaces would be old and -darkened, the place of kings obscured. Yet it was a place of -kings for her--Richard and Henry and Wolsey and Queen -Elizabeth. She divined great lawns with noble trees, and -terraces whose steps the water washed softly, where the swans -sometimes came to earth. Still she must see the stately, -gorgeous barge of the Queen float down, the crimson carpet put -upon the landing stairs, the gentlemen in their purple-velvet -cloaks, bare-headed, standing in the sunshine grouped on either -side waiting. - -"Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song." - -Evening came, her father returned home, sanguine and alert -and detached as ever. He was less real than her fancies. She -waited whilst he ate his tea. He took big mouthfuls, big bites, -and ate unconsciously with the same abandon an animal gives to -its food. - -Immediately after tea he went over to the church. It was -choir-practice, and he wanted to try the tunes on his organ. - -The latch of the big door clicked loudly as she came after -him, but the organ rolled more loudly still. He was unaware. He -was practicing the anthem. She saw his small, jet-black head and -alert face between the candle-flames, his slim body sagged on -the music-stool. His face was so luminous and fixed, the -movements of his limbs seemed strange, apart from him. The sound -of the organ seemed to belong to the very stone of the pillars, -like sap running in them. - -Then there was a close of music and silence. - -"Father!" she said. - -He looked round as if at an apparition. Ursula stood -shadowily within the candle-light. - -"What now?" he said, not coming to earth. - -It was difficult to speak to him. - -"I've got a situation," she said, forcing herself to -speak. - -"You've got what?" he answered, unwilling to come out of his -mood of organ-playing. He closed the music before him. - -"I've got a situation to go to." - -Then he turned to her, still abstracted, unwilling. - -"Oh, where's that?" he said. - -"At Kingston-on-Thames. I must go on Thursday for an -interview with the Committee." - -"You must go on Thursday?" - -"Yes." - -And she handed him the letter. He read it by the light of the -candles. - -"Ursula Brangwen, Yew Tree Cottage, Cossethay, -Derbyshire. - -"Dear Madam, You are requested to call at the above offices -on Thursday next, the 10th, at 11.30 a.m., for an interview with -the committee, referring to your application for the post of -assistant mistress at the Wellingborough Green Schools." - -It was very difficult for Brangwen to take in this remote and -official information, glowing as he was within the quiet of his -church and his anthem music. - -"Well, you needn't bother me with it now, need you?' he said -impatiently, giving her back the letter. - -"I've got to go on Thursday," she said. - -He sat motionless. Then he reached more music, and there was -a rushing sound of air, then a long, emphatic trumpet-note of -the organ, as he laid his hands on the keys. Ursula turned and -went away. - -He tried to give himself again to the organ. But he could -not. He could not get back. All the time a sort of string was -tugging, tugging him elsewhere, miserably. - -So that when he came into the house after choir-practice his -face was dark and his heart black. He said nothing however, -until all the younger children were in bed. Ursula, however, -knew what was brewing. - -At length he asked: - -"Where's that letter?" - -She gave it to him. He sat looking at it. "You are requested -to call at the above offices on Thursday next----" It -was a cold, official notice to Ursula herself and had nothing to -do with him. So! She existed now as a separate social -individual. It was for her to answer this note, without regard -to him. He had even no right to interfere. His heart was hard -and angry. - -"You had to do it behind our backs, had you?" he said, with a -sneer. And her heart leapt with hot pain. She knew she was -free--she had broken away from him. He was beaten. - -"You said, 'let her try,'" she retorted, almost apologizing -to him. - -He did not hear. He sat looking at the letter. - -"Education Office, Kingston-on-Thames"--and then the -typewritten "Miss Ursula Brangwen, Yew Tree Cottage, Cossethay." -It was all so complete and so final. He could not but feel the -new position Ursula held, as recipient of that letter. It was an -iron in his soul. - -"Well," he said at length, "you're not going." - -Ursula started and could find no words to clamour her -revolt. - -"If you think you're going dancin' off to th' other side of -London, you're mistaken." - -"Why not?" she cried, at once hard fixed in her will to -go. - -"That's why not," he said. - -And there was silence till Mrs. Brangwen came downstairs. - -"Look here, Anna," he said, handing her the letter. - -She put back her head, seeing a typewritten letter, -anticipating trouble from the outside world. There was the -curious, sliding motion of her eyes, as if she shut off her -sentient, maternal self, and a kind of hard trance, meaningless, -took its place. Thus, meaningless, she glanced over the letter, -careful not to take it in. She apprehended the contents with her -callous, superficial mind. Her feeling self was shut down. - -"What post is it?" she asked. - -"She wants to go and be a teacher in Kingston-on-Thames, at -fifty pounds a year." - -"Oh, indeed." - -The mother spoke as if it were a hostile fact concerning some -stranger. She would have let her go, out of callousness. Mrs. -Brangwen would begin to grow up again only with her youngest -child. Her eldest girl was in the way now. - -"She's not going all that distance," said the father. - -"I have to go where they want me," cried Ursula. "And it's a -good place to go to." - -"What do you know about the place?" said her father -harshly. - -"And it doesn't matter whether they want you or not, if your -father says you are not to go," said the mother calmly. - -How Ursula hated her! - -"You said I was to try," the girl cried. "Now I've got a -place and I'm going to go." - -"You're not going all that distance," said her father. - -"Why don't you get a place at Ilkeston, where you can live at -home?" asked Gudrun, who hated conflicts, who could not -understand Ursula's uneasy way, yet who must stand by her -sister. - -"There aren't any places in Ilkeston," cried Ursula. "And I'd -rather go right away." - -"If you'd asked about it, a place could have been got for you -in Ilkeston. But you had to play Miss High-an'-mighty, and go -your own way," said her father. - -"I've no doubt you'd rather go right away," said her mother, -very caustic. "And I've no doubt you'd find other people didn't -put up with you for very long either. You've too much opinion of -yourself for your good." - -Between the girl and her mother was a feeling of pure hatred. -There came a stubborn silence. Ursula knew she must break -it. - -"Well, they've written to me, and I s'll have to go," she -said. - -"Where will you get the money from?" asked her father. - -"Uncle Tom will give it me," she said. - -Again there was silence. This time she was triumphant. - -Then at length her father lifted his head. His face was -abstracted, he seemed to be abstracting himself, to make a pure -statement. - -"Well, you're not going all that distance away," he said. -"I'll ask Mr. Burt about a place here. I'm not going to have you -by yourself at the other side of London." - -"But I've got to go to Kingston," said Ursula. -"They've sent for me." - -"They'll do without you," he said. - -There was a trembling silence when she was on the point of -tears. - -"Well," she said, low and tense, "you can put me off this, -but I'm going to have a place. I'm not going to -stop at home." - -"Nobody wants you to stop at home," he suddenly shouted, -going livid with rage. - -She said no more. Her nature had gone hard and smiling in its -own arrogance, in its own antagonistic indifference to the rest -of them. This was the state in which he wanted to kill her. She -went singing into the parlour. - - C'est la mere Michel qui a perdu son chat, - Qui cri par la fenetre qu'est-ce qui le lue renda----" - -During the next days Ursula went about bright and hard, -singing to herself, making love to the children, but her soul -hard and cold with regard to her parents. Nothing more was said. -The hardness and brightness lasted for four days. Then it began -to break up. So at evening she said to her father: - -"Have you spoken about a place for me?" - -"I spoke to Mr. Burt." - -"What did he say?" - -"There's a committee meeting to-morrow. He'll tell me on -Friday." - -So she waited till Friday. Kingston-on-Thames had been an -exciting dream. Here she could feel the hard, raw reality. So -she knew that this would come to pass. Because nothing was ever -fulfilled, she found, except in the hard limited reality. She -did not want to be a teacher in Ilkeston, because she knew -Ilkeston, and hated it. But she wanted to be free, so she must -take her freedom where she could. - -On Friday her father said there was a place vacant in -Brinsley Street school. This could most probably be secured for -her, at once, without the trouble of application. - -Her heart halted. Brinsley Street was a school in a poor -quarter, and she had had a taste of the common children of -Ilkeston. They had shouted after her and thrown stones. Still, -as a teacher, she would be in authority. And it was all unknown. -She was excited. The very forest of dry, sterile brick had some -fascination for her. It was so hard and ugly, so relentlessly -ugly, it would purge her of some of her floating -sentimentality. - -She dreamed how she would make the little, ugly children love -her. She would be so personal. Teachers were always so -hard and impersonal. There was no vivid relationship. She would -make everything personal and vivid, she would give herself, she -would give, give, give all her great stores of wealth to her -children, she would make them so happy, and they would prefer -her to any teacher on the face of the earth. - -At Christmas she would choose such fascinating Christmas -cards for them, and she would give them such a happy party in -one of the class-rooms. - -The headmaster, Mr. Harby, was a short, thick-set, rather -common man, she thought. But she would hold before him the light -of grace and refinement, he would have her in such high esteem -before long. She would be the gleaming sun of the school, the -children would blossom like little weeds, the teachers like -tall, hard plants would burst into rare flower. - -The Monday morning came. It was the end of September, and a -drizzle of fine rain like veils round her, making her seem -intimate, a world to herself. She walked forward to the new -land. The old was blotted out. The veil would be rent that hid -the new world. She was gripped hard with suspense as she went -down the hill in the rain, carrying her dinner-bag. - -Through the thin rain she saw the town, a black, extensive -mount. She must enter in upon it. She felt at once a feeling of -repugnance and of excited fulfilment. But she shrank. - -She waited at the terminus for the tram. Here it was -beginning. Before her was the station to Nottingham, whence -Theresa had gone to school half an hour before; behind her was -the little church school she had attended when she was a child, -when her grandmother was alive. Her grandmother had been dead -two years now. There was a strange woman at the Marsh, with her -Uncle Fred, and a small baby. Behind her was Cossethay, and -blackberries were ripe on the hedges. - -As she waited at the tram-terminus she reverted swiftly to -her childhood; her teasing grandfather, with his fair beard and -blue eyes, and his big, monumental body; he had got drowned: her -grandmother, whom Ursula would sometimes say she had loved more -than anyone else in the world: the little church school, the -Phillips boys; one was a soldier in the Life Guards now, one was -a collier. With a passion she clung to the past. - -But as she dreamed of it, she heard the tram-car grinding -round a bend, rumbling dully, she saw it draw into sight, and -hum nearer. It sidled round the loop at the terminus, and came -to a standstill, looming above her. Some shadowy grey people -stepped from the far end, the conductor was walking in the -puddles, swinging round the pole. - -She mounted into the wet, comfortless tram, whose floor was -dark with wet, whose windows were all steamed, and she sat in -suspense. It had begun, her new existence. - -One other passenger mounted--a sort of charwoman with a -drab, wet coat. Ursula could not bear the waiting of the tram. -The bell clanged, there was a lurch forward. The car moved -cautiously down the wet street. She was being carried forward, -into her new existence. Her heart burned with pain and suspense, -as if something were cutting her living tissue. - -Often, oh often the tram seemed to stop, and wet, cloaked -people mounted and sat mute and grey in stiff rows opposite her, -their umbrellas between their knees. The windows of the tram -grew more steamy; opaque. She was shut in with these unliving, -spectral people. Even yet it did not occur to her that she was -one of them. The conductor came down issuing tickets. Each -little ring of his clipper sent a pang of dread through her. But -her ticket surely was different from the rest. - -They were all going to work; she also was going to work. Her -ticket was the same. She sat trying to fit in with them. But -fear was at her bowels, she felt an unknown, terrible grip upon -her. - -At Bath Street she must dismount and change trams. She looked -uphill. It seemed to lead to freedom. She remembered the many -Saturday afternoons she had walked up to the shops. How free and -careless she had been! - -Ah, her tram was sliding gingerly downhill. She dreaded every -yard of her conveyance. The car halted, she mounted hastily. - -She kept turning her head as the car ran on, because she was -uncertain of the street. At last, her heart a flame of suspense, -trembling, she rose. The conductor rang the bell brusquely. - -She was walking down a small, mean, wet street, empty of -people. The school squatted low within its railed, asphalt yard, -that shone black with rain. The building was grimy, and -horrible, dry plants were shadowily looking through the -windows. - -She entered the arched doorway of the porch. The whole place -seemed to have a threatening expression, imitating the church's -architecture, for the purpose of domineering, like a gesture of -vulgar authority. She saw that one pair of feet had paddled -across the flagstone floor of the porch. The place was silent, -deserted, like an empty prison waiting the return of tramping -feet. - -Ursula went forward to the teachers' room that burrowed in a -gloomy hole. She knocked timidly. - -"Come in!" called a surprised man's voice, as from a prison -cell. She entered the dark little room that never got any sun. -The gas was lighted naked and raw. At the table a thin man in -shirt-sleeves was rubbing a paper on a jellytray. He looked up -at Ursula with his narrow, sharp face, said "Good morning," then -turned away again, and stripped the paper off the tray, glancing -at the violet-coloured writing transferred, before he dropped -the curled sheet aside among a heap. - -Ursula watched him fascinated. In the gaslight and gloom and -the narrowness of the room, all seemed unreal. - -"Isn't it a nasty morning," she said. - -"Yes," he said, "it's not much of weather." - -But in here it seemed that neither morning nor weather really -existed. This place was timeless. He spoke in an occupied voice, -like an echo. Ursula did not know what to say. She took off her -waterproof. - -"Am I early?" she asked. - -The man looked first at a little clock, then at her. His eyes -seemed to be sharpened to needle-points of vision. - -"Twenty-five past," he said. "You're the second to come. I'm -first this morning." - -Ursula sat down gingerly on the edge of a chair, and watched -his thin red hands rubbing away on the white surface of the -paper, then pausing, pulling up a corner of the sheet, peering, -and rubbing away again. There was a great heap of curled -white-and-scribbled sheets on the table. - -"Must you do so many?" asked Ursula. - -Again the man glanced up sharply. He was about thirty or -thirty-three years old, thin, greenish, with a long nose and a -sharp face. His eyes were blue, and sharp as points of steel, -rather beautiful, the girl thought. - -"Sixty-three," he answered. - -"So many!" she said, gently. Then she remembered. - -"But they're not all for your class, are they?" she -added. - -"Why aren't they?" he replied, a fierceness in his voice. - -Ursula was rather frightened by his mechanical ignoring of -her, and his directness of statement. It was something new to -her. She had never been treated like this before, as if she did -not count, as if she were addressing a machine. - -"It is too many," she said sympathetically. - -"You'll get about the same," he said. - -That was all she received. She sat rather blank, not knowing -how to feel. Still she liked him. He seemed so cross. There was -a queer, sharp, keen-edge feeling about him that attracted her -and frightened her at the same time. It was so cold, and against -his nature. - -The door opened, and a short, neutral-tinted young woman of -about twenty-eight appeared. - -"Oh, Ursula!" the newcomer exclaimed. "You are here early! My -word, I'll warrant you don't keep it up. That's Mr. Williamson's -peg. This is yours. Standard Five teacher always has this. -Aren't you going to take your hat off?" - -Miss Violet Harby removed Ursula's waterproof from the peg on -which it was hung, to one a little farther down the row. She had -already snatched the pins from her own stuff hat, and jammed -them through her coat. She turned to Ursula, as she pushed up -her frizzed, flat, dun-coloured hair. - -"Isn't it a beastly morning," she exclaimed, "beastly! And if -there's one thing I hate above another it's a wet Monday -morning;--pack of kids trailing in anyhow-nohow, and no -holding 'em----" - -She had taken a black pinafore from a newspaper package, and -was tying it round her waist. - -"You've brought an apron, haven't you?" she said jerkily, -glancing at Ursula. "Oh--you'll want one. You've no idea -what a sight you'll look before half-past four, what with chalk -and ink and kids' dirty feet.--Well, I can send a boy down -to mamma's for one." - -"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Ursula. - -"Oh, yes--I can send easily," cried Miss Harby. - -Ursula's heart sank. Everybody seemed so cocksure and so -bossy. How was she going to get on with such jolty, jerky, bossy -people? And Miss Harby had not spoken a word to the man at the -table. She simply ignored him. Ursula felt the callous crude -rudeness between the two teachers. - -The two girls went out into the passage. A few children were -already clattering in the porch. - -"Jim Richards," called Miss Harby, hard and authoritative. A -boy came sheepishly forward. - -"Shall you go down to our house for me, eh?" said Miss Harby, -in a commanding, condescending, coaxing voice. She did not wait -for an answer. "Go down and ask mamma to send me one of my -school pinas, for Miss Brangwen--shall you?" - -The boy muttered a sheepish "Yes, miss," and was moving -away. - -"Hey," called Miss Harby. "Come here--now what are you -going for? What shall you say to mamma?" - -"A school pina----" muttered the boy. - -"'Please, Mrs. Harby, Miss Harby says will you send her -another school pinafore for Miss Brangwen, because she's come -without one.'" - -"Yes, miss," muttered the boy, head ducked, and was moving -off. Miss Harby caught him back, holding him by the -shoulder. - -"What are you going to say?" - -"Please, Mrs. Harby, Miss Harby wants a pinny for Miss -Brangwin," muttered the boy very sheepishly. - -"Miss Brangwen!" laughed Miss Harby, pushing him away. "Here, -you'd better have my umbrella--wait a minute." - -The unwilling boy was rigged up with Miss Harby's umbrella, -and set off. - -"Don't take long over it," called Miss Harby, after him. Then -she turned to Ursula, and said brightly: - -"Oh, he's a caution, that lad--but not bad, you -know." - -"No," Ursula agreed, weakly. - -The latch of the door clicked, and they entered the big room. -Ursula glanced down the place. Its rigid, long silence was -official and chilling. Half-way down was a glass partition, the -doors of which were open. A clock ticked re-echoing, and Miss -Harby's voice sounded double as she said: - -"This is the big room--Standard -Five-Six-and-Seven.--Here's your -place--Five----" - -She stood in the near end of the great room. There was a -small high teacher's desk facing a squadron of long benches, two -high windows in the wall opposite. - -It was fascinating and horrible to Ursula. The curious, -unliving light in the room changed her character. She thought it -was the rainy morning. Then she looked up again, because of the -horrid feeling of being shut in a rigid, inflexible air, away -from all feeling of the ordinary day; and she noticed that the -windows were of ribbed, suffused glass. - -The prison was round her now! She looked at the walls, colour -washed, pale green and chocolate, at the large windows with -frowsy geraniums against the pale glass, at the long rows of -desks, arranged in a squadron, and dread filled her. This was a -new world, a new life, with which she was threatened. But still -excited, she climbed into her chair at her teacher's desk. It -was high, and her feet could not reach the ground, but must rest -on the step. Lifted up there, off the ground, she was in office. -How queer, how queer it all was! How different it was from the -mist of rain blowing over Cossethay. As she thought of her own -village, a spasm of yearning crossed her, it seemed so far off, -so lost to her. - -She was here in this hard, stark reality--reality. It -was queer that she should call this the reality, which she had -never known till to-day, and which now so filled her with dread -and dislike, that she wished she might go away. This was the -reality, and Cossethay, her beloved, beautiful, wellknown -Cossethay, which was as herself unto her, that was minor -reality. This prison of a school was reality. Here, then, she -would sit in state, the queen of scholars! Here she would -realize her dream of being the beloved teacher bringing light -and joy to her children! But the desks before her had an -abstract angularity that bruised her sentiment and made her -shrink. She winced, feeling she had been a fool in her -anticipations. She had brought her feelings and her generosity -to where neither generosity nor emotion were wanted. And already -she felt rebuffed, troubled by the new atmosphere, out of -place. - -She slid down, and they returned to the teacher's room. It -was queer to feel that one ought to alter one's personality. She -was nobody, there was no reality in herself, the reality was all -outside of her, and she must apply herself to it. - -Mr. Harby was in the teachers' room, standing before a big, -open cupboard, in which Ursula could see piles of pink -blotting-paper, heaps of shiny new books, boxes of chalk, and -bottles of coloured inks. It looked a treasure store. - -The schoolmaster was a short, sturdy man, with a fine head, -and a heavy jowl. Nevertheless he was good-looking, with his -shapely brows and nose, and his great, hanging moustache. He -seemed absorbed in his work, and took no notice of Ursula's -entry. There was something insulting in the way he could be so -actively unaware of another person, so occupied. - -When he had a moment of absence, he looked up from the table -and said good-morning to Ursula. There was a pleasant light in -his brown eyes. He seemed very manly and incontrovertible, like -something she wanted to push over. - -"You had a wet walk," he said to Ursula. - -"Oh, I don't mind, I'm used to it," she replied, with a -nervous little laugh. - -But already he was not listening. Her words sounded -ridiculous and babbling. He was taking no notice of her. - -"You will sign your name here," he said to her, as if she -were some child--"and the time when you come and go." - -Ursula signed her name in the time book and stood back. No -one took any further notice of her. She beat her brains for -something to say, but in vain. - -"I'd let them in now," said Mr. Harby to the thin man, who -was very hastily arranging his papers. - -The assistant teacher made no sign of acquiescence, and went -on with what he was doing. The atmosphere in the room grew -tense. At the last moment Mr. Brunt slipped into his coat. - -"You will go to the girls' lobby," said the schoolmaster to -Ursula, with a fascinating, insulting geniality, purely official -and domineering. - -She went out and found Miss Harby, and another girl teacher, -in the porch. On the asphalt yard the rain was falling. A -toneless bell tang-tang-tanged drearily overhead, monotonously, -insistently. It came to an end. Then Mr. Brunt was seen, -bare-headed, standing at the other gate of the school yard, -blowing shrill blasts on a whistle and looking down the rainy, -dreary street. - -Boys in gangs and streams came trotting up, running past the -master and with a loud clatter of feet and voices, over the yard -to the boys' porch. Girls were running and walking through the -other entrance. - -In the porch where Ursula stood there was a great noise of -girls, who were tearing off their coats and hats, and hanging -them on the racks bristling with pegs. There was a smell of wet -clothing, a tossing out of wet, draggled hair, a noise of voices -and feet. - -The mass of girls grew greater, the rage around the pegs grew -steadier, the scholars tended to fall into little noisy gangs in -the porch. Then Violet Harby clapped her hands, clapped them -louder, with a shrill "Quiet, girls, quiet!" - -There was a pause. The hubbub died down but did not -cease. - -"What did I say?" cried Miss Harby, shrilly. - -There was almost complete silence. Sometimes a girl, rather -late, whirled into the porch and flung off her things. - -"Leaders--in place," commanded Miss Harby shrilly. - -Pairs of girls in pinafores and long hair stood separate in -the porch. - -"Standard Four, Five, and Six--fall in," cried Miss -Harby. - -There was a hubbub, which gradually resolved itself into -three columns of girls, two and two, standing smirking in the -passage. In among the peg-racks, other teachers were putting the -lower classes into ranks. - -Ursula stood by her own Standard Five. They were jerking -their shoulders, tossing their hair, nudging, writhing, staring, -grinning, whispering and twisting. - -A sharp whistle was heard, and Standard Six, the biggest -girls, set off, led by Miss Harby. Ursula, with her Standard -Five, followed after. She stood beside a smirking, grinning row -of girls, waiting in a narrow passage. What she was herself she -did not know. - -Suddenly the sound of a piano was heard, and Standard Six set -off hollowly down the big room. The boys had entered by another -door. The piano played on, a march tune, Standard Five followed -to the door of the big room. Mr. Harby was seen away beyond at -his desk. Mr. Brunt guarded the other door of the room. Ursula's -class pushed up. She stood near them. They glanced and smirked -and shoved. - -"Go on," said Ursula. - -They tittered. - -"Go on," said Ursula, for the piano continued. - -The girls broke loosely into the room. Mr. Harby, who had -seemed immersed in some occupation, away at his desk, lifted his -head and thundered: - -"Halt!" - -There was a halt, the piano stopped. The boys who were just -starting through the other door, pushed back. The harsh, subdued -voice of Mr. Brunt was heard, then the booming shout of Mr. -Harby, from far down the room: - -"Who told Standard Five girls to come in like that?" - -Ursula crimsoned. Her girls were glancing up at her, smirking -their accusation. - -"I sent them in, Mr. Harby," she said, in a clear, struggling -voice. There was a moment of silence. Then Mr. Harby roared from -the distance. - -"Go back to your places, Standard Five girls." - -The girls glanced up at Ursula, accusing, rather jeering, -fugitive. They pushed back. Ursula's heart hardened with -ignominious pain. - -"Forward--march," came Mr. Brunt's voice, and the girls -set off, keeping time with the ranks of boys. - -Ursula faced her class, some fifty-five boys and girls, who -stood filling the ranks of the desks. She felt utterly -nonexistent. She had no place nor being there. She faced the -block of children. - -Down the room she heard the rapid firing of questions. She -stood before her class not knowing what to do. She waited -painfully. Her block of children, fifty unknown faces, watched -her, hostile, ready to jeer. She felt as if she were in torture -over a fire of faces. And on every side she was naked to them. -Of unutterable length and torture the seconds went by. - -Then she gathered courage. She heard Mr. Brunt asking -questions in mental arithmetic. She stood near to her class, so -that her voice need not be raised too much, and faltering, -uncertain, she said: - -"Seven hats at twopence ha'penny each?" - -A grin went over the faces of the class, seeing her commence. -She was red and suffering. Then some hands shot up like blades, -and she asked for the answer. - -The day passed incredibly slowly. She never knew what to do, -there came horrible gaps, when she was merely exposed to the -children; and when, relying on some pert little girl for -information, she had started a lesson, she did not know how to -go on with it properly. The children were her masters. She -deferred to them. She could always hear Mr. Brunt. Like a -machine, always in the same hard, high, inhuman voice he went on -with his teaching, oblivious of everything. And before this -inhuman number of children she was always at bay. She could not -get away from it. There it was, this class of fifty collective -children, depending on her for command, for command it hated and -resented. It made her feel she could not breathe: she must -suffocate, it was so inhuman. They were so many, that they were -not children. They were a squadron. She could not speak as she -would to a child, because they were not individual children, -they were a collective, inhuman thing. - -Dinner-time came, and stunned, bewildered, solitary, she went -into the teachers' room for dinner. Never had she felt such a -stranger to life before. It seemed to her she had just -disembarked from some strange horrible state where everything -was as in hell, a condition of hard, malevolent system. And she -was not really free. The afternoon drew at her like some -bondage. - -The first week passed in a blind confusion. She did not know -how to teach, and she felt she never would know. Mr. Harby came -down every now and then to her class, to see what she was doing. -She felt so incompetent as he stood by, bullying and -threatening, so unreal, that she wavered, became neutral and -non-existent. But he stood there watching with the -listening-genial smile of the eyes, that was really threatening; -he said nothing, he made her go on teaching, she felt she had no -soul in her body. Then he went away, and his going was like a -derision. The class was his class. She was a wavering -substitute. He thrashed and bullied, he was hated. But he was -master. Though she was gentle and always considerate of her -class, yet they belonged to Mr. Harby, and they did not belong -to her. Like some invincible source of the mechanism he kept all -power to himself. And the class owned his power. And in school -it was power, and power alone that mattered. - -Soon Ursula came to dread him, and at the bottom of her dread -was a seed of hate, for she despised him, yet he was master of -her. Then she began to get on. All the other teachers hated him, -and fanned their hatred among themselves. For he was master of -them and the children, he stood like a wheel to make absolute -his authority over the herd. That seemed to be his one reason in -life, to hold blind authority over the school. His teachers were -his subjects as much as the scholars. Only, because they had -some authority, his instinct was to detest them. - -Ursula could not make herself a favourite with him. From the -first moment she set hard against him. She set against Violet -Harby also. Mr. Harby was, however, too much for her, he was -something she could not come to grips with, something too strong -for her. She tried to approach him as a young, bright girl -usually approaches a man, expecting a little chivalrous -courtesy. But the fact that she was a girl, a woman, was ignored -or used as a matter for contempt against her. She did not know -what she was, nor what she must be. She wanted to remain her own -responsive, personal self. - -So she taught on. She made friends with the Standard Three -teacher, Maggie Schofield. Miss Schofield was about twenty years -old, a subdued girl who held aloof from the other teachers. She -was rather beautiful, meditative, and seemed to live in another, -lovelier world. - -Ursula took her dinner to school, and during the second week -ate it in Miss Schofield's room. Standard Three classroom stood -by itself and had windows on two sides, looking on to the -playground. It was a passionate relief to find such a retreat in -the jarring school. For there were pots of chrysanthemums and -coloured leaves, and a big jar of berries: there were pretty -little pictures on the wall, photogravure reproductions from -Greuze, and Reynolds's "Age of Innocence", giving an air of -intimacy; so that the room, with its window space, its smaller, -tidier desks, its touch of pictures and flowers, made Ursula at -once glad. Here at last was a little personal touch, to which -she could respond. - -It was Monday. She had been at school a week and was getting -used to the surroundings, though she was still an entire -foreigner in herself. She looked forward to having dinner with -Maggie. That was the bright spot in the day. Maggie was so -strong and remote, walking with slow, sure steps down a hard -road, carrying the dream within her. Ursula went through the -class teaching as through a meaningless daze. - -Her class tumbled out at midday in haphazard fashion. She did -not realize what host she was gathering against herself by her -superior tolerance, her kindness and her laisseraller. They were -gone, and she was rid of them, and that was all. She hurried -away to the teachers' room. - -Mr. Brunt was crouching at the small stove, putting a little -rice pudding into the oven. He rose then, and attentively poked -in a small saucepan on the hob with a fork. Then he replaced the -saucepan lid. - -"Aren't they done?" asked Ursula gaily, breaking in on his -tense absorption. - -She always kept a bright, blithe manner, and was pleasant to -all the teachers. For she felt like the swan among the geese, of -superior heritage and belonging. And her pride at being the swan -in this ugly school was not yet abated. - -"Not yet," replied Mr. Brunt, laconic. - -"I wonder if my dish is hot," she said, bending down at the -oven. She half expected him to look for her, but he took no -notice. She was hungry and she poked her finger eagerly in the -pot to see if her brussels sprouts and potatoes and meat were -ready. They were not. - -"Don't you think it's rather jolly bringing dinner?" she said -to Mr. Brunt. - -"I don't know as I do," he said, spreading a serviette on a -corner of the table, and not looking at her. - -"I suppose it is too far for you to go home?" - -"Yes," he said. Then he rose and looked at her. He had the -bluest, fiercest, most pointed eyes that she had ever met. He -stared at her with growing fierceness. - -"If I were you, Miss Brangwen," he said, menacingly, "I -should get a bit tighter hand over my class." - -Ursula shrank. - -"Would you?" she asked, sweetly, yet in terror. "Aren't I -strict enough?" - -"Because," he repeated, taking no notice of her, "they'll get -you down if you don't tackle 'em pretty quick. They'll pull you -down, and worry you, till Harby gets you shifted--that's -how it'll be. You won't be here another six weeks"--and he -filled his mouth with food--"if you don't tackle 'em and -tackle 'em quick." - -"Oh, but----" Ursula said, resentfully, ruefully. -The terror was deep in her. - -"Harby'll not help you. This is what he'll do--he'll let -you go on, getting worse and worse, till either you clear out or -he clears you out. It doesn't matter to me, except that you'll -leave a class behind you as I hope I shan't have to cope -with." - -She heard the accusation in the man's voice, and felt -condemned. But still, school had not yet become a definite -reality to her. She was shirking it. It was reality, but it was -all outside her. And she fought against Mr. Brunt's -representation. She did not want to realize. - -"Will it be so terrible?" she said, quivering, rather -beautiful, but with a slight touch of condescension, because she -would not betray her own trepidation. - -"Terrible?" said the man, turning to his potatoes again. "I -dunno about terrible." - -"I do feel frightened," said Ursula. "The children seem -so----" - -"What?" said Miss Harby, entering at that moment. - -"Why," said Ursula, "Mr. Brunt says I ought to tackle my -class," and she laughed uneasily. - -"Oh, you have to keep order if you want to teach," said Miss -Harby, hard, superior, trite. - -Ursula did not answer. She felt non valid before them. - -"If you want to be let to live, you have," said Mr. -Brunt. - -"Well, if you can't keep order, what good are you?" said Miss -Harby. - -"An' you've got to do it by yourself,"--his voice rose -like the bitter cry of the prophets. "You'll get no help -from anybody." - -"Oh, indeed!" said Miss Harby. "Some people can't be helped." -And she departed. - -The air of hostility and disintegration, of wills working in -antagonistic subordination, was hideous. Mr. Brunt, subordinate, -afraid, acid with shame, frightened her. Ursula wanted to run. -She only wanted to clear out, not to understand. - -Then Miss Schofield came in, and with her another, more -restful note. Ursula at once turned for confirmation to the -newcomer. Maggie remained personal within all this unclean -system of authority. - -"Is the big Anderson here?" she asked of Mr. Brunt. And they -spoke of some affair about two scholars, coldly, officially. - -Miss Schofield took her brown dish, and Ursula followed with -her own. The cloth was laid in the pleasant Standard Three room, -there was a jar with two or three monthly roses on the -table. - -"It is so nice in here, you have made it different," -said Ursula gaily. But she was afraid. The atmosphere of the -school was upon her. - -"The big room," said Miss Schofield, "ha, it's misery to be -in it!" - -She too spoke with bitterness. She too lived in the -ignominious position of an upper servant hated by the master -above and the class beneath. She was, she knew, liable to attack -from either side at any minute, or from both at once, for the -authorities would listen to the complaints of parents, and both -would turn round on the mongrel authority, the teacher. - -So there was a hard, bitter withholding in Maggie Schofield -even as she poured out her savoury mess of big golden beans and -brown gravy. - -"It is vegetarian hot-pot," said Miss Schofield. "Would you -like to try it?" - -"I should love to," said Ursula. - -Her own dinner seemed coarse and ugly beside this savoury, -clean dish. - -"I've never eaten vegetarian things," she said. "But I should -think they can be good." - -"I'm not really a vegetarian," said Maggie, "I don't like to -bring meat to school." - -"No," said Ursula, "I don't think I do either." - -And again her soul rang an answer to a new refinement, a new -liberty. If all vegetarian things were as nice as this, she -would be glad to escape the slight uncleanness of meat. - -"How good!" she cried. - -"Yes," said Miss Schofield, and she proceeded to tell her the -receipt. The two girls passed on to talk about themselves. -Ursula told all about the High School, and about her -matriculation, bragging a little. She felt so poor here, in this -ugly place. Miss Schofield listened with brooding, handsome -face, rather gloomy. - -"Couldn't you have got to some better place than this?" she -asked at length. - -"I didn't know what it was like," said Ursula, -doubtfully. - -"Ah!" said Miss Schofield, and she turned aside her head with -a bitter motion. - -"Is it as horrid as it seems?" asked Ursula, frowning -lightly, in fear. - -"It is," said Miss Schofield, bitterly. "Ha!--it is -hateful!" - -Ursula's heart sank, seeing even Miss Schofield in the deadly -bondage. - -"It is Mr. Harby," said Maggie Schofield, breaking forth. - -"I don't think I could live again in the big -room--Mr. Brunt's voice and Mr. -Harby--ah----" - -She turned aside her head with a deep hurt. Some things she -could not bear. - -"Is Mr. Harby really horrid?" asked Ursula, venturing into -her own dread. - -"He!--why, he's just a bully," said Miss Schofield, -raising her shamed dark eyes, that flamed with tortured -contempt. "He's not bad as long as you keep in with him, and -refer to him, and do everything in his way--but--it's -all so mean! It's just a question of fighting on both -sides--and those great louts----" - -She spoke with difficulty and with increased bitterness. She -had evidently suffered. Her soul was raw with ignominy. Ursula -suffered in response. - -"But why is it so horrid?" she asked, helplessly. - -"You can't do anything," said Miss Schofield. "He's -against you on one side and he sets the children against you on -the other. The children are simply awful. You've got to -make them do everything. Everything, everything has got -to come out of you. Whatever they learn, you've got to force it -into them--and that's how it is." - -Ursula felt her heart fail inside her. Why must she grasp all -this, why must she force learning on fifty-five reluctant -children, having all the time an ugly, rude jealousy behind her, -ready to throw her to the mercy of the herd of children, who -would like to rend her as a weaker representative of authority. -A great dread of her task possessed her. She saw Mr. Brunt, Miss -Harby, Miss Schofield, all the school-teachers, drudging -unwillingly at the graceless task of compelling many children -into one disciplined, mechanical set, reducing the whole set to -an automatic state of obedience and attention, and then of -commanding their acceptance of various pieces of knowledge. The -first great task was to reduce sixty children to one state of -mind, or being. This state must be produced automatically, -through the will of the teacher, and the will of the whole -school authority, imposed upon the will of the children. The -point was that the headmaster and the teachers should have one -will in authority, which should bring the will of the children -into accord. But the headmaster was narrow and exclusive. The -will of the teachers could not agree with his, their separate -wills refused to be so subordinated. So there was a state of -anarchy, leaving the final judgment to the children themselves, -which authority should exist. - -So there existed a set of separate wills, each straining -itself to the utmost to exert its own authority. Children will -never naturally acquiesce to sitting in a class and submitting -to knowledge. They must be compelled by a stronger, wiser will. -Against which will they must always strive to revolt. So that -the first great effort of every teacher of a large class must be -to bring the will of the children into accordance with his own -will. And this he can only do by an abnegation of his personal -self, and an application of a system of laws, for the purpose of -achieving a certain calculable result, the imparting of certain -knowledge. Whereas Ursula thought she was going to become the -first wise teacher by making the whole business personal, and -using no compulsion. She believed entirely in her own -personality. - -So that she was in a very deep mess. In the first place she -was offering to a class a relationship which only one or two of -the children were sensitive enough to appreciate, so that the -mass were left outsiders, therefore against her. Secondly, she -was placing herself in passive antagonism to the one fixed -authority of Mr. Harby, so that the scholars could more safely -harry her. She did not know, but her instinct gradually warned -her. She was tortured by the voice of Mr. Brunt. On it went, -jarring, harsh, full of hate, but so monotonous, it nearly drove -her mad: always the same set, harsh monotony. The man was become -a mechanism working on and on and on. But the personal man was -in subdued friction all the time. It was horrible--all -hate! Must she be like this? She could feel the ghastly -necessity. She must become the same--put away the personal -self, become an instrument, an abstraction, working upon a -certain material, the class, to achieve a set purpose of making -them know so much each day. And she could not submit. Yet -gradually she felt the invincible iron closing upon her. The sun -was being blocked out. Often when she went out at playtime and -saw a luminous blue sky with changing clouds, it seemed just a -fantasy, like a piece of painted scenery. Her heart was so black -and tangled in the teaching, her personal self was shut in -prison, abolished, she was subjugate to a bad, destructive will. -How then could the sky be shining? There was no sky, there was -no luminous atmosphere of out-of-doors. Only the inside of the -school was real--hard, concrete, real and vicious. - -She would not yet, however, let school quite overcome her. -She always said. "It is not a permanency, it will come to an -end." She could always see herself beyond the place, see the -time when she had left it. On Sundays and on holidays, when she -was away at Cossethay or in the woods where the beech-leaves -were fallen, she could think of St. Philip's Church School, and -by an effort of will put it in the picture as a dirty little -low-squatting building that made a very tiny mound under the -sky, while the great beech-woods spread immense about her, and -the afternoon was spacious and wonderful. Moreover the children, -the scholars, they were insignificant little objects far away, -oh, far away. And what power had they over her free soul? A -fleeting thought of them, as she kicked her way through the -beech-leaves, and they were gone. But her will was tense against -them all the time. - -All the while, they pursued her. She had never had such a -passionate love of the beautiful things about her. Sitting on -top of the tram-car, at evening, sometimes school was swept away -as she saw a magnificent sky settling down. And her breast, her -very hands, clamoured for the lovely flare of sunset. It was -poignant almost to agony, her reaching for it. She almost cried -aloud seeing the sundown so lovely. - -For she was held away. It was no matter how she said to -herself that school existed no more once she had left it. It -existed. It was within her like a dark weight, controlling her -movement. It was in vain the high-spirited, proud young girl -flung off the school and its association with her. She was Miss -Brangwen, she was Standard Five teacher, she had her most -important being in her work now. - -Constantly haunting her, like a darkness hovering over her -heart and threatening to swoop down over it at every moment, was -the sense that somehow, somehow she was brought down. Bitterly -she denied unto herself that she was really a schoolteacher. -Leave that to the Violet Harbys. She herself would stand clear -of the accusation. It was in vain she denied it. - -Within herself some recording hand seemed to point -mechanically to a negation. She was incapable of fulfilling her -task. She could never for a moment escape from the fatal weight -of the knowledge. - -And so she felt inferior to Violet Harby. Miss Harby was a -splendid teacher. She could keep order and inflict knowledge on -a class with remarkable efficiency. It was no good Ursula's -protesting to herself that she was infinitely, infinitely the -superior of Violet Harby. She knew that Violet Harby succeeded -where she failed, and this in a task which was almost a test of -her. She felt something all the time wearing upon her, wearing -her down. She went about in these first weeks trying to deny it, -to say she was free as ever. She tried not to feel at a -disadvantage before Miss Harby, tried to keep up the effect of -her own superiority. But a great weight was on her, which Violet -Harby could bear, and she herself could not. - -Though she did not give in, she never succeeded. Her class -was getting in worse condition, she knew herself less and less -secure in teaching it. Ought she to withdraw and go home again? -Ought she to say she had come to the wrong place, and so retire? -Her very life was at test. - -She went on doggedly, blindly, waiting for a crisis. Mr. -Harby had now begun to persecute her. Her dread and hatred of -him grew and loomed larger and larger. She was afraid he was -going to bully her and destroy her. He began to persecute her -because she could not keep her class in proper condition, -because her class was the weak link in the chain which made up -the school. - -One of the offences was that her class was noisy and -disturbed Mr. Harby, as he took Standard Seven at the other end -of the room. She was taking composition on a certain morning, -walking in among the scholars. Some of the boys had dirty ears -and necks, their clothing smelled unpleasantly, but she could -ignore it. She corrected the writing as she went. - -"When you say 'their fur is brown', how do you write -'their'?" she asked. - -There was a little pause; the boys were always jeeringly -backward in answering. They had begun to jeer at her authority -altogether. - -"Please, miss, t-h-e-i-r", spelled a lad, loudly, with a note -of mockery. - -At that moment Mr. Harby was passing. - -"Stand up, Hill!" he called, in a big voice. - -Everybody started. Ursula watched the boy. He was evidently -poor, and rather cunning. A stiff bit of hair stood straight off -his forehead, the rest fitted close to his meagre head. He was -pale and colourless. - -"Who told you to call out?" thundered Mr. Harby. - -The boy looked up and down, with a guilty air, and a cunning, -cynical reserve. - -"Please, sir, I was answering," he replied, with the same -humble insolence. - -"Go to my desk." - -The boy set off down the room, the big black jacket hanging -in dejected folds about him, his thin legs, rather knocked at -the knees, going already with the pauper's crawl, his feet in -their big boots scarcely lifted. Ursula watched him in his -crawling, slinking progress down the room. He was one of her -boys! When he got to the desk, he looked round, half furtively, -with a sort of cunning grin and a pathetic leer at the big boys -in Standard VII. Then, pitiable, pale, in his dejected garments, -he lounged under the menace of the headmaster's desk, with one -thin leg crooked at the knee and the foot struck out sideways -his hands in the low-hanging pockets of his man's jacket. - -Ursula tried to get her attention back to the class. The boy -gave her a little horror, and she was at the same time hot with -pity for him. She felt she wanted to scream. She was responsible -for the boy's punishment. Mr. Harby was looking at her -handwriting on the board. He turned to the class. - -"Pens down." - -The children put down their pens and looked up. - -"Fold arms." - -They pushed back their books and folded arms. - -Ursula, stuck among the back forms, could not extricate -herself. - -"What is your composition about?" asked the -headmaster. Every hand shot up. "The ----" stuttered -some voice in its eagerness to answer. - -"I wouldn't advise you to call out," said Mr. Harby. He would -have a pleasant voice, full and musical, but for the detestable -menace that always tailed in it. He stood unmoved, his eyes -twinkling under his bushy black eyebrows, watching the class. -There was something fascinating in him, as he stood, and again -she wanted to scream. She was all jarred, she did not know what -she felt. - -"Well, Alice?" he said. - -"The rabbit," piped a girl's voice. - -"A very easy subject for Standard Five." - -Ursula felt a slight shame of incompetence. She was exposed -before the class. And she was tormented by the contradictoriness -of everything. Mr. Harby stood so strong, and so male, with his -black brows and clear forehead, the heavy jaw, the big, -overhanging moustache: such a man, with strength and male power, -and a certain blind, native beauty. She might have liked him as -a man. And here he stood in some other capacity, bullying over -such a trifle as a boy's speaking out without permission. Yet he -was not a little, fussy man. He seemed to have some cruel, -stubborn, evil spirit, he was imprisoned in a task too small and -petty for him, which yet, in a servile acquiescence, he would -fulfil, because he had to earn his living. He had no finer -control over himself, only this blind, dogged, wholesale will. -He would keep the job going, since he must. And this job was to -make the children spell the word "caution" correctly, and put a -capital letter after a full-stop. So at this he hammered with -his suppressed hatred, always suppressing himself, till he was -beside himself. Ursula suffered, bitterly as he stood, short and -handsome and powerful, teaching her class. It seemed such a -miserable thing for him to be doing. He had a decent, powerful, -rude soul. What did he care about the composition on "The -Rabbit"? Yet his will kept him there before the class, threshing -the trivial subject. It was habit with him now, to be so little -and vulgar, out of place. She saw the shamefulness of his -position, felt the fettered wickedness in him which would blaze -out into evil rage in the long run, so that he was like a -persistent, strong creature tethered. It was really intolerable. -The jarring was torture to her. She looked over the silent, -attentive class that seemed to have crystallized into order and -rigid, neutral form. This he had it in his power to do, to -crystallize the children into hard, mute fragments, fixed under -his will: his brute will, which fixed them by sheer force. - -She too must learn to subdue them to her will: she must. For -it was her duty, since the school was such. He had crystallized -the class into order. But to see him, a strong, powerful man, -using all his power for such a purpose, seemed almost horrible. -There was something hideous about it. The strange, genial light -in his eye was really vicious, and ugly, his smile was one of -torture. He could not be impersonal. He could not have a clear, -pure purpose, he could only exercise his own brute will. He did -not believe in the least in the education he kept inflicting -year after year upon the children. So he must bully, only bully, -even while it tortured his strong, wholesome nature with shame -like a spur always galling. He was so blind and ugly and out of -place. Ursula could not bear it as he stood there. The whole -situation was wrong and ugly. - -The lesson was finished, Mr. Harby went away. At the far end -of the room she heard the whistle and the thud of the cane. Her -heart stood still within her. She could not bear it, no, she -could not bear it when the boy was beaten. It made her sick. She -felt that she must go out of this school, this torture-place. -And she hated the schoolmaster, thoroughly and finally. The -brute, had he no shame? He should never be allowed to continue -the atrocity of this bullying cruelty. Then Hill came crawling -back, blubbering piteously. There was something desolate about -this blubbering that nearly broke her heart. For after all, if -she had kept her class in proper discipline, this would never -have happened, Hill would never have called out and been -caned. - -She began the arithmetic lesson. But she was distracted. The -boy Hill sat away on the back desk, huddled up, blubbering and -sucking his hand. It was a long time. She dared not go near, nor -speak to him. She felt ashamed before him. And she felt she -could not forgive the boy for being the huddled, blubbering -object, all wet and snivelled, which he was. - -She went on correcting the sums. But there were too many -children. She could not get round the class. And Hill was on her -conscience. At last he had stopped crying, and sat bunched over -his hands, playing quietly. Then he looked up at her. His face -was dirty with tears, his eyes had a curious washed look, like -the sky after rain, a sort of wanness. He bore no malice. He had -already forgotten, and was waiting to be restored to the normal -position. - -"Go on with your work, Hill," she said. - -The children were playing over their arithmetic, and, she -knew, cheating thoroughly. She wrote another sum on the -blackboard. She could not get round the class. She went again to -the front to watch. Some were ready. Some were not. What was she -to do? - -At last it was time for recreation. She gave the order to -cease working, and in some way or other got her class out of the -room. Then she faced the disorderly litter of blotted, -uncorrected books, of broken rulers and chewed pens. And her -heart sank in sickness. The misery was getting deeper. - -The trouble went on and on, day after day. She had always -piles of books to mark, myriads of errors to correct, a -heart-wearying task that she loathed. And the work got worse and -worse. When she tried to flatter herself that the composition -grew more alive, more interesting, she had to see that the -handwriting grew more and more slovenly, the books more filthy -and disgraceful. She tried what she could, but it was of no use. -But she was not going to take it seriously. Why should she? Why -should she say to herself, that it mattered, if she failed to -teach a class to write perfectly neatly? Why should she take the -blame unto herself? - -Pay day came, and she received four pounds two shillings and -one penny. She was very proud that day. She had never had so -much money before. And she had earned it all herself. She sat on -the top of the tram-car fingering the gold and fearing she might -lose it. She felt so established and strong, because of it. And -when she got home she said to her mother: - -"It is pay day to-day, mother." - -"Ay," said her mother, coolly. - -Then Ursula put down fifty shillings on the table. - -"That is my board," she said. - -"Ay," said her mother, letting it lie. - -Ursula was hurt. Yet she had paid her scot. She was free. She -paid for what she had. There remained moreover thirty-two -shillings of her own. She would not spend any, she who was -naturally a spendthrift, because she could not bear to damage -her fine gold. - -She had a standing ground now apart from her parents. She was -something else besides the mere daughter of William and Anna -Brangwen. She was independent. She earned her own living. She -was an important member of the working community. She was sure -that fifty shillings a month quite paid for her keep. If her -mother received fifty shillings a month for each of the -children, she would have twenty pounds a month and no clothes to -provide. Very well then. - -Ursula was independent of her parents. She now adhered -elsewhere. Now, the 'Board of Education' was a phrase that rang -significant to her, and she felt Whitehall far beyond her as her -ultimate home. In the government, she knew which minister had -supreme control over Education, and it seemed to her that, in -some way, he was connected with her, as her father was connected -with her. - -She had another self, another responsibility. She was no -longer Ursula Brangwen, daughter of William Brangwen. She was -also Standard Five teacher in St. Philip's School. And it was a -case now of being Standard Five teacher, and nothing else. For -she could not escape. - -Neither could she succeed. That was her horror. As the weeks -passed on, there was no Ursula Brangwen, free and jolly. There -was only a girl of that name obsessed by the fact that she could -not manage her class of children. At week-ends there came days -of passionate reaction, when she went mad with the taste of -liberty, when merely to be free in the morning, to sit down at -her embroidery and stitch the coloured silks was a passion of -delight. For the prison house was always awaiting her! This was -only a respite, as her chained heart knew well. So that she -seized hold of the swift hours of the week-end, and wrung the -last drop of sweetness out of them, in a little, cruel -frenzy. - -She did not tell anybody how this state was a torture to her. -She did not confide, either to Gudrun or to her parents, how -horrible she found it to be a school-teacher. But when Sunday -night came, and she felt the Monday morning at hand, she was -strung up tight with dreadful anticipation, because the strain -and the torture was near again. - -She did not believe that she could ever teach that great, -brutish class, in that brutal school: ever, ever. And yet, if -she failed, she must in some way go under. She must admit that -the man's world was too strong for her, she could not take her -place in it; she must go down before Mr. Harby. And all her life -henceforth, she must go on, never having freed herself of the -man's world, never having achieved the freedom of the great -world of responsible work. Maggie had taken her place there, she -had even stood level with Mr. Harby and got free of him: and her -soul was always wandering in far-off valleys and glades of -poetry. Maggie was free. Yet there was something like subjection -in Maggie's very freedom. Mr. Harby, the man, disliked the -reserved woman, Maggie. Mr. Harby, the schoolmaster, respected -his teacher, Miss Schofield. - -For the present, however, Ursula only envied and admired -Maggie. She herself had still to get where Maggie had got. She -had still to make her footing. She had taken up a position on -Mr. Harby's ground, and she must keep it. For he was now -beginning a regular attack on her, to drive her away out of his -school. She could not keep order. Her class was a turbulent -crowd, and the weak spot in the school's work. Therefore she -must go, and someone more useful must come in her place, someone -who could keep discipline. - -The headmaster had worked himself into an obsession of fury -against her. He only wanted her gone. She had come, she had got -worse as the weeks went on, she was absolutely no good. His -system, which was his very life in school, the outcome of his -bodily movement, was attacked and threatened at the point where -Ursula was included. She was the danger that threatened his body -with a blow, a fall. And blindly, thoroughly, moving from strong -instinct of opposition, he set to work to expel her. - -When he punished one of her children as he had punished the -boy Hill, for an offence against himself, he made the -punishment extra heavy with the significance that the extra -stroke came in because of the weak teacher who allowed all these -things to be. When he punished for an offence against her, he -punished lightly, as if offences against her were not -significant. Which all the children knew, and they behaved -accordingly. - -Every now and again Mr. Harby would swoop down to examine -exercise books. For a whole hour, he would be going round the -class, taking book after book, comparing page after page, whilst -Ursula stood aside for all the remarks and fault-finding to be -pointed at her through the scholars. It was true, since she had -come, the composition books had grown more and more untidy, -disorderly, filthy. Mr. Harby pointed to the pages done before -her regime, and to those done after, and fell into a passion of -rage. Many children he sent out to the front with their books. -And after he had thoroughly gone through the silent and -quivering class he caned the worst offenders well, in front of -the others, thundering in real passion of anger and chagrin. - -"Such a condition in a class, I can't believe it! It is -simply disgraceful! I can't think how you have been let to get -like it! Every Monday morning I shall come down and examine -these books. So don't think that because there is nobody paying -any attention to you, that you are free to unlearn everything -you ever learned, and go back till you are not fit for Standard -Three. I shall examine all books every Monday----" - -Then in a rage, he went away with his cane, leaving Ursula to -confront a pale, quivering class, whose childish faces were shut -in blank resentment, fear, and bitterness, whose souls were full -of anger and contempt for her rather than of the master, whose -eyes looked at her with the cold, inhuman accusation of -children. And she could hardly make mechanical words to speak to -them. When she gave an order they obeyed with an insolent -off-handedness, as if to say: "As for you, do you think we would -obey you, but for the master?" She sent the blubbering, -caned boys to their seats, knowing that they too jeered at her -and her authority, holding her weakness responsible for what -punishment had overtaken them. And she knew the whole position, -so that even her horror of physical beating and suffering sank -to a deeper pain, and became a moral judgment upon her, worse -than any hurt. - -She must, during the next week, watch over her books, and -punish any fault. Her soul decided it coldly. Her personal -desire was dead for that day at least. She must have nothing -more of herself in school. She was to be Standard Five teacher -only. That was her duty. In school, she was nothing but Standard -Five teacher. Ursula Brangwen must be excluded. - -So that, pale, shut, at last distant and impersonal, she saw -no longer the child, how his eyes danced, or how he had a queer -little soul that could not be bothered with shaping handwriting -so long as he dashed down what he thought. She saw no children, -only the task that was to be done. And keeping her eyes there, -on the task, and not on the child, she was impersonal enough to -punish where she could otherwise only have sympathized, -understood, and condoned, to approve where she would have been -merely uninterested before. But her interest had no place any -more. - -It was agony to the impulsive, bright girl of seventeen to -become distant and official, having no personal relationship -with the children. For a few days, after the agony of the -Monday, she succeeded, and had some success with her class. But -it was a state not natural to her, and she began to relax. - -Then came another infliction. There were not enough pens to -go round the class. She sent to Mr. Harby for more. He came in -person. - -"Not enough pens, Miss Brangwen?" he said, with the smile and -calm of exceeding rage against her. - -"No, we are six short," she said, quaking. - -"Oh, how is that?" he said, menacingly. Then, looking over -the class, he asked: - -"How many are there here to-day?" - -"Fifty-two," said Ursula, but he did not take any notice, -counting for himself. - -"Fifty-two," he said. "And how many pens are there, -Staples?" - -Ursula was now silent. He would not heed her if she answered, -since he had addressed the monitor. - -"That's a very curious thing," said Mr. Harby, looking over -the silent class with a slight grin of fury. All the childish -faces looked up at him blank and exposed. - -"A few days ago there were sixty pens for this -class--now there are forty-eight. What is forty-eight from -sixty, Williams?" There was a sinister suspense in the question. -A thin, ferret-faced boy in a sailor suit started up -exaggeratedly. - -"Please, sir!" he said. Then a slow, sly grin came over his -face. He did not know. There was a tense silence. The boy -dropped his head. Then he looked up again, a little cunning -triumph in his eyes. "Twelve," he said. - -"I would advise you to attend," said the headmaster -dangerously. The boy sat down. - -"Forty-eight from sixty is twelve: so there are twelve pens -to account for. Have you looked for them, Staples?" - -"Yes, sir." - -"Then look again." - -The scene dragged on. Two pens were found: ten were missing. -Then the storm burst. - -"Am I to have you thieving, besides your dirt and bad work -and bad behaviour?" the headmaster began. "Not content with -being the worst-behaved and dirtiest class in the school, you -are thieves into the bargain, are you? It is a very funny thing! -Pens don't melt into the air: pens are not in the habit of -mizzling away into nothing. What has become of them then? They -must be somewhere. What has become of them? For they must be -found, and found by Standard Five. They were lost by Standard -Five, and they must be found." - -Ursula stood and listened, her heart hard and cold. She was -so much upset, that she felt almost mad. Something in her -tempted her to turn on the headmaster and tell him to stop, -about the miserable pens. But she did not. She could not. - -After every session, morning and evening, she had the pens -counted. Still they were missing. And pencils and india-rubbers -disappeared. She kept the class staying behind, till the things -were found. But as soon as Mr. Harby had gone out of the room, -the boys began to jump about and shout, and at last they bolted -in a body from the school. - -This was drawing near a crisis. She could not tell Mr. Harby -because, while he would punish the class, he would make her the -cause of the punishment, and her class would pay her back with -disobedience and derision. Already there was a deadly hostility -grown up between her and the children. After keeping in the -class, at evening, to finish some work, she would find boys -dodging behind her, calling after her: "Brangwen, -Brangwen--Proud-acre." - -When she went into Ilkeston of a Saturday morning with -Gudrun, she heard again the voices yelling after her: - -"Brangwen, Brangwen." - -She pretended to take no notice, but she coloured with shame -at being held up to derision in the public street. She, Ursula -Brangwen of Cossethay, could not escape from the Standard Five -teacher which she was. In vain she went out to buy ribbon for -her hat. They called after her, the boys she tried to teach. - -And one evening, as she went from the edge of the town into -the country, stones came flying at her. Then the passion of -shame and anger surpassed her. She walked on unheeding, beside -herself. Because of the darkness she could not see who were -those that threw. But she did not want to know. - -Only in her soul a change took place. Never more, and never -more would she give herself as individual to her class. Never -would she, Ursula Brangwen, the girl she was, the person she -was, come into contact with those boys. She would be Standard -Five teacher, as far away personally from her class as if she -had never set foot in St. Philip's school. She would just -obliterate them all, and keep herself apart, take them as -scholars only. - -So her face grew more and more shut, and over her flayed, -exposed soul of a young girl who had gone open and warm to give -herself to the children, there set a hard, insentient thing, -that worked mechanically according to a system imposed. - -It seemed she scarcely saw her class the next day. She could -only feel her will, and what she would have of this class which -she must grasp into subjection. It was no good, any more, to -appeal, to play upon the better feelings of the class. Her -swift-working soul realized this. - -She, as teacher, must bring them all as scholars, into -subjection. And this she was going to do. All else she would -forsake. She had become hard and impersonal, almost avengeful on -herself as well as on them, since the stone throwing. She did -not want to be a person, to be herself any more, after such -humiliation. She would assert herself for mastery, be only -teacher. She was set now. She was going to fight and subdue. - -She knew by now her enemies in the class. The one she hated -most was Williams. He was a sort of defective, not bad enough to -be so classed. He could read with fluency, and had plenty of -cunning intelligence. But he could not keep still. And he had a -kind of sickness very repulsive to a sensitive girl, something -cunning and etiolated and degenerate. Once he had thrown an -ink-well at her, in one of his mad little rages. Twice he had -run home out of class. He was a well-known character. - -And he grinned up his sleeve at this girl-teacher, sometimes -hanging round her to fawn on her. But this made her dislike him -more. He had a kind of leech-like power. - -From one of the children she took a supple cane, and this she -determined to use when real occasion came. One morning, at -composition, she said to the boy Williams: - -"Why have you made this blot?" - -"Please, miss, it fell off my pen," he whined out, in the -mocking voice that he was so clever in using. The boys near -snorted with laughter. For Williams was an actor, he could -tickle the feelings of his hearers subtly. Particularly he could -tickle the children with him into ridiculing his teacher, or -indeed, any authority of which he was not afraid. He had that -peculiar gaol instinct. - -"Then you must stay in and finish another page of -composition," said the teacher. - -This was against her usual sense of justice, and the boy -resented it derisively. At twelve o'clock she caught him -slinking out. - -"Williams, sit down," she said. - -And there she sat, and there he sat, alone, opposite to her, -on the back desk, looking up at her with his furtive eyes every -minute. - -"Please, miss, I've got to go an errand," he called out -insolently. - -"Bring me your book," said Ursula. - -The boy came out, flapping his book along the desks. He had -not written a line. - -"Go back and do the writing you have to do," said Ursula. And -she sat at her desk, trying to correct books. She was trembling -and upset. And for an hour the miserable boy writhed and grinned -in his seat. At the end of that time he had done five lines. - -"As it is so late now," said Ursula, "you will finish the -rest this evening." - -The boy kicked his way insolently down the passage. - -The afternoon came again. Williams was there, glancing at -her, and her heart beat thick, for she knew it was a fight -between them. She watched him. - -During the geography lesson, as she was pointing to the map -with her cane, the boy continually ducked his whitish head under -the desk, and attracted the attention of other boys. - -"Williams," she said, gathering her courage, for it was -critical now to speak to him, "what are you doing?" - -He lifted his face, the sore-rimmed eyes half smiling. There -was something intrinsically indecent about him. Ursula shrank -away. - -"Nothing," he replied, feeling a triumph. - -"What are you doing?" she repeated, her heart-beat -suffocating her. - -"Nothing," replied the boy, insolently, aggrieved, comic. - -"If I speak to you again, you must go down to Mr. Harby," she -said. - -But this boy was a match even for Mr. Harby. He was so -persistent, so cringing, and flexible, he howled so when he was -hurt, that the master hated more the teacher who sent him than -he hated the boy himself. For of the boy he was sick of the -sight. Which Williams knew. He grinned visibly. - -Ursula turned to the map again, to go on with the geography -lesson. But there was a little ferment in the class. Williams' -spirit infected them all. She heard a scuffle, and then she -trembled inwardly. If they all turned on her this time, she was -beaten. - -"Please, miss----" called a voice in distress. - -She turned round. One of the boys she liked was ruefully -holding out a torn celluloid collar. She heard the complaint, -feeling futile. - -"Go in front, Wright," she said. - -She was trembling in every fibre. A big, sullen boy, not bad -but very difficult, slouched out to the front. She went on with -the lesson, aware that Williams was making faces at Wright, and -that Wright was grinning behind her. She was afraid. She turned -to the map again. And she was afraid. - -"Please, miss, Williams----" came a sharp cry, and -a boy on the back row was standing up, with drawn, pained brows, -half a mocking grin on his pain, half real resentment against -Williams--"Please, miss, he's nipped me,"--and he -rubbed his leg ruefully. - -"Come in front, Williams," she said. - -The rat-like boy sat with his pale smile and did not -move. - -"Come in front," she repeated, definite now. - -"I shan't," he cried, snarling, rat-like, grinning. Something -went click in Ursula's soul. Her face and eyes set, she went -through the class straight. The boy cowered before her -glowering, fixed eyes. But she advanced on him, seized him by -the arm, and dragged him from his seat. He clung to the form. It -was the battle between him and her. Her instinct had suddenly -become calm and quick. She jerked him from his grip, and dragged -him, struggling and kicking, to the front. He kicked her several -times, and clung to the forms as he passed, but she went on. The -class was on its feet in excitement. She saw it, and made no -move. - -She knew if she let go the boy he would dash to the door. -Already he had run home once out of her class. So she snatched -her cane from the desk, and brought it down on him. He was -writhing and kicking. She saw his face beneath her, white, with -eyes like the eyes of a fish, stony, yet full of hate and -horrible fear. And she loathed him, the hideous writhing thing -that was nearly too much for her. In horror lest he should -overcome her, and yet at the heart quite calm, she brought down -the cane again and again, whilst he struggled making -inarticulate noises, and lunging vicious kicks at her. With one -hand she managed to hold him, and now and then the cane came -down on him. He writhed, like a mad thing. But the pain of the -strokes cut through his writhing, vicious, coward's courage, bit -deeper, till at last, with a long whimper that became a yell, he -went limp. She let him go, and he rushed at her, his teeth and -eyes glinting. There was a second of agonized terror in her -heart: he was a beast thing. Then she caught him, and the cane -came down on him. A few times, madly, in a frenzy, he lunged and -writhed, to kick her. But again the cane broke him, he sank with -a howling yell on the floor, and like a beaten beast lay there -yelling. - -Mr. Harby had rushed up towards the end of this -performance. - -"What's the matter?" he roared. - -Ursula felt as if something were going to break in her. - -"I've thrashed him," she said, her breast heaving, forcing -out the words on the last breath. The headmaster stood choked -with rage, helpless. She looked at the writhing, howling figure -on the floor. - -"Get up," she said. The thing writhed away from her. She took -a step forward. She had realized the presence of the headmaster -for one second, and then she was oblivious of it again. - -"Get up," she said. And with a little dart the boy was on his -feet. His yelling dropped to a mad blubber. He had been in a -frenzy. - -"Go and stand by the radiator," she said. - -As if mechanically, blubbering, he went. - -The headmaster stood robbed of movement or speech. His face -was yellow, his hands twitched convulsively. But Ursula stood -stiff not far from him. Nothing could touch her now: she was -beyond Mr. Harby. She was as if violated to death. - -The headmaster muttered something, turned, and went down the -room, whence, from the far end, he was heard roaring in a mad -rage at his own class. - -The boy blubbered wildly by the radiator. Ursula looked at -the class. There were fifty pale, still faces watching her, a -hundred round eyes fixed on her in an attentive, expressionless -stare. - -"Give out the history readers," she said to the monitors. - -There was dead silence. As she stood there, she could hear -again the ticking of the clock, and the chock of piles of books -taken out of the low cupboard. Then came the faint flap of books -on the desks. The children passed in silence, their hands -working in unison. They were no longer a pack, but each one -separated into a silent, closed thing. - -"Take page 125, and read that chapter," said Ursula. - -There was a click of many books opened. The children found -the page, and bent their heads obediently to read. And they -read, mechanically. - -Ursula, who was trembling violently, went and sat in her high -chair. The blubbering of the boy continued. The strident voice -of Mr. Brunt, the roar of Mr. Harby, came muffled through the -glass partition. And now and then a pair of eyes rose from the -reading-book, rested on her a moment, watchful, as if -calculating impersonally, then sank again. - -She sat still without moving, her eyes watching the class, -unseeing. She was quite still, and weak. She felt that she could -not raise her hand from the desk. If she sat there for ever, she -felt she could not move again, nor utter a command. It was a -quarter-past four. She almost dreaded the closing of the school, -when she would be alone. - -The class began to recover its ease, the tension relaxed. -Williams was still crying. Mr. Brunt was giving orders for the -closing of the lesson. Ursula got down. - -"Take your place, Williams," she said. - -He dragged his feet across the room, wiping his face on his -sleeve. As he sat down, he glanced at her furtively, his eyes -still redder. Now he looked like some beaten rat. - -At last the children were gone. Mr. Harby trod by heavily, -without looking her way, or speaking. Mr. Brunt hesitated as she -was locking her cupboard. - -"If you settle Clarke and Letts in the same way, Miss -Brangwen, you'll be all right," he said, his blue eyes glancing -down in a strange fellowship, his long nose pointing at her. - -"Shall I?" she laughed nervously. She did not want anybody to -talk to her. - -As she went along the street, clattering on the granite -pavement, she was aware of boys dodging behind her. Something -struck her hand that was carrying her bag, bruising her. As it -rolled away she saw that it was a potato. Her hand was hurt, but -she gave no sign. Soon she would take the tram. - -She was afraid, and strange. It was to her quite strange and -ugly, like some dream where she was degraded. She would have -died rather than admit it to anybody. She could not look at her -swollen hand. Something had broken in her; she had passed a -crisis. Williams was beaten, but at a cost. - -Feeling too much upset to go home, she rode a little farther -into the town, and got down from the tram at a small tea-shop. -There, in the dark little place behind the shop, she drank her -tea and ate bread-and-butter. She did not taste anything. The -taking of tea was just a mechanical action, to cover over her -existence. There she sat in the dark, obscure little place, -without knowing. Only unconsciously she nursed the back of her -hand, which was bruised. - -When finally she took her way home, it was sunset red across -the west. She did not know why she was going home. There was -nothing for her there. She had, true, only to pretend to be -normal. There was nobody she could speak to, nowhere to go for -escape. But she must keep on, under this red sunset, alone, -knowing the horror in humanity, that would destroy her, and with -which she was at war. Yet it had to be so. - -In the morning again she must go to school. She got up and -went without murmuring even to herself. She was in the hands of -some bigger, stronger, coarser will. - -School was fairly quiet. But she could feel the class -watching her, ready to spring on her. Her instinct was aware of -the class instinct to catch her if she were weak. But she kept -cold and was guarded. - -Williams was absent from school. In the middle of the morning -there was a knock at the door: someone wanted the headmaster. -Mr. Harby went out, heavily, angrily, nervously. He was afraid -of irate parents. After a moment in the passage, he came again -into school. - -"Sturgess," he called to one of his larger boys. "Stand in -front of the class and write down the name of anyone who speaks. -Will you come this way, Miss Brangwen." - -He seemed vindictively to seize upon her. - -Ursula followed him, and found in the lobby a thin woman with -a whitish skin, not ill-dressed in a grey costume and a purple -hat. - -"I called about Vernon," said the woman, speaking in a -refined accent. There was about the woman altogether an -appearance of refinement and of cleanliness, curiously -contradicted by her half beggar's deportment, and a sense of her -being unpleasant to touch, like something going bad inside. She -was neither a lady nor an ordinary working man's wife, but a -creature separate from society. By her dress she was not -poor. - -Ursula knew at once that she was Williams' mother, and that -he was Vernon. She remembered that he was always clean, and -well-dressed, in a sailor suit. And he had this same peculiar, -half transparent unwholesomeness, rather like a corpse. - -"I wasn't able to send him to school to-day," continued the -woman, with a false grace of manner. "He came home last night -so ill--he was violently sick--I thought I -should have to send for the doctor.--You know he has a weak -heart." - -The woman looked at Ursula with her pale, dead eyes. - -"No," replied the girl, "I did not know." - -She stood still with repulsion and uncertainty. Mr. Harby, -large and male, with his overhanging moustache, stood by with a -slight, ugly smile at the corner of his eyes. The woman went on -insidiously, not quite human: - -"Oh, yes, he has had heart disease ever since he was a child. -That is why he isn't very regular at school. And it is very bad -to beat him. He was awfully ill this morning--I shall call -on the doctor as I go back." - -"Who is staying with him now, then?" put in the deep voice of -the schoolmaster, cunningly. - -"Oh, I left him with a woman who comes in to help -me--and who understands him. But I shall call in the doctor -on my way home." - -Ursula stood still. She felt vague threats in all this. But -the woman was so utterly strange to her, that she did not -understand. - -"He told me he had been beaten," continued the woman, "and -when I undressed him to put him to bed, his body was covered -with marks--I could show them to any doctor." - -Mr. Harby looked at Ursula to answer. She began to -understand. The woman was threatening to take out a charge of -assault on her son against her. Perhaps she wanted money. - -"I caned him," she said. "He was so much trouble." - -"I'm sorry if he was troublesome," said the woman, "but he -must have been shamefully beaten. I could show the marks to any -doctor. I'm sure it isn't allowed, if it was known." - -"I caned him while he kept kicking me," said Ursula, getting -angry because she was half excusing herself, Mr. Harby standing -there with the twinkle at the side of his eyes, enjoying the -dilemma of the two women. - -"I'm sure I'm sorry if he behaved badly," said the woman. -"But I can't think he deserved beating as he has been. I can't -send him to school, and really can't afford to pay the -doctor.--Is it allowed for the teachers to beat the -children like that, Mr. Harby?" - -The headmaster refused to answer. Ursula loathed herself, and -loathed Mr. Harby with his twinkling cunning and malice on the -occasion. The other miserable woman watched her chance. - -"It is an expense to me, and I have a great struggle to keep -my boy decent." - -Ursula still would not answer. She looked out at the asphalt -yard, where a dirty rag of paper was blowing. - -"And it isn't allowed to beat a child like that, I am sure, -especially when he is delicate." - -Ursula stared with a set face on the yard, as if she did not -hear. She loathed all this, and had ceased to feel or to -exist. - -"Though I know he is troublesome sometimes--but I think -it was too much. His body is covered with marks." - -Mr. Harby stood sturdy and unmoved, waiting now to have done, -with the twinkling, tiny wrinkles of an ironical smile at the -corners of his eyes. He felt himself master of the -situation. - -"And he was violently sick. I couldn't possibly send him to -school to-day. He couldn't keep his head up." - -Yet she had no answer. - -"You will understand, sir, why he is absent," she said, -turning to Mr. Harby. - -"Oh, yes," he said, rough and off-hand. Ursula detested him -for his male triumph. And she loathed the woman. She loathed -everything. - -"You will try to have it remembered, sir, that he has a weak -heart. He is so sick after these things." - -"Yes," said the headmaster, "I'll see about it." - -"I know he is troublesome," the woman only addressed herself -to the male now--"but if you could have him punished -without beating--he is really delicate." - -Ursula was beginning to feel upset. Harby stood in rather -superb mastery, the woman cringing to him to tickle him as one -tickles trout. - -"I had come to explain why he was away this morning, sir. You -will understand." - -She held out her hand. Harby took it and let it go, surprised -and angry. - -"Good morning," she said, and she gave her gloved, seedy hand -to Ursula. She was not ill-looking, and had a curious -insinuating way, very distasteful yet effective. - -"Good morning, Mr. Harby, and thank you." - -The figure in the grey costume and the purple hat was going -across the school yard with a curious lingering walk. Ursula -felt a strange pity for her, and revulsion from her. She -shuddered. She went into the school again. - -The next morning Williams turned up, looking paler than ever, -very neat and nicely dressed in his sailor blouse. He glanced at -Ursula with a half-smile: cunning, subdued, ready to do as she -told him. There was something about him that made her shiver. -She loathed the idea of having laid hands on him. His elder -brother was standing outside the gate at playtime, a youth of -about fifteen, tall and thin and pale. He raised his hat, almost -like a gentleman. But there was something subdued, insidious -about him too. - -"Who is it?" said Ursula. - -"It's the big Williams," said Violet Harby roughly. -"She was here yesterday, wasn't she?" - -"Yes." - -"It's no good her coming--her character's not good -enough for her to make any trouble." - -Ursula shrank from the brutality and the scandal. But it had -some vague, horrid fascination. How sordid everything seemed! -She felt sorry for the queer woman with the lingering walk, and -those queer, insidious boys. The Williams in her class was wrong -somewhere. How nasty it was altogether. - -So the battle went on till her heart was sick. She had -several more boys to subjugate before she could establish -herself. And Mr. Harby hated her almost as if she were a man. -She knew now that nothing but a thrashing would settle some of -the big louts who wanted to play cat and mouse with her. Mr. -Harby would not give them the thrashing if he could help it. For -he hated the teacher, the stuck-up, insolent high-school miss -with her independence. - -"Now, Wright, what have you done this time?" he would say -genially to the boy who was sent to him from Standard Five for -punishment. And he left the lad standing, lounging, wasting his -time. - -So that Ursula would appeal no more to the headmaster, but, -when she was driven wild, she seized her cane, and slashed the -boy who was insolent to her, over head and ears and hands. And -at length they were afraid of her, she had them in order. - -But she had paid a great price out of her own soul, to do -this. It seemed as if a great flame had gone through her and -burnt her sensitive tissue. She who shrank from the thought of -physical suffering in any form, had been forced to fight and -beat with a cane and rouse all her instincts to hurt. And -afterwards she had been forced to endure the sound of their -blubbering and desolation, when she had broken them to -order. - -Oh, and sometimes she felt as if she would go mad. What did -it matter, what did it matter if their books were dirty and they -did not obey? She would rather, in reality, that they disobeyed -the whole rules of the school, than that they should be beaten, -broken, reduced to this crying, hopeless state. She would rather -bear all their insults and insolences a thousand times than -reduce herself and them to this. Bitterly she repented having -got beside herself, and having tackled the boy she had -beaten. - -Yet it had to be so. She did not want to do it. Yet she had -to. Oh, why, why had she leagued herself to this evil system -where she must brutalize herself to live? Why had she become a -school-teacher, why, why? - -The children had forced her to the beatings. No, she did not -pity them. She had come to them full of kindness and love, and -they would have torn her to pieces. They chose Mr. Harby. Well -then, they must know her as well as Mr. Harby, they must first -be subjugate to her. For she was not going to be made nought, -no, neither by them, nor by Mr. Harby, nor by all the system -around her. She was not going to be put down, prevented from -standing free. It was not to be said of her, she could not take -her place and carry out her task. She would fight and hold her -place in this state also, in the world of work and man's -convention. - -She was isolated now from the life of her childhood, a -foreigner in a new life, of work and mechanical consideration. -She and Maggie, in their dinner-hours and their occasional teas -at the little restaurant, discussed life and ideas. Maggie was a -great suffragette, trusting in the vote. To Ursula the vote was -never a reality. She had within her the strange, passionate -knowledge of religion and living far transcending the limits of -the automatic system that contained the vote. But her -fundamental, organic knowledge had as yet to take form and rise -to utterance. For her, as for Maggie, the liberty of woman meant -something real and deep. She felt that somewhere, in something, -she was not free. And she wanted to be. She was in revolt. For -once she were free she could get somewhere. Ah, the wonderful, -real somewhere that was beyond her, the somewhere that she felt -deep, deep inside her. - -In coming out and earning her own living she had made a -strong, cruel move towards freeing herself. But having more -freedom she only became more profoundly aware of the big want. -She wanted so many things. She wanted to read great, beautiful -books, and be rich with them; she wanted to see beautiful -things, and have the joy of them for ever; she wanted to know -big, free people; and there remained always the want she could -put no name to. - -It was so difficult. There were so many things, so much to -meet and surpass. And one never knew where one was going. It was -a blind fight. She had suffered bitterly in this school of St. -Philip's. She was like a young filly that has been broken in to -the shafts, and has lost its freedom. And now she was suffering -bitterly from the agony of the shafts. The agony, the galling, -the ignominy of her breaking in. This wore into her soul. But -she would never submit. To shafts like these she would never -submit for long. But she would know them. She would serve them -that she might destroy them. - -She and Maggie went to all kinds of places together, to big -suffrage meetings in Nottingham, to concerts, to theatres, to -exhibitions of pictures. Ursula saved her money and bought a -bicycle, and the two girls rode to Lincoln, to Southwell, and -into Derbyshire. They had an endless wealth of things to talk -about. And it was a great joy, finding, discovering. - -But Ursula never told about Winifred Inger. That was a sort -of secret side-show to her life, never to be opened. She did not -even think of it. It was the closed door she had not the -strength to open. - -Once she was broken in to her teaching, Ursula began -gradually to have a new life of her own again. She was going to -college in eighteen months' time. Then she would take her -degree, and she would--ah, she would perhaps be a big -woman, and lead a movement. Who knows?--At any rate she -would go to college in eighteen months' time. All that mattered -now was work, work. - -And till college, she must go on with this teaching in St. -Philip's School, which was always destroying her, but which she -could now manage, without spoiling all her life. She would -submit to it for a time, since the time had a definite -limit. - -The class-teaching itself at last became almost mechanical. -It was a strain on her, an exhausting wearying strain, always -unnatural. But there was a certain amount of pleasure in the -sheer oblivion of teaching, so much work to do, so many children -to see after, so much to be done, that one's self was forgotten. -When the work had become like habit to her, and her individual -soul was left out, had its growth elsewhere, then she could be -almost happy. - -Her real, individual self drew together and became more -coherent during these two years of teaching, during the struggle -against the odds of class teaching. It was always a prison to -her, the school. But it was a prison where her wild, chaotic -soul became hard and independent. When she was well enough and -not tired, then she did not hate the teaching. She enjoyed -getting into the swing of work of a morning, putting forth all -her strength, making the thing go. It was for her a strenuous -form of exercise. And her soul was left to rest, it had the time -of torpor in which to gather itself together in strength again. -But the teaching hours were too long, the tasks too heavy, and -the disciplinary condition of the school too unnatural for her. -She was worn very thin and quivering. - -She came to school in the morning seeing the hawthorn flowers -wet, the little, rosy grains swimming in a bowl of dew. The -larks quivered their song up into the new sunshine, and the -country was so glad. It was a violation to plunge into the dust -and greyness of the town. - -So that she stood before her class unwilling to give herself -up to the activity of teaching, to turn her energy, that longed -for the country and for joy of early summer, into the dominating -of fifty children and the transferring to them some morsels of -arithmetic. There was a little absentness about her. She could -not force herself into forgetfulness. A jar of buttercups and -fool's-parsley in the window-bottom kept her away in the -meadows, where in the lush grass the moon-daisies were -half-submerged, and a spray of pink ragged robin. Yet before her -were faces of fifty children. They were almost like big daisies -in a dimness of the grass. - -A brightness was on her face, a little unreality in her -teaching. She could not quite see her children. She was -struggling between two worlds, her own world of young summer and -flowers, and this other world of work. And the glimmer of her -own sunlight was between her and her class. - -Then the morning passed with a strange far-awayness and -quietness. Dinner-time came, when she and Maggie ate joyously, -with all the windows open. And then they went out into St. -Philip's churchyard, where was a shadowy corner under red -hawthorn trees. And there they talked and read Shelley or -Browning or some work about "Woman and Labour". - -And when she went back to school, Ursula lived still in the -shadowy corner of the graveyard, where pink-red petals lay -scattered from the hawthorn tree, like myriad tiny shells on a -beach, and a church bell sometimes rang sonorously, and -sometimes a bird called out, whilst Maggie's voice went on low -and sweet. - -These days she was happy in her soul: oh, she was so happy, -that she wished she could take her joy and scatter it in armfuls -broadcast. She made her children happy, too, with a little -tingling of delight. But to her, the children were not a school -class this afternoon. They were flowers, birds, little bright -animals, children, anything. They only were not Standard Five. -She felt no responsibility for them. It was for once a game, -this teaching. And if they got their sums wrong, what matter? -And she would take a pleasant bit of reading. And instead of -history with dates, she would tell a lovely tale. And for -grammar, they could have a bit of written analysis that was not -difficult, because they had done it before: - - "She shall be sportive as a fawn - That wild with glee across the lawn - Or up the mountain springs." - -She wrote that from memory, because it pleased her. - -So the golden afternoon passed away and she went home happy. -She had finished her day of school, and was free to plunge into -the glowing evening of Cossethay. And she loved walking home. -But it had not been school. It had been playing at school -beneath red hawthorn blossom. - -She could not go on like this. The quarterly examination was -coming, and her class was not ready. It irritated her that she -must drag herself away from her happy self, and exert herself -with all her strength to force, to compel this heavy class of -children to work hard at arithmetic. They did not want to work, -she did not want to compel them. And yet, some second conscience -gnawed at her, telling her the work was not properly done. It -irritated her almost to madness, and she let loose all the -irritation in the class. Then followed a day of battle and hate -and violence, when she went home raw, feeling the golden evening -taken away from her, herself incarcerated in some dark, heavy -place, and chained there with a consciousness of having done -badly at work. - -What good was it that it was summer, that right till evening, -when the corncrakes called, the larks would mount up into the -light, to sing once more before nightfall. What good was it all, -when she was out of tune, when she must only remember the burden -and shame of school that day. - -And still, she hated school. Still she cried, she did not -believe in it. Why should the children learn, and why should she -teach them? It was all so much milling the wind. What folly was -it that made life into this, the fulfilling of some stupid, -factitious duty? It was all so made up, so unnatural. The -school, the sums, the grammar, the quarterly examinations, the -registers--it was all a barren nothing! - -Why should she give her allegiance to this world, and let it -so dominate her, that her own world of warm sun and growing, -sap-filled life was turned into nothing? She was not going to do -it. She was not going to be a prisoner in the dry, tyrannical -man-world. She was not going to care about it. What did it -matter if her class did ever so badly in the quarterly -examination. Let it--what did it matter? - -Nevertheless, when the time came, and the report on her class -was bad, she was miserable, and the joy of the summer was taken -away from her, she was shut up in gloom. She could not really -escape from this world of system and work, out into her fields -where she was happy. She must have her place in the working -world, be a recognized member with full rights there. It was -more important to her than fields and sun and poetry, at this -time. But she was only the more its enemy. - -It was a very difficult thing, she thought, during the long -hours of intermission in the summer holidays, to be herself, her -happy self that enjoyed so much to lie in the sun, to play and -swim and be content, and also to be a school-teacher getting -results out of a class of children. She dreamed fondly of the -time when she need not be a teacher any more. But vaguely, she -knew that responsibility had taken place in her for ever, and as -yet her prime business was to work. - -The autumn passed away, the winter was at hand. Ursula became -more and more an inhabitant of the world of work, and of what is -called life. She could not see her future, but a little way off, -was college, and to the thought of this she clung fixedly. She -would go to college, and get her two or three years' training, -free of cost. Already she had applied and had her place -appointed for the coming year. - -So she continued to study for her degree. She would take -French, Latin, English, mathematics and botany. She went to -classes in Ilkeston, she studied at evening. For there was this -world to conquer, this knowledge to acquire, this qualification -to attain. And she worked with intensity, because of a want -inside her that drove her on. Almost everything was subordinated -now to this one desire to take her place in the world. What kind -of place it was to be she did not ask herself. The blind desire -drove her on. She must take her place. - -She knew she would never be much of a success as an -elementary school teacher. But neither had she failed. She hated -it, but she had managed it. - -Maggie had left St. Philip's School, and had found a more -congenial post. The two girls remained friends. They met at -evening classes, they studied and somehow encouraged a firm hope -each in the other. They did not know whither they were making, -nor what they ultimately wanted. But they knew they wanted now -to learn, to know and to do. - -They talked of love and marriage, and the position of woman -in marriage. Maggie said that love was the flower of life, and -blossomed unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked -where it was found, and enjoyed for the brief hour of its -duration. - -To Ursula this was unsatisfactory. She thought she still -loved Anton Skrebensky. But she did not forgive him that he had -not been strong enough to acknowledge her. He had denied her. -How then could she love him? How then was love so absolute? She -did not believe it. She believed that love was a way, a means, -not an end in itself, as Maggie seemed to think. And always the -way of love would be found. But whither did it lead? - -"I believe there are many men in the world one might -love--there is not only one man," said Ursula. - -She was thinking of Skrebensky. Her heart was hollow with the -knowledge of Winifred Inger. - -"But you must distinguish between love and passion," said -Maggie, adding, with a touch of contempt: "Men will easily have -a passion for you, but they won't love you." - -"Yes," said Ursula, vehemently, the look of suffering, almost -of fanaticism, on her face. "Passion is only part of love. And -it seems so much because it can't last. That is why passion is -never happy." - -She was staunch for joy, for happiness, and permanency, in -contrast with Maggie, who was for sadness, and the inevitable -passing-away of things. Ursula suffered bitterly at the hands of -life, Maggie was always single, always withheld, so she went in -a heavy brooding sadness that was almost meat to her. In -Ursula's last winter at St. Philip's the friendship of the two -girls came to a climax. It was during this winter that Ursula -suffered and enjoyed most keenly Maggie's fundamental sadness of -enclosedness. Maggie enjoyed and suffered Ursula's struggles -against the confines of her life. And then the two girls began -to drift apart, as Ursula broke from that form of life wherein -Maggie must remain enclosed. - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -THE WIDENING CIRCLE - -Maggie's people, the Schofields, lived in the large -gardener's cottage, that was half a farm, behind Belcote Hall. -The hall was too damp to live in, so the Schofields were -caretakers, gamekeepers, farmers, all in one. The father was -gamekeeper and stock-breeder, the eldest son was -market-gardener, using the big hall gardens, the second son was -farmer and gardener. There was a large family, as at -Cossethay. - -Ursula loved to stay at Belcote, to be treated as a grand -lady by Maggie's brothers. They were good-looking men. The -eldest was twenty-six years old. He was the gardener, a man not -very tall, but strong and well made, with brown, sunny, easy -eyes and a face handsomely hewn, brown, with a long fair -moustache which he pulled as he talked to Ursula. - -The girl was excited because these men attended to her when -she came near. She could make their eyes light up and quiver, -she could make Anthony, the eldest, twist and twist his -moustache. She knew she could move them almost at will with her -light laughter and chatter. They loved her ideas, watched her as -she talked vehemently about politics or economics. And she, -while she talked, saw the golden-brown eyes of Anthony gleam -like the eyes of a satyr as they watched her. He did not listen -to her words, he listened to her. It excited her. - -He was like a faun pleased when she would go with him over -his hothouses, to look at the green and pretty plants, at the -pink primulas nodding among their leaves, and cinarrias -flaunting purple and crimson and white. She asked about -everything, and he told her very exactly and minutely, in a -queer pedantic way that made her want to laugh. Yet she was -really interested in what he did. And he had the curious light -in his face, like the light in the eyes of the goat that was -tethered by the farmyard gate. - -She went down with him into the warmish cellar, where already -in the darkness the little yellow knobs of rhubarb were coming. -He held the lantern down to the dark earth. She saw the tiny -knob-end of the rhubarb thrusting upwards upon the thick red -stem, thrusting itself like a knob of flame through the soft -soil. His face was turned up to her, the light glittered on his -eyes and his teeth as he laughed, with a faint, musical neigh. -He looked handsome. And she heard a new sound in her ears, the -faintly-musical, neighing laugh of Anthony, whose moustache -twisted up, and whose eyes were luminous with a cold, steady, -arrogant-laughing glare. There seemed a little prance of triumph -in his movement, she could not rid herself of a movement of -acquiescence, a touch of acceptance. Yet he was so humble, his -voice was so caressing. He held his hand for her to step on when -she must climb a wall. And she stepped on the living firmness of -him, that quivered firmly under her weight. - -She was aware of him as if in a mesmeric state. In her -ordinary sense, she had nothing to do with him. But the peculiar -ease and unnoticeableness of his entering the house, the power -of his cold, gleaming light on her when he looked at her, was -like a bewitchment. In his eyes, as in the pale grey eyes of a -goat, there seemed some of that steady, hard fire of moonlight -which has nothing to do with the day. It made her alert, and yet -her mind went out like an extinguished thing. She was all -senses, all her senses were alive. - -Then she saw him on Sunday, dressed up in Sunday clothes, -trying to impress her. And he looked ridiculous. She clung to -the ridiculous effect of his stiff, Sunday clothes. - -She was always conscious of some unfaithfulness to Maggie, on -Anthony's score. Poor Maggie stood apart as if betrayed. Maggie -and Anthony were enemies by instinct. Ursula had to go back to -her friend brimming with affection and a poignancy of pity. -Which Maggie received with a little stiffness. Then poetry and -books and learning took the place of Anthony, with his goats' -movements and his cold, gleaming humour. - -While Ursula was at Belcote, the snow fell. In the morning, a -covering of snow weighed on the rhododendron bushes. - -"Shall we go out?" said Maggie. - -She had lost some of her leader's sureness, and was now -tentative, a little in reserve from her friend. - -They took the key of the gate and wandered into the park. It -was a white world on which dark trees and tree masses stood -under a sky keen with frost. The two girls went past the hall, -that was shuttered and silent, their footprints marking the snow -on the drive. Down the park, a long way off, a man was carrying -armfuls of hay across the snow. He was a small, dark figure, -like an animal moving in its unawareness. - -Ursula and Maggie went on exploring, down to a tinkling, -chilly brook, that had worn the snow away in little scoops, and -ran dark between. They saw a robin glance its bright eyes and -burst scarlet and grey into the hedge, then some pertly-marked -blue-tits scuffled. Meanwhile the brook slid on coldly, -chuckling to itself. - -The girls wandered across the snowy grass to where the -artificial fish-ponds lay under thin ice. There was a big tree -with a thick trunk twisted with ivy, that hung almost horizontal -over the ponds. Ursula climbed joyfully into this and sat amid -bosses of bright ivy and dull berries. Some ivy leaves were like -green spears held out, and tipped with snow. The ice was seen -beneath them. - -Maggie took out a book, and sitting lower down the trunk -began to read Coleridge's "Christabel". Ursula half listened. -She was wildly thrilled. Then she saw Anthony coming across the -snow, with his confident, slightly strutting stride. His face -looked brown and hard against the snow, smiling with a sort of -tense confidence. - -"Hello!" she called to him. - -A response went over his face, his head was lifted in an -answering, jerking gesture. - -"Hello!" he said. "You're like a bird in there." - -And Ursula's laugh rang out. She answered to the peculiar, -reedy twang in his penetrating voice. - -She did not think of Anthony, yet she lived in a sort of -connection with him, in his world. One evening she met him as -she was coming down the lane, and they walked side by side. - -"I think it's so lovely here," she cried. - -"Do you?" he said. "I'm glad you like it." - -There was a curious confidence in his voice. - -"Oh, I love it. What more does one want than to live in this -beautiful place, and make things grow in your garden. It is like -the Garden of Eden." - -"Is it?" he said, with a little laugh. "Yes--well, it's -not so bad----" he was hesitating. The pale gleam was -strong in his eyes, he was looking at her steadily, watching -her, as an animal might. Something leaped in her soul. She knew -he was going to suggest to her that she should be as he was. - -"Would you like to stay here with me?" he asked, -tentatively. - -She blenched with fear and with the intense sensation of -proffered licence suggested to her. - -They had come to the gate. - -"How?" she asked. "You aren't alone here." - -"We could marry," he answered, in the strange, -coldly-gleaming insinuating tone that chilled the sunshine into -moonlight. All substantial things seemed transformed. Shadows -and dancing moonlight were real, and all cold, inhuman, gleaming -sensations. She realized with something like terror that she was -going to accept this. She was going inevitably to accept him. -His hand was reaching out to the gate before them. She stood -still. His flesh was hard and brown and final. She seemed to be -in the grip of some insult. - -"I couldn't," she answered, involuntarily. - -He gave the same brief, neighing little laugh, very sad and -bitter now, and slotted back the bar of the gate. Yet he did not -open. For a moment they both stood looking at the fire of sunset -that quivered among the purple twigs of the trees. She saw his -brown, hard, well-hewn face gleaming with anger and humiliation -and submission. He was an animal that knows that it is subdued. -Her heart flamed with sensation of him, of the fascinating thing -he offered her, and with sorrow, and with an inconsolable sense -of loneliness. Her soul was an infant crying in the night. He -had no soul. Oh, and why had she? He was the cleaner. - -She turned away, she turned round from him, and saw the east -flushed strangely rose, the moon coming yellow and lovely upon a -rosy sky, above the darkening, bluish snow. All this so -beautiful, all this so lovely! He did not see it. He was one -with it. But she saw it, and was one with it. Her seeing -separated them infinitely. - -They went on in silence down the path, following their -different fates. The trees grew darker and darker, the snow made -only a dimness in an unreal world. And like a shadow, the day -had gone into a faintly luminous, snowy evening, while she was -talking aimlessly to him, to keep him at a distance, yet to keep -him near her, and he walked heavily. He opened the garden gate -for her quietly, and she was entering into her own pleasances, -leaving him outside the gate. - -Then even whilst she was escaping, or trying to escape, this -feeling of pain, came Maggie the next day, saying: - -"I wouldn't make Anthony love you, Ursula, if you don't want -him. It is not nice." - -"But, Maggie, I never made him love me," cried Ursula, -dismayed and suffering, and feeling as if she had done something -base. - -She liked Anthony, though. All her life, at intervals, she -returned to the thought of him and of that which he offered. But -she was a traveller, she was a traveller on the face of the -earth, and he was an isolated creature living in the fulfilment -of his own senses. - -She could not help it, that she was a traveller. She knew -Anthony, that he was not one. But oh, ultimately and finally, -she must go on and on, seeking the goal that she knew she did -draw nearer to. - -She was wearing away her second and last cycle at St. -Philip's. As the months went she ticked them off, first October, -then November, December, January. She was careful always to -subtract a month from the remainder, for the summer holidays. -She saw herself travelling round a circle, only an arc of which -remained to complete. Then, she was in the open, like a bird -tossed into mid-air, a bird that had learned in some measure to -fly. - -There was college ahead; that was her mid-air, unknown, -spacious. Come college, and she would have broken from the -confines of all the life she had known. For her father was also -going to move. They were all going to leave Cossethay. - -Brangwen had kept his carelessness about his circumstances. -He knew his work in the lace designing meant little to him -personally, he just earned his wage by it. He did not know what -meant much to him. Living close to Anna Brangwen, his mind was -always suffused through with physical heat, he moved from -instinct to instinct, groping, always groping on. - -When it was suggested to him that he might apply for one of -the posts as hand-work instructor, posts about to be created by -the Nottingham Education Committee, it was as if a space had -been given to him, into which he could remove from his hot, -dusky enclosure. He sent in his application, confidently, -expectantly. He had a sort of belief in his supernatural fate. -The inevitable weariness of his daily work had stiffened some of -his muscles, and made a slight deadness in his ruddy, alert -face. Now he might escape. - -He was full of the new possibilities, and his wife was -acquiescent. She was willing now to have a change. She too was -tired of Cossethay. The house was too small for the growing -children. And since she was nearly forty years old, she began to -come awake from her sleep of motherhood, her energy moved more -outwards. The din of growing lives roused her from her apathy. -She too must have her hand in making life. She was quite ready -to move, taking all her brood. It would be better now if she -transplanted them. For she had borne her last child, it would be -growing up. - -So that in her easy, unused fashion she talked plans and -arrangements with her husband, indifferent really as to the -method of the change, since a change was coming; even if it did -not come in this way it would come in another. - -The house was full of ferment. Ursula was wild with -excitement. At last her father was going to be something, -socially. So long, he had been a social cypher, without form or -standing. Now he was going to be Art and Handwork Instructor for -the County of Nottingham. That was really a status. It was a -position. He would be a specialist in his way. And he was an -uncommon man. Ursula felt they were all getting a foothold at -last. He was coming to his own. Who else that she knew could -turn out from his own fingers the beautiful things her father -could produce? She felt he was certain of this new job. - -They would move. They would leave this cottage at Cossethay -which had grown too small for them; they would leave Cossethay, -where the children had all been born, and where they were always -kept to the same measure. For the people who had known them as -children along with the other village boys and girls would -never, could never understand that they should grow up -different. They had held "Urtler Brangwen" one of themselves, -and had given her her place in her native village, as in a -family. And the bond was strong. But now, when she was growing -to something beyond what Cossethay would allow or understand, -the bond between her and her old associates was becoming a -bondage. - -"'Ello, Urs'ler, 'ow are yer goin' on?" they said when they -met her. And it demanded of her in the old voice the old -response. And something in her must respond and belong to people -who knew her. But something else denied bitterly. What was true -of her ten years ago was not true now. And something else which -she was, and must be, they could neither see nor allow. They -felt it there nevertheless, something beyond them, and they were -injured. They said she was proud and conceited, that she was too -big for her shoes nowadays. They said, she needn't pretend, -because they knew what she was. They had known her since she was -born. They quoted this and that about her. And she was ashamed -because she did feel different from the people she had lived -amongst. It hurt her that she could not be at her ease with them -any more. And yet--and yet--one's kite will rise on -the wind as far as ever one has string to let it go. It tugs and -tugs and will go, and one is glad the further it goes, even it -everybody else is nasty about it. So Cossethay hampered her, and -she wanted to go away, to be free to fly her kite as high as she -liked. She wanted to go away, to be free to stand straight up to -her own height. - -So that when she knew that her father had the new post, and -that the family would move, she felt like skipping on the face -of the earth, and making psalms of joy. The old, bound shell of -Cossethay was to be cast off, and she was to dance away into the -blue air. She wanted to dance and sing. - -She made dreams of the new place she would live in, where -stately cultured people of high feeling would be friends with -her, and she would live with the noble in the land, moving to a -large freedom of feeling. She dreamed of a rich, proud, simple -girl-friend, who had never known Mr. Harby and his like, nor -ever had a note in her voice of bondaged contempt and fear, as -Maggie had. - -And she gave herself to all that she loved in Cossethay, -passionately, because she was going away now. She wandered about -to her favourite spots. There was a place where she went -trespassing to find the snowdrops that grew wild. It was evening -and the winter-darkened meadows were full of mystery. When she -came to the woods an oak tree had been newly chopped down in the -dell. Pale drops of flowers glimmered many under the hazels, and -by the sharp, golden splinters of wood that were splashed about, -the grey-green blades of snowdrop leaves pricked unheeding, the -drooping still little flowers were without heed. - -Ursula picked some lovingly, in an ecstasy. The golden chips -of wood shone yellow like sunlight, the snowdrops in the -twilight were like the first stars of night. And she, alone -amongst them, was wildly happy to have found her way into such a -glimmering dusk, to the intimate little flowers, and the splash -of wood chips like sunshine over the twilight of the ground. She -sat down on the felled tree and remained awhile remote. - -Going home, she left the purplish dark of the trees for the -open lane, where the puddles shone long and jewel-like in the -ruts, the land about her was darkened, and the sky a jewel -overhead. Oh, how amazing it was to her! It was almost too much. -She wanted to run, and sing, and cry out for very wildness and -poignancy, but she could not run and sing and cry out in such a -way as to cry out the deep things in her heart, so she was -still, and almost sad with loneliness. - -At Easter she went again to Maggie's home, for a few days. -She was, however shy and fugitive. She saw Anthony, how -suggestive he was to look on, and how his eyes had a sort of -supplicating light, that was rather beautiful. She looked at -him, and she looked again, for him to become real to her. But it -was her own self that was occupied elsewhere. She seemed to have -some other being. - -And she turned to spring and the opening buds. There was a -large pear tree by a wall, and it was full, thronged with tiny, -grey-green buds, myriads. She stood before it arrested with -delight, and a realization went deep into her heart. There was -so great a host in array behind the cloud of pale, dim green, so -much to come forth--so much sunshine to pour down. - -So the weeks passed on, trance-like and pregnant. The pear -tree at Cossethay burst into bloom against the cottage-end, like -a wave burst into foam. Then gradually the bluebells came, blue -as water standing thin in the level places under the trees and -bushes, flowing in more and more, till there was a flood of -azure, and pale-green leaves burning, and tiny birds with fiery -little song and flight. Then swiftly the flood sank and was -gone, and it was summer. - -There was to be no going to the seaside for a holiday. The -holiday was the removal from Cossethay. - -They were going to live near Willey Green, which place was -most central for Brangwen. It was an old, quiet village on the -edge of the thronged colliery-district. So that it served, in -its quaintness of odd old cottages lingering in their sunny -gardens, as a sort of bower or pleasaunce to the sprawling -colliery-townlet of Beldover, a pleasant walk-round for the -colliers on Sunday morning, before the public-houses opened. - -In Willey Green stood the Grammar School where Brangwen was -occupied for two days during the week, and where experiments in -education were being carried on. - -Ursula wanted to live in Willey Green on the remoter side, -towards Southwell, and Sherwood Forest. There it was so lovely -and romantic. But out into the world meant out into the world. -Will Brangwen must become modern. - -He bought, with his wife's money, a fairly large house in the -new, red-brick part of Beldover. It was a villa built by the -widow of the late colliery manager, and stood in a quiet, new -little side-street near the large church. - -Ursula was rather sad. Instead of having arrived at -distinction they had come to new red-brick suburbia in a grimy, -small town. - -Mrs. Brangwen was happy. The rooms were splendidly -large--a splendid dining-room, drawing-room and kitchen, -besides a very pleasant study downstairs. Everything was -admirably appointed. The widow had settled herself in lavishly. -She was a native of Beldover, and had intended to reign almost -queen. Her bathroom was white and silver, her stairs were of -oak, her chimney-pieces were massive and oaken, with bulging, -columnar supports. - -"Good and substantial," was the keynote. But Ursula resented -the stout, inflated prosperity implied everywhere. She made her -father promise to chisel down the bulging oaken chimney-pieces, -chisel them flat. That sort of important paunch was very -distasteful to her. Her father was himself long and loosely -built. What had he to do with so much "good and substantial" -importance? - -They bought a fair amount also of the widow's furniture. It -was in common good taste--the great Wilton carpet, the -large round table, the Chesterfield covered with glossy chintz -in roses and birds. It was all really very sunny and nice, with -large windows, and a view right across the shallow valley. - -After all, they would be, as one of their acquaintances said, -among the elite of Beldover. They would represent culture. And -as there was no one of higher social importance than the -doctors, the colliery-managers, and the chemists, they would -shine, with their Della Robbia beautiful Madonna, their lovely -reliefs from Donatello, their reproductions from Botticelli. -Nay, the large photographs of the Primavera and the Aphrodite -and the Nativity in the dining-room, the ordinary -reception-room, would make dumb the mouth of Beldover. - -And after all, it is better to be princess in Beldover than a -vulgar nobody in the country. - -There was great preparation made for the removal of the whole -Brangwen family, ten in all. The house in Beldover was prepared, -the house in Cossethay was dismantled. Come the end of the -school-term the removal would begin. - -Ursula left school at the end of July, when the summer -holiday commenced. The morning outside was bright and sunny, and -the freedom got inside the schoolroom this last day. It was as -if the walls of the school were going to melt away. Already they -seemed shadowy and unreal. It was breaking-up morning. Soon -scholars and teachers would be outside, each going his own way. -The irons were struck off, the sentence was expired, the prison -was a momentary shadow halting about them. The children were -carrying away books and inkwell, and rolling up maps. All their -faces were bright with gladness and goodwill. There was a bustle -of cleaning and clearing away all marks of this last term of -imprisonment. They were all breaking free. Busily, eagerly, -Ursula made up her totals of attendances in the register. With -pride she wrote down the thousands: to so many thousands of -children had she given another sessions's lessons. It looked -tremendous. The excited hours passed slowly in suspense. Then at -last it was over. For the last time, she stood before her -children whilst they said their prayers and sang a hymn. Then it -was over. - -"Good-bye, children," she said. "I shall not forget you, and -you must not forget me." - -"No, miss," cried the children in chorus, with shining -faces. - -She stood smiling on them, moved, as they filed out. Then she -gave her monitors their term sixpences, and they too departed. -Cupboards were locked, blackboards washed, ink wells and dusters -removed. The place stood bare and vacated. She had triumphed -over it. It was a shell now. She had fought a good fight here, -and it had not been altogether unenjoyable. She owed some -gratitude even to this hard, vacant place, that stood like a -memorial or a trophy. So much of her life had been fought for -and won and lost here. Something of this school would always -belong to her, something of her to it. She acknowledged it. And -now came the leave-taking. - -In the teachers' room the teachers were chatting and -loitering, talking excitedly of where they were going: to the -Isle of Man, to Llandudno, to Yarmouth. They were eager, and -attached to each other, like comrades leaving a ship. - -Then it was Mr. Harby's turn to make a speech to Ursula. He -looked handsome, with his silver-grey temples and black brows, -and his imperturbable male solidity. - -"Well," he said, "we must say good-bye to Miss Brangwen and -wish her all good fortune for the future. I suppose we shall see -her again some time, and hear how she is getting on." - -"Oh, yes," said Ursula, stammering, blushing, laughing. "Oh, -yes, I shall come and see you." - -Then she realized that this sounded too personal, and she -felt foolish. - -"Miss Schofield suggested these two books," he said, putting -a couple of volumes on the table: "I hope you will like -them." - -Ursula feeling very shy picked up the books. There was a -volume of Swinburne's poetry, and a volume of Meredith's. - -"Oh, I shall love them," she said. "Thank you very -much--thank you all so much--it is -so----" - -She stuttered to an end, and very red, turned the leaves of -the books eagerly, pretending to be taking the first pleasure, -but really seeing nothing. - -Mr. Harby's eyes were twinkling. He alone was at his ease, -master of the situation. It was pleasing to him to make Ursula -the gift, and for once extend good feeling to his teachers. As a -rule, it was so difficult, each one was so strained in -resentment under his rule. - -"Yes," he said, "we hoped you would like the -choice----" - -He looked with his peculiar, challenging smile for a moment, -then returned to his cupboards. - -Ursula felt very confused. She hugged her books, loving them. -And she felt that she loved all the teachers, and Mr. Harby. It -was very confusing. - -At last she was out. She cast one hasty glance over the -school buildings squatting on the asphalt yard in the hot, -glistening sun, one look down the well-known road, and turned -her back on it all. Something strained in her heart. She was -going away. - -"Well, good luck," said the last of the teachers, as she -shook hands at the end of the road. "We'll expect you back some -day." - -He spoke in irony. She laughed, and broke away. She was free. -As she sat on the top of the tram in the sunlight, she looked -round her with tremendous delight. She had left something which -had meant much to her. She would not go to school any more, and -do the familiar things. Queer! There was a little pang amid her -exultation, of fear, not of regret. Yet how she exulted this -morning! - -She was tremulous with pride and joy. She loved the two -books. They were tokens to her, representing the fruit and -trophies of her two years which, thank God, were over. - -"To Ursula Brangwen, with best wishes for her future, and in -warm memory of the time she spent in St. Philip's School," was -written in the headmaster's neat, scrupulous handwriting. She -could see the careful hand holding the pen, the thick fingers -with tufts of black hair on the back of each one. - -He had signed, all the teachers had signed. She liked having -all their signatures. She felt she loved them all. They were her -fellow-workers. She carried away from the school a pride she -could never lose. She had her place as comrade and sharer in the -work of the school, her fellow teachers had signed to her, as -one of them. And she was one of all workers, she had put in her -tiny brick to the fabric man was building, she had qualified -herself as co-builder. - -Then the day for the home removal came. Ursula rose early, to -pack up the remaining goods. The carts arrived, lent by her -uncle at the Marsh, in the lull between hay and corn harvest. -The goods roped in the cart, Ursula mounted her bicycle and sped -away to Beldover. - -The house was hers. She entered its clean-scrubbed silence. -The dining-room had been covered with a thick rush matting, hard -and of the beautiful, luminous, clean colour of sun-dried reeds. -The walls were pale grey, the doors were darker grey. Ursula -admired it very much, as the sun came through the large windows, -streaming in. - -She flung open doors and windows to the sunshine. Flowers -were bright and shining round the small lawn, which stood above -the road, looking over the raw field opposite, which would later -be built upon. No one came. So she wandered down the garden at -the back of the wall. The eight bells of the church rang the -hour. She could hear the many sounds of the town about her. - -At last, the cart was seen coming round the corner, familiar -furniture piled undignified on top, Tom, her brother, and -Theresa, marching on foot beside the mass, proud of having -walked ten miles or more, from the tram terminus. Ursula poured -out beer, and the men drank thirstily, by the door. A second -cart was coming. Her father appeared on his motor bicycle. There -was the staggering transport of furniture up the steps to the -little lawn, where it was deposited all pell-mell in the -sunshine, very queer and discomforting. - -Brangwen was a pleasant man to work with, cheerful and easy. -Ursula loved deciding him where the heavy things should stand. -She watched anxiously the struggle up the steps and through the -doorways. Then the big things were in, the carts set off again. -Ursula and her father worked away carrying in all the light -things that remained upon the lawn, and putting them in place. -Dinner time came. They ate bread and cheese in the kitchen. - -"Well, we're getting on," said Brangwen, cheerfully. - -Two more loads arrived. The afternoon passed away in a -struggle with the furniture, upstairs. Towards five o'clock, -appeared the last loads, consisting also of Mrs. Brangwen and -the younger children, driven by Uncle Fred in the trap. Gudrun -had walked with Margaret from the station. The whole family had -come. - -"There!" said Brangwen, as his wife got down from the cart: -"Now we're all here." - -"Ay," said his wife pleasantly. - -And the very brevity, the silence of intimacy between the two -made a home in the hearts of the children, who clustered round -feeling strange in the new place. - -Everything was at sixes and sevens. But a fire was made in -the kitchen, the hearth-rug put down, the kettle set on the hob, -and Mrs. Brangwen began towards sunset to prepare the first -meal. Ursula and Gudrun were slaving in the bedrooms, candles -were rushing about. Then from the kitchen came the smell of ham -and eggs and coffee, and in the gaslight, the scrambled meal -began. The family seemed to huddle together like a little camp -in a strange place. Ursula felt a load of responsibility upon -her, caring for the half-little ones. The smallest kept near the -mother. - -It was dark, and the children went sleepy but excited to bed. -It was a long time before the sound of voices died out. There -was a tremendous sense of adventure. - -In the morning everybody was awake soon after dawn, the -children crying: - -"When I wakened up I didn't know where I was." - -There were the strange sounds of the town, and the repeated -chiming of the big church bells, so much harsher and more -insistent than the little bells of Cossethay. They looked -through the windows past the other new red houses to the wooded -hill across the valley. They had all a delightful sense of space -and liberation, space and light and air. - -But gradually all set to work. They were a careless, untidy -family. Yet when once they set about to get the house in order, -the thing went with felicity and quickness. By evening the place -was roughly established. - -They would not have a servant to live in the house, only a -woman who could go home at night. And they would not even have -the woman yet. They wanted to do as they liked in their own -home, with no stranger in the midst. - - - -CHAPTER XV - -THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY - -A storm of industry raged on in the house. Ursula did not go -to college till October. So, with a distinct feeling of -responsibility, as if she must express herself in this house, -she laboured arranging, re-arranging, selecting, contriving. - -She could use her father's ordinary tools, both for woodwork -and metal-work, so she hammered and tinkered. Her mother was -quite content to have the thing done. Brangwen was interested. -He had a ready belief in his daughter. He himself was at work -putting up his work-shed in the garden. - -At last she had finished for the time being. The drawing-room -was big and empty. It had the good Wilton carpet, of which the -family was so proud, and the large couch and large chairs -covered with shiny chintz, and the piano, a little sculpture in -plaster that Brangwen had done, and not very much more. It was -too large and empty-feeling for the family to occupy very much. -Yet they liked to know it was there, large and empty. - -The home was the dining-room. There the hard rush -floor-covering made the ground light, reflecting light upon the -bottom their hearts; in the window-bay was a broad, sunny seat, -the table was so solid one could not jostle it, and the chairs -so strong one could knock them over without hurting them. The -familiar organ that Brangwen had made stood on one side, looking -peculiarly small, the sideboard was comfortably reduced to -normal proportions. This was the family living-room. - -Ursula had a bedroom to herself. It was really a servants' -bedroom, small and plain. Its window looked over the back garden -at other back gardens, some of them old and very nice, some of -them littered with packing-cases, then at the backs of the -houses whose fronts were the shops in High Street, or the -genteel homes of the under-manager or the chief cashier, facing -the chapel. - -She had six weeks still before going to college. In this time -she nervously read over some Latin and some botany, and fitfully -worked at some mathematics. She was going into college as a -teacher, for her training. But, having already taken her -matriculation examination, she was entered for a university -course. At the end of a year she would sit for the Intermediate -Arts, then two years after for her B.A. So her case was not that -of the ordinary school-teacher. She would be working among the -private students who came only for pure education, not for mere -professional training. She would be of the elect. - -For the next three years she would be more or less dependent -on her parents again. Her training was free. All college fees -were paid by the government, she had moreover a few pounds grant -every year. This would just pay for her train fares and her -clothing. Her parents would only have to feed her. She did not -want to cost them much. They would not be well off. Her father -would earn only two hundred a year, and a good deal of her -mother's capital was spent in buying the house. Still, there was -enough to get along with. - -Gudrun was attending the Art School at Nottingham. She was -working particularly at sculpture. She had a gift for this. She -loved making little models in clay, of children or of animals. -Already some of these had appeared in the Students' Exhibition -in the Castle, and Gudrun was a distinguished person. She was -chafing at the Art School and wanted to go to London. But there -was not enough money. Neither would her parents let her go so -far. - -Theresa had left the High School. She was a great strapping, -bold hussy, indifferent to all higher claims. She would stay at -home. The others were at school, except the youngest. When term -started, they would all be transferred to the Grammar School at -Willey Green. - -Ursula was excited at making acquaintances in Beldover. The -excitement soon passed. She had tea at the clergyman's, at the -chemist's, at the other chemist's, at the doctor's, at the -under-manager's--then she knew practically everybody. She -could not take people very seriously, though at the time she -wanted to. - -She wandered the country, on foot and on her bicycle, finding -it very beautiful in the forest direction, between Mansfield and -Southwell and Worksop. But she was here only skirmishing for -amusement. Her real exploration would begin in college. - -Term began. She went into town each day by train. The -cloistered quiet of the college began to close around her. - -She was not at first disappointed. The big college built of -stone, standing in the quiet street, with a rim of grass and -lime trees all so peaceful: she felt it remote, a magic land. -Its architecture was foolish, she knew from her father. Still, -it was different from that of all other buildings. Its rather -pretty, plaything, Gothic form was almost a style, in the dirty -industrial town. - -She liked the hall, with its big stone chimney-piece and its -Gothic arches supporting the balcony above. To be sure the -arches were ugly, the chimney-piece of cardboard-like carved -stone, with its armorial decoration, looked silly just opposite -the bicycle stand and the radiator, whilst the great -notice-board with its fluttering papers seemed to slam away all -sense of retreat and mystery from the far wall. Nevertheless, -amorphous as it might be, there was in it a reminiscence of the -wondrous, cloistral origin of education. Her soul flew straight -back to the medieval times, when the monks of God held the -learning of men and imparted it within the shadow of religion. -In this spirit she entered college. - -The harshness and vulgarity of the lobbies and cloak-rooms -hurt her at first. Why was it not all beautiful? But she could -not openly admit her criticism. She was on holy ground. - -She wanted all the students to have a high, pure spirit, she -wanted them to say only the real, genuine things, she wanted -their faces to be still and luminous as the nuns' and the monks' -faces. - -Alas, the girls chattered and giggled and were nervous, they -were dressed up and frizzed, the men looked mean and -clownish. - -Still, it was lovely to pass along the corridor with one's -books in one's hands, to push the swinging, glass-panelled door, -and enter the big room where the first lecture would be given. -The windows were large and lofty, the myriad brown students' -desks stood waiting, the great blackboard was smooth behind the -rostrum. - -Ursula sat beside her window, rather far back. Looking down, -she saw the lime trees turning yellow, the tradesman's boy -passing silent down the still, autumn-sunny street. There was -the world, remote, remote. - -Here, within the great, whispering sea-shell, that whispered -all the while with reminiscence of all the centuries, time faded -away, and the echo of knowledge filled the timeless silence. - -She listened, she scribbled her notes with joy, almost with -ecstasy, never for a moment criticizing what she heard. The -lecturer was a mouth-piece, a priest. As he stood, black-gowned, -on the rostrum, some strands of the whispering confusion of -knowledge that filled the whole place seemed to be singled out -and woven together by him, till they became a lecture. - -At first, she preserved herself from criticism. She would not -consider the professors as men, ordinary men who ate bacon, and -pulled on their boots before coming to college. They were the -black-gowned priests of knowledge, serving for ever in a remote, -hushed temple. They were the initiated, and the beginning and -the end of the mystery was in their keeping. - -Curious joy she had of the lectures. It was a joy to hear the -theory of education, there was such freedom and pleasure in -ranging over the very stuff of knowledge, and seeing how it -moved and lived and had its being. How happy Racine made her! -She did not know why. But as the big lines of the drama unfolded -themselves, so steady, so measured, she felt a thrill as of -being in the realm of the reality. Of Latin, she was doing Livy -and Horace. The curious, intimate, gossiping tone of the Latin -class suited Horace. Yet she never cared for him, nor even Livy. -There was an entire lack of sternness in the gossipy class-room. -She tried hard to keep her old grasp of the Roman spirit. But -gradually the Latin became mere gossip-stuff and artificiality -to her, a question of manners and verbosities. - -Her terror was the mathematics class. The lecturer went so -fast, her heart beat excitedly, she seemed to be straining every -nerve. And she struggled hard, during private study, to get the -stuff into control. - -Then came the lovely, peaceful afternoons in the botany -laboratory. There were few students. How she loved to sit on her -high stool before the bench, with her pith and her razor and her -material, carefully mounting her slides, carefully bringing her -microscope into focus, then turning with joy to record her -observation, drawing joyfully in her book, if the slide were -good. - -She soon made a college friend, a girl who had lived in -Florence, a girl who wore a wonderful purple or figured scarf -draped over a plain, dark dress. She was Dorothy Russell, -daughter of a south-country advocate. Dorothy lived with a -maiden aunt in Nottingham, and spent her spare moments slaving -for the Women's Social and Political Union. She was quiet and -intense, with an ivory face and dark hair looped plain over her -ears. Ursula was very fond of her, but afraid of her. She seemed -so old and so relentless towards herself. Yet she was only -twenty-two. Ursula always felt her to be a creature of fate, -like Cassandra. - -The two girls had a close, stern friendship. Dorothy worked -at all things with the same passion, never sparing herself. She -came closest to Ursula during the botany hours. For she could -not draw. Ursula made beautiful and wonderful drawings of the -sections under the microscope, and Dorothy always came to learn -the manner of the drawing. - -So the first year went by, in magnificent seclusion and -activity of learning. It was strenuous as a battle, her college -life, yet remote as peace. - -She came to Nottingham in the morning with Gudrun. The two -sisters were distinguished wherever they went, slim, strong -girls, eager and extremely sensitive. Gudrun was the more -beautiful of the two, with her sleepy, half-languid girlishness -that looked so soft, and yet was balanced and inalterable -underneath. She wore soft, easy clothing, and hats which fell by -themselves into a careless grace. - -Ursula was much more carefully dressed, but she was -self-conscious, always falling into depths of admiration of -somebody else, and modelling herself upon this other, and so -producing a hopeless incongruity. When she dressed for practical -purposes she always looked well. In winter, wearing a tweed -coat-and-skirt and a small hat of black fur pulled over her -eager, palpitant face, she seemed to move down the street in a -drifting motion of suspense and exceeding sensitive -receptivity. - -At the end of the first year Ursula got through her -Intermediate Arts examination, and there came a lull in her -eager activities. She slackened off, she relaxed altogether. -Worn nervous and inflammable by the excitement of the -preparation for the examination, and by the sort of exaltation -which carried her through the crisis itself, she now fell into a -quivering passivity, her will all loosened. - -The family went to Scarborough for a month. Gudrun and the -father were busy at the handicraft holiday school there, Ursula -was left a good deal with the children. But when she could, she -went off by herself. - -She stood and looked out over the shining sea. It was very -beautiful to her. The tears rose hot in her heart. - -Out of the far, far space there drifted slowly in to her a -passionate, unborn yearning. "There are so many dawns that have -not yet risen." It seemed as if, from over the edge of the sea, -all the unrisen dawns were appealing to her, all her unborn soul -was crying for the unrisen dawns. - -As she sat looking out at the tender sea, with its lovely, -swift glimmer, the sob rose in her breast, till she caught her -lip suddenly under her teeth, and the tears were forcing -themselves from her. And in her very sob, she laughed. Why did -she cry? She did not want to cry. It was so beautiful that she -laughed. It was so beautiful that she cried. - -She glanced apprehensively round, hoping no one would see her -in this state. - -Then came a time when the sea was rough. She watched the -water travelling in to the coast, she watched a big wave running -unnoticed, to burst in a shock of foam against a rock, -enveloping all in a great white beauty, to pour away again, -leaving the rock emerged black and teeming. Oh, and if, when the -wave burst into whiteness, it were only set free! - -Sometimes she loitered along the harbour, looking at the -sea-browned sailors, who, in their close blue jerseys, lounged -on the harbour-wall, and laughed at her with impudent, -communicative eyes. - -There was established a little relation between her and them. -She never would speak to them or know any more of them. Yet as -she walked by and they leaned on the sea-wall, there was -something between her and them, something keen and delightful -and painful. She liked best the young one whose fair, salty hair -tumbled over his blue eyes. He was so new and fresh and salt and -not of this world. - -From Scarborough she went to her Uncle Tom's. Winifred had a -small baby, born at the end of the summer. She had become -strange and alien to Ursula. There was an unmentionable reserve -between the two women. Tom Brangwen was an attentive father, a -very domestic husband. But there was something spurious about -his domesticity, Ursula did not like him any more. Something -ugly, blatant in his nature had come out now, making him shift -everything over to a sentimental basis. A materialistic -unbeliever, he carried it all off by becoming full of human -feeling, a warm, attentive host, a generous husband, a model -citizen. And he was clever enough to rouse admiration -everywhere, and to take in his wife sufficiently. She did not -love him. She was glad to live in a state of complacent -self-deception with him, she worked according to him. - -Ursula was relieved to go home. She had still two peaceful -years before her. Her future was settled for two years. She -returned to college to prepare for her final examination. - -But during this year the glamour began to depart from -college. The professors were not priests initiated into the deep -mysteries of life and knowledge. After all, they were only -middle-men handling wares they had become so accustomed to that -they were oblivious of them. What was Latin?--So much dry -goods of knowledge. What was the Latin class altogether but a -sort of second-hand curio shop, where one bought curios and -learned the market-value of curios; dull curios too, on the -whole. She was as bored by the Latin curiosities as she was by -Chinese and Japanese curiosities in the antique shops. -"Antiques"--the very word made her soul fall flat and -dead. - -The life went out of her studies, why, she did not know. But -the whole thing seemed sham, spurious; spurious Gothic arches, -spurious peace, spurious Latinity, spurious dignity of France, -spurious naivete of Chaucer. It was a second-hand dealer's shop, -and one bought an equipment for an examination. This was only a -little side-show to the factories of the town. Gradually the -perception stole into her. This was no religious retreat, no -perception of pure learning. It was a little apprentice-shop -where one was further equipped for making money. The college -itself was a little, slovenly laboratory for the factory. - -A harsh and ugly disillusion came over her again, the same -darkness and bitter gloom from which she was never safe now, the -realization of the permanent substratum of ugliness under -everything. As she came to the college in the afternoon, the -lawns were frothed with daisies, the lime trees hung tender and -sunlit and green; and oh, the deep, white froth of the daisies -was anguish to see. - -For inside, inside the college, she knew she must enter the -sham workshop. All the while, it was a sham store, a sham -warehouse, with a single motive of material gain, and no -productivity. It pretended to exist by the religious virtue of -knowledge. But the religious virtue of knowledge was become a -flunkey to the god of material success. - -A sort of inertia came over her. Mechanically, from habit, -she went on with her studies. But it was almost hopeless. She -could scarcely attend to anything. At the Anglo-Saxon lecture in -the afternoon, she sat looking down, out of the window, hearing -no word, of Beowulf or of anything else. Down below, in the -street, the sunny grey pavement went beside the palisade. A -woman in a pink frock, with a scarlet sunshade, crossed the -road, a little white dog running like a fleck of light about -her. The woman with the scarlet sunshade came over the road, a -lilt in her walk, a little shadow attending her. Ursula watched -spell-bound. The woman with the scarlet sunshade and the -flickering terrier was gone--and whither? Whither? - -In what world of reality was the woman in the pink dress -walking? To what warehouse of dead unreality was she herself -confined? - -What good was this place, this college? What good was -Anglo-Saxon, when one only learned it in order to answer -examination questions, in order that one should have a higher -commercial value later on? She was sick with this long service -at the inner commercial shrine. Yet what else was there? Was -life all this, and this only? Everywhere, everything was debased -to the same service. Everything went to produce vulgar things, -to encumber material life. - -Suddenly she threw over French. She would take honours in -botany. This was the one study that lived for her. She had -entered into the lives of the plants. She was fascinated by the -strange laws of the vegetable world. She had here a glimpse of -something working entirely apart from the purpose of the human -world. - -College was barren, cheap, a temple converted to the most -vulgar, petty commerce. Had she not gone to hear the echo of -learning pulsing back to the source of the mystery?--The -source of mystery! And barrenly, the professors in their gowns -offered commercial commodity that could be turned to good -account in the examination room; ready-made stuff too, and not -really worth the money it was intended to fetch; which they all -knew. - -All the time in the college now, save when she was labouring -in her botany laboratory, for there the mystery still glimmered, -she felt she was degrading herself in a kind of trade of sham -jewjaws. - -Angry and stiff, she went through her last term. She would -rather be out again earning her own living. Even Brinsley Street -and Mr. Harby seemed real in comparison. Her violent hatred of -the Ilkeston School was nothing compared with the sterile -degradation of college. But she was not going back to Brinsley -Street either. She would take her B.A., and become a mistress in -some Grammar School for a time. - -The last year of her college career was wheeling slowly -round. She could see ahead her examination and her departure. -She had the ash of disillusion gritting under her teeth. Would -the next move turn out the same? Always the shining doorway -ahead; and then, upon approach, always the shining doorway was a -gate into another ugly yard, dirty and active and dead. Always -the crest of the hill gleaming ahead under heaven: and then, -from the top of the hill only another sordid valley full of -amorphous, squalid activity. - -No matter! Every hill-top was a little different, every -valley was somehow new. Cossethay and her childhood with her -father; the Marsh and the little Church school near the Marsh, -and her grandmother and her uncles; the High School at -Nottingham and Anton Skrebensky; Anton Skrebensky and the dance -in the moonlight between the fires; then the time she could not -think of without being blasted, Winifred Inger, and the months -before becoming a school-teacher; then the horrors of Brinsley -Street, lapsing into comparative peacefulness, Maggie, and -Maggie's brother, whose influence she could still feel in her -veins, when she conjured him up; then college, and Dorothy -Russell, who was now in France, then the next move into the -world again! - -Already it was a history. In every phase she was so -different. Yet she was always Ursula Brangwen. But what did it -mean, Ursula Brangwen? She did not know what she was. Only she -was full of rejection, of refusal. Always, always she was -spitting out of her mouth the ash and grit of disillusion, of -falsity. She could only stiffen in rejection, in rejection. She -seemed always negative in her action. - -That which she was, positively, was dark and unrevealed, it -could not come forth. It was like a seed buried in dry ash. This -world in which she lived was like a circle lighted by a lamp. -This lighted area, lit up by man's completest consciousness, she -thought was all the world: that here all was disclosed for ever. -Yet all the time, within the darkness she had been aware of -points of light, like the eyes of wild beasts, gleaming, -penetrating, vanishing. And her soul had acknowledged in a great -heave of terror only the outer darkness. This inner circle of -light in which she lived and moved, wherein the trains rushed -and the factories ground out their machine-produce and the -plants and the animals worked by the light of science and -knowledge, suddenly it seemed like the area under an arc-lamp, -wherein the moths and children played in the security of -blinding light, not even knowing there was any darkness, because -they stayed in the light. - -But she could see the glimmer of dark movement just out of -range, she saw the eyes of the wild beast gleaming from the -darkness, watching the vanity of the camp fire and the sleepers; -she felt the strange, foolish vanity of the camp, which said -"Beyond our light and our order there is nothing," turning their -faces always inward towards the sinking fire of illuminating -consciousness, which comprised sun and stars, and the Creator, -and the System of Righteousness, ignoring always the vast -darkness that wheeled round about, with half-revealed shapes -lurking on the edge. - -Yea, and no man dared even throw a firebrand into the -darkness. For if he did he was jeered to death by the others, -who cried "Fool, anti-social knave, why would you disturb us -with bogeys? There is no darkness. We move and live and -have our being within the light, and unto us is given the -eternal light of knowledge, we comprise and comprehend the -innermost core and issue of knowledge. Fool and knave, how dare -you belittle us with the darkness?" - -Nevertheless the darkness wheeled round about, with grey -shadow-shapes of wild beasts, and also with dark shadow-shapes -of the angels, whom the light fenced out, as it fenced out the -more familiar beasts of darkness. And some, having for a moment -seen the darkness, saw it bristling with the tufts of the hyena -and the wolf; and some having given up their vanity of the -light, having died in their own conceit, saw the gleam in the -eyes of the wolf and the hyena, that it was the flash of the -sword of angels, flashing at the door to come in, that the -angels in the darkness were lordly and terrible and not to be -denied, like the flash of fangs. - -It was a little while before Easter, in her last year of -college, when Ursula was twenty-two years old, that she heard -again from Skrebensky. He had written to her once or twice from -South Africa, during the first months of his service out there -in the war, and since had sent her a post-card every now and -then, at ever longer intervals. He had become a first -lieutenant, and had stayed out in Africa. She had not heard of -him now for more than two years. - -Often her thoughts returned to him. He seemed like the -gleaming dawn, yellow, radiant, of a long, grey, ashy day. The -memory of him was like the thought of the first radiant hours of -morning. And here was the blank grey ashiness of later daytime. -Ah, if he had only remained true to her, she might have known -the sunshine, without all this toil and hurt and degradation of -a spoiled day. He would have been her angel. He held the keys of -the sunshine. Still he held them. He could open to her the gates -of succeeding freedom and delight. Nay, if he had remained true -to her, he would have been the doorway to her, into the -boundless sky of happiness and plunging, inexhaustible freedom -which was the paradise of her soul. Ah, the great range he would -have opened to her, the illimitable endless space for -self-realization and delight for ever. - -The one thing she believed in was in the love she had held -for him. It remained shining and complete, a thing to hark back -to. And she said to herself, when present things seemed a -failure: - -"Ah, I was fond of him," as if with him the leading -flower of her life had died. - -Now she heard from him again. The chief effect was pain. The -pleasure, the spontaneous joy was not there any longer. But her -will rejoiced. Her will had fixed itself to him. And the -old excitement of her dreams stirred and woke up. He was come, -the man with the wondrous lips that could send the kiss wavering -to the very end of all space. Was he come back to her? She did -not believe. - -My dear Ursula, I am back in England again for a few -months before going out again, this time to India. I wonder if -you still keep the memory of our times together. I have still -got the little photograph of you. You must be changed since -then, for it is about six years ago. I am fully six years -older,--I have lived through another life since I knew you -at Cossethay. I wonder if you would care to see me. I shall come -up to Derby next week, and I would call in Nottingham, and we -might have tea together. Will you let me know? I shall look for -your answer. - - Anton Skrebensky - -Ursula had taken this letter from the rack in the hall at -college, and torn it open as she crossed to the Women's room. -The world seemed to dissolve away from around her, she stood -alone in clear air. - -Where could she go, to be alone? She fled away, upstairs, and -through the private way to the reference library. Seizing a -book, she sat down and pondered the letter. Her heart beat, her -limbs trembled. As in a dream, she heard one gong sound in the -college, then, strangely, another. The first lecture had gone -by. - -Hurriedly she took one of her note-books and began to -write. - -"Dear Anton, Yes, I still have the ring. I should be very -glad to see you again. You can come here to college for me, or I -will meet you somewhere in the town. Will you let me know? Your -sincere friend----" - -Trembling, she asked the librarian, who was her friend, if he -would give her an envelope. She sealed and addressed her letter, -and went out, bare-headed, to post it. When it was dropped into -the pillar-box, the world became a very still, pale place, -without confines. She wandered back to college, to her pale -dream, like a first wan light of dawn. - -Skrebensky came one afternoon the following week. Day after -day, she had hurried swiftly to the letter-rack on her arrival -at college in the morning, and during the intervals between -lectures. Several times, swiftly, with secretive fingers, she -had plucked his letter down from its public prominence, and fled -across the hall holding it fast and hidden. She read her letters -in the botany laboratory, where her corner was always reserved -to her. - -Several letters, and then he was coming. It was Friday -afternoon he appointed. She worked over her microscope with -feverish activity, able to give only half her attention, yet -working closely and rapidly. She had on her slide some special -stuff come up from London that day, and the professor was fussy -and excited about it. At the same time, as she focused the light -on her field, and saw the plant-animal lying shadowy in a -boundless light, she was fretting over a conversation she had -had a few days ago with Dr. Frankstone, who was a woman doctor -of physics in the college. - -"No, really," Dr. Frankstone had said, "I don't see why we -should attribute some special mystery to life--do you? We -don't understand it as we understand electricity, even, but that -doesn't warrant our saying it is something special, something -different in kind and distinct from everything else in the -universe--do you think it does? May it not be that life -consists in a complexity of physical and chemical activities, of -the same order as the activities we already know in science? I -don't see, really, why we should imagine there is a special -order of life, and life alone----" - -The conversation had ended on a note of uncertainty, -indefinite, wistful. But the purpose, what was the purpose? -Electricity had no soul, light and heat had no soul. Was she -herself an impersonal force, or conjunction of forces, like one -of these? She looked still at the unicellular shadow that lay -within the field of light, under her microscope. It was alive. -She saw it move--she saw the bright mist of its ciliary -activity, she saw the gleam of its nucleus, as it slid across -the plane of light. What then was its will? If it was a -conjunction of forces, physical and chemical, what held these -forces unified, and for what purpose were they unified? - -For what purpose were the incalculable physical and chemical -activities nodalized in this shadowy, moving speck under her -microscope? What was the will which nodalized them and created -the one thing she saw? What was its intention? To be itself? Was -its purpose just mechanical and limited to itself? - -It intended to be itself. But what self? Suddenly in her mind -the world gleamed strangely, with an intense light, like the -nucleus of the creature under the microscope. Suddenly she had -passed away into an intensely-gleaming light of knowledge. She -could not understand what it all was. She only knew that it was -not limited mechanical energy, nor mere purpose of -self-preservation and self-assertion. It was a consummation, a -being infinite. Self was a oneness with the infinite. To be -oneself was a supreme, gleaming triumph of infinity. - -Ursula sat abstracted over her microscope, in suspense. Her -soul was busy, infinitely busy, in the new world. In the new -world, Skrebensky was waiting for her--he would be waiting -for her. She could not go yet, because her soul was engaged. -Soon she would go. - -A stillness, like passing away, took hold of her. Far off, -down the corridors, she heard the gong booming five o'clock. She -must go. Yet she sat still. - -The other students were pushing back their stools and putting -their microscopes away. Everything broke into turmoil. She saw, -through the window, students going down the steps, with books -under their arms, talking, all talking. - -A great craving to depart came upon her. She wanted also to -be gone. She was in dread of the material world, and in dread of -her own transfiguration. She wanted to run to meet -Skrebensky--the new life, the reality. - -Very rapidly she wiped her slides and put them back, cleared -her place at the bench, active, active, active. She wanted to -run to meet Skrebensky, hasten--hasten. She did not know -what she was to meet. But it would be a new beginning. She must -hurry. - -She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and -note-books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her arm. -Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He might not be -there. - -Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew him -at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the curious -self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in well-bred -young men whom she knew. He stood as if he wished to be unseen. -He was very well-dressed. She would not admit to herself the -chill like a sunshine of frost that came over her. This was he, -the key, the nucleus to the new world. - -He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a -white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the -abstraction and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started, -excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loitering -about the hall. - -She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her -hand. He too could not perceive her. - -In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then -again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into the -town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop. - -She knew a great difference in him. The kinship was there, -the old kinship, but he had belonged to a different world from -hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce between him -and her, and in this truce they had met. She knew, vaguely, in -the first minute, that they were enemies come together in a -truce. Every movement and word of his was alien to her -being. - -Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his -skin. He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a man -now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in him. When -he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her. She thought a -man must inevitably set into this strange separateness, cold -otherness of being. He talked, but not to her. She tried to -speak to him, but she could not reach him. - -He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident -presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some of a -horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision, also -some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul was only -the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a set of habitual -actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable quick of the man -was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it. She could only feel -the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire. - -This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her? She was -puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that terrified her -with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want? His desires -were so underground. Why did he not admit himself? What did he -want? He wanted something that should be nameless. She shrank in -fear. - -Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean -male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing himself. -She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was waiting at her -feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She could take or reject. -If she rejected him, something would die in him. For him it was -life or death. And yet, all must be kept so dark, the -consciousness must admit nothing. - -"How long," she said, "are you staying in England?" - -"I am not sure--but not later than July, I believe." - -Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for six -months. They had a space of six months between them. He waited. -The same iron rigidity, as if the world were made of steel, -possessed her again. It was no use turning with flesh and blood -to this arrangement of forged metal. - -Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the -situation. - -"Have you an appointment in India?" she asked. - -"Yes--I have just the six months' leave." - -"Will you like being out there?" - -"I think so--there's a good deal of social life, and -plenty going on--hunting, polo--and always a good -horse--and plenty of work, any amount of work." - -He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own -soul. She could see him so well out there, in India--one of -the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization, lord -and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It was his -choice. He would become again an aristocrat, invested with -authority and responsibility, having a great helpless populace -beneath him. One of the ruling class, his whole being would be -given over to the fulfilling and the executing of the better -idea of the state. And in India, there would be real work to do. -The country did need the civilization which he himself -represented: it did need his roads and bridges, and the -enlightenment of which he was part. He would go to India. But -that was not her road. - -Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions -might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was waiting for -her to decide of him. It had been decided in her long ago, when -he had kissed her first. He was her lover, though good and evil -should cease. Her will never relaxed, though her heart and soul -must be imprisoned and silenced. He waited upon her, and she -accepted him. For he had come back to her. - -A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his -eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up, he -caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a tiger. -She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her heart and her -soul were shut away fast down below, hidden. She was free of -them. She was to have her satisfaction. - -She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself -forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her. His -beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast with the -rest of people, made her proud. It was like deference to her, -and made her feel as if she represented before him all the grace -and flower of humanity. She was no mere Ursula Brangwen. She was -Woman, she was the whole of Woman in the human order. -All-containing, universal, how should she be limited to -individuality? - -She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. -She had her place by him. Who should take her away? - -They came out of the cafe. - -"Is there anything you would like to do?" he said. "Is there -anything we can do?" - -It was a dark, windy night in March. - -"There is nothing to do," she said. - -Which was the answer he wanted. - -"Let us walk then--where shall we walk?" he asked. - -"Shall we go to the river?" she suggested, timidly. - -In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent -Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the dark, -far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, transported -her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big, restless -night made her feel wild. - -They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from the -lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand and -they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the darkness. -The town fumed away on their left, there were strange lights and -sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under the bridge. -They walked close together, powerful in unison. He drew her very -close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, powerful passion, as if -they had a secret agreement which held good in the profound -darkness. The profound darkness was their universe. - -"It is like it was before," she said. - -Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless -his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought one -thought. - -"I knew I should come back," he said at length. - -She quivered. - -"Did you always love me?" she asked. - -The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him -for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along. - -"I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized. "You -were always at the back of everything." - -She was silent with triumph, like fate. - -"I loved you," she said, "always." - -The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He -must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very -close, and they went on in silence. - -She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile -across the dark meadows. - -"It's only lovers," he said to her, softly. - -She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, -wondering that the darkness was inhabited. - -"Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said. - -Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the -strange darkness, the strange, blood fear. - -"I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said. "It is -soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you -are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with -terror--not fear of anything--just fear. One breathes -it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship -it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it--the -fear--something sensual." - -She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of the -darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones, about -Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to her: the -negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop one like -a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot, fecund darkness -that possessed his own blood. He was strangely secret. The whole -world must be abolished. He maddened her with his soft, -cajoling, vibrating tones. He wanted her to answer, to -understand. A turgid, teeming night, heavy with fecundity in -which every molecule of matter grew big with increase, secretly -urgent with fecund desire, seemed to come to pass. She quivered, -taut and vibrating, almost pained. And gradually, he ceased -telling her of Africa, there came a silence, whilst they walked -the darkness beside the massive river. Her limbs were rich and -tense, she felt they must be vibrating with a low, profound -vibration. She could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the -darkness could only be felt, not heard. - -Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him -fast, as if she were turned to steel. - -"Do you love me?" she cried in anguish. - -"Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. -"Yes, I love you." - -He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in the -embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed, soft, -unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of fate, the -relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and quivered, -like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her all the time, -soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her, omnipresent as -the night. He kissed her, and she quivered as if she were being -destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel vibrated, and broke in -her soul, the light fell, struggled, and went dark. She was all -dark, will-less, having only the receptive will. - -He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she -responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out. -Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed -herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down -to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and -enveloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled -over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last -fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and -she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the -very bottommost source of him. - -So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over -them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund nucleus -of the fluid darkness. - -It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness. -Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light of -consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the -unutterable satisfaction. - -They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving -to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins -fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream. - -Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a -drowse, and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness -woke up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water -lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and -soughing in gusts of wind. - -She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became -ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to catch -her train. But she did not want to draw away from contact with -him. - -At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed in -the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a bridge, the -twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of the town in -front and on their right. - -But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies -walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and -arrogant. - -"The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark -sensual arrogance. "The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, -fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the -unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water, -but what is it?--nothing, just nothing." - -In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights, the -civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved or -sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath their -pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purposefulness, the -dark stream that contained them all. They were like little paper -ships in their motion. But in reality each one was a dark, -blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark with the same -homogeneous desire. And all their talk and all their behaviour -was sham, they were dressed-up creatures. She was reminded of -the Invisible Man, who was a piece of darkness made visible only -by his clothes. - -During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the -same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes -of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be gibing -at the civic pretence of all the human life about her. - -"What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to say, -gleaming. "You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you primeval -darkness falsified to a social mechanism." - -She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, -mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest. - -"They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she -said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened, -neutralized men. "They think it better to be clerks or -professors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the -potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul asked -of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. "What do you -think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your -spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with eyes -peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your desires. -That is what you are, though nobody would believe it, and -you would be the very last to allow it." - -Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on -pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she -attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a mood -of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well enough -their two-and-two-make-four tricks. She was as clever as they -were. But care!--did she care about their monkey tricks of -knowledge or learning or civic deportment? She did not care in -the least. - -There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Outside -the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the -edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care? - -She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry in -the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own blood, she -had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had her mate, her -complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had all, -everything. - -Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He too was -free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic self to -maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets and theatres and -public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope to him, he watched as -a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed eyes watching the people -pass before its cage, the kaleidoscopic unreality of people, or -a leopard lie blinking, watching the incomprehensible feats of -the keepers. He despised it all--it was all non-existent. -Their good professors, their good clergymen, their good -political speakers, their good, earnest women--all the time -he felt his soul was grinning, grinning at the sight of them. So -many performing puppets, all wood and rag for the -performance! - -He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw the -stiff goat's legs, which have become almost stiffened to wood in -the desire to make them puppet in their action, he saw the -trousers formed to the puppet-action: man's legs, but man's legs -become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical. - -He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmering grin -was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to take part in -the performing tricks of the rest. He had discovered the clue to -himself, he had escaped from the show, like a wild beast escaped -straight back into its jungle. Having a room in a quiet hotel, -he hired a horse and rode out into the country, staying -sometimes for the night in some village, and returning the next -day. - -He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did was a -voluptuous pleasure to him--either to ride on horseback, or -to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-house. He -had no use for people, nor for words. He had an amused pleasure -in everything, a great sense of voluptuous richness in himself, -and of the fecundity of the universal night he inhabited. The -puppet shapes of people, their wood-mechanical voices, he was -remote from them. - -For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very often, -she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked with him -instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and they drove -into the country, leaving the car and going away by themselves -into the woods. He had not taken her yet. With subtle, -instinctive economy, they went to the end of each kiss, each -embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact, knowing -subconsciously that the last was coming. It was to be their -final entry into the source of creation. - -She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover with -her family. She loved having him in the house. Strange how he -seemed to come into the atmosphere of her family, with his -laughing, insidious grace. They all loved him, he was kin to -them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous mocking presence was -meat and joy to the Brangwen household. For this house was -always quivering with darkness, they put off their puppet form -when they came home, to lie and drowse in the sun. - -There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the -undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home, -Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she knew -that if they understood the real relationship between her and -Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would go mad -with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other girl who -is more or less courted by a man. And she was like any other -girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social imposition was -for the time complete and final. - -She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She -admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost consciously, -she waited. He waited, but, until the time came, more -unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss her again, -a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt his flesh go -grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition, he did not -exist, if the time passed unfulfilled. - -He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was very -dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come down the -lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They were at the end -of their kisses, and there was the silence between them. They -stood as at the edge of a cliff, with a great darkness -beneath. - -Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark -space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights of -the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting train, -the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between the wind, -the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the blackness of the -hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along the railway to the -right, their steps began to falter. They would soon come out of -the darkness into the lights. It was like turning back. It was -unfulfilment. Two quivering, unwilling creatures, they lingered -on the edge of the darkness, peering out at the lights and the -machine-glimmer beyond. They could not turn back to the -world--they could not. - -So lingering along, they came to a great oak tree by the -path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its -trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable. - -"We will sit down," he said. - -And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost -invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they lay a -moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness opposite, -saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of their -darkened field. - -Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The -pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the agony she -wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the powerful vibration -of the night. The man, what was he?--a dark, powerful -vibration that encompassed her. She passed away as on a dark -wind, far, far away, into the pristine darkness of paradise, -into the original immortality. She entered the dark fields of -immortality. - -When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was not -ashamed,--why should she be? He was walking beside her, the -man who had been with her. She had taken him, they had been -together. Whither they had gone, she did not know. But it was as -if she had received another nature. She belonged to the eternal, -changeless place into which they had leapt together. - -Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the world -of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the -foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers, she -felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past them -immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them. When she went -into the lighted dining-room at home, she was impervious to the -lights and the eyes of her parents. Her everyday self was just -the same. She merely had another, stronger self that knew the -darkness. - -This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and -pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more -herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the -young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything at all -to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal, social self, -she let it look after itself. - -Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky--not the -young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was. She -was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger than -all the world. The world was not strong--she was strong. -The world existed only in a secondary sense:--she existed -supremely. - -She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely as -a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of herself, -and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took rest in -the other. She went to college in the morning, and attended her -classes, flowering, and remote. - -She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she spent -with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country. She -made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree. But she -paid not the slightest attention to her study. - -They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of their -own consummate being made everything else so entirely -subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted, as -the days went by, was more time to themselves. They wanted the -time to be absolutely their own. - -The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go right -away. It would not matter if they did not come back. They were -indifferent to the actual facts. - -"I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather -wistfully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper -world, as it was. To make public their connection would be to -put it in range with all the things which nullified him, and -from which he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he -married he would have to assume his social self. And the thought -of assuming his social self made him at once diffident and -abstract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that -complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to do -with her? One's social wife was almost a material symbol. -Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than anything in -conventional life could be. She gave the complete lie to all -conventional life, he and she stood together, dark, fluid, -infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole which -contained them. - -He watched her pensive, puzzled face. - -"I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow -clouded. - -It piqued him rather. - -"Why not?" he asked. - -"Let's think about it afterwards, shall we?" she said. - -He was crossed, yet he loved her violently. - -"You've got a museau, not a face," he said. - -"Have I?" she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame. -She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned--he was not -satisfied. - -"Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?" - -"I don't want to be with other people," she said. "I want to -be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you." - -"All right," he said. - -He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she -took the responsibility. - -They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of -complete enjoyment. - -They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to be -his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from a shop -in a poor quarter. - -They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world. Their -confidence was like a possession upon them. They were possessed. -Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud beyond all -question, and surpassing mortal conditions. - -They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The world -was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored. Wherever they -went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm, bright, glancing -with pure pride of the senses. - -The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glamour -was cast from the young couple upon all they came into contact -with, waiters or chance acquaintances. - -"Oui, Monsieur le baron," she would reply with a -mocking courtesy to her husband. - -So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an -officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to India -immediately. - -Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed she was -a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of departure for -India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-belief. The -living fact was that he and she were man and woman, absolute and -beyond all limitation. - -The days went by--they were to have three weeks -together--in perfect success. All the time, they themselves -were reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite -careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant. He -was rather surprised when he found that he had spent twenty -pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the irritation -of having to go to the bank. The machinery of the old system -lasted for him, not the system. The money simply did not -exist. - -Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from -the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their -dressing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner -sitting-room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their -meals in their own rooms, attended by a young German called -Hans, who thought them both wonderful, and answered -assiduously: - -"Gewiss, Herr Baron--bitte sehr, Frau -Baronin." - -Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park. The -tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps of -Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park, were -becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was -clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all -night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the night, -beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a mist, -because of the dawn. - -Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened the -glass doors and went on to the giddy balcony, feeling triumphant -as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still sleeping -world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish turmoil -of unreality. - -[But the air was cold. They went into their bedroom, and bathed before -going to bed, leaving the partition doors of the bathroom open, so that -the vapour came into the bedroom and faintly dimmed the mirror. She was -always in bed first. She watched him as he bathed, his quick, unconscious -movements, the electric light glinting on his wet shoulders. He stood out -of the bath, his hair all washed flat over his forehead, and pressed the -water out of his eyes. He was slender, and, to her, perfect, a clean, -straight-cut youth, without a grain of superfluous body. The brown hair on -his body was soft and fine and adorable, he was all beautifully flushed, -as he stood in the white bath-apartment. - -He saw her warm, dark, lit-up face watching him from the pillow--yet -he did not see it--it was always present, and was to him as his own -eyes. He was never aware of the separate being of her. She was like his -own eyes and his own heart beating to him. - -So he went across to her, to get his sleeping suit. It was always a -perfect adventure to go near to her. She put her arms round him, and -snuffed his warm, softened skin. - -"Scent," she said. - -"Soap," he answered. - -"Soap," she repeated, looking up with bright eyes. They were both -laughing, always laughing.] - -Soon they were fast asleep, asleep till midday, close -together, sleeping one sleep. Then they awoke to the -ever-changing reality of their state. They alone inhabited the -world of reality. All the rest lived on a lower sphere. - -Whatever they wanted to do, they did. They saw a few -people--Dorothy, whose guest she was supposed to be, and a -couple of friends of Skrebensky, young Oxford men, who called -her Mrs. Skrebensky with entire simplicity. They treated her, -indeed, with such respect, that she began to think she was -really quite of the whole universe, of the old world as well as -of the new. She forgot she was outside the pale of the old -world. She thought she had brought it under the spell of her -own, real world. And so she had. - -In such ever-changing reality the weeks went by. All the -time, they were an unknown world to each other. Every movement -made by the one was a reality and an adventure to the other. -They did not want outside excitements. They went to very few -theatres, they were often in their sitting-room high up over -Piccadilly, with windows open on two sides, and the door open on -to the balcony, looking over the Green Park, or down upon the -minute travelling of the traffic. - -Then suddenly, looking at a sunset, she wanted to go. She -must be gone. She must be gone at once. And in two hours' time -they were at Charing Cross taking train for Paris. Paris was his -suggestion. She did not care where it was. The great joy was in -setting out. And for a few days she was happy in the novelty of -Paris. - -Then, for some reason, she must call in Rouen on the way back -to London. He had an instinctive mistrust of her desire for the -place. But, perversely, she wanted to go there. It was as if she -wanted to try its effect upon her. - -For the first time, in Rouen, he had a cold feeling of death; -not afraid of any other man, but of her. She seemed to leave -him. She followed after something that was not him. She did not -want him. The old streets, the cathedral, the age and the -monumental peace of the town took her away from him. She turned -to it as if to something she had forgotten, and wanted. This was -now the reality; this great stone cathedral slumbering there in -its mass, which knew no transience nor heard any denial. It was -majestic in its stability, its splendid absoluteness. - -Her soul began to run by itself. He did not realize, nor did -she. Yet in Rouen he had the first deadly anguish, the first -sense of the death towards which they were wandering. And she -felt the first heavy yearning, heavy, heavy hopeless warning, -almost like a deep, uneasy sinking into apathy, -hopelessness. - -They returned to London. But still they had two days. He -began to tremble, he grew feverish with the fear of her -departure. She had in her some fatal prescience, that made her -calm. What would be, would be. - -He remained fairly easy, however, still in his state of -heightened glamour, till she had gone, and he had turned away -from St. Pancras, and sat on the tram-car going up Pimlico to -the "Angel", to Moorgate Street on Sunday evening. - -Then the cold horror gradually soaked into him. He saw the -horror of the City Road, he realized the ghastly cold sordidness -of the tram-car in which he sat. Cold, stark, ashen sterility -had him surrounded. Where then was the luminous, wonderful world -he belonged to by rights? How did he come to be thrown on this -refuse-heap where he was? - -He was as if mad. The horror of the brick buildings, of the -tram-car, of the ashen-grey people in the street made him -reeling and blind as if drunk. He went mad. He had lived with -her in a close, living, pulsing world, where everything pulsed -with rich being. Now he found himself struggling amid an -ashen-dry, cold world of rigidity, dead walls and mechanical -traffic, and creeping, spectre-like people. The life was -extinct, only ash moved and stirred or stood rigid, there was a -horrible, clattering activity, a rattle like the falling of dry -slag, cold and sterile. It was as if the sunshine that fell were -unnatural light exposing the ash of the town, as if the lights -at night were the sinister gleam of decomposition. - -Quite mad, beside himself, he went to his club and sat with a -glass of whisky, motionless, as if turned to clay. He felt like -a corpse that is inhabited with just enough life to make it -appear as any other of the spectral, unliving beings which we -call people in our dead language. Her absence was worse than -pain to him. It destroyed his being. - -Dead, he went on from lunch to tea. His face was all the time -fixed and stiff and colourless, his life was a dry, mechanical -movement. Yet even he wondered slightly at the awful misery that -had overcome him. How could he be so ashlike and extinct? He -wrote her a letter. - -I have been thinking that we must get married before long. My -pay will be more when I get out to India, we shall be able to -get along. Or if you don't want to go to India, I could very -probably stay here in England. But I think you would like India. -You could ride, and you would know just everybody out there. -Perhaps if you stay on to take your degree, we might marry -immediately after that. I will write to your father as soon as I -hear from you---- - -He went on, disposing of her. If only he could be with her! -All he wanted now was to marry her, to be sure of her. Yet all -the time he was perfectly, perfectly hopeless, cold, extinct, -without emotion or connection. - -He felt as if his life were dead. His soul was extinct. The -whole being of him had become sterile, he was a spectre, -divorced from life. He had no fullness, he was just a flat -shape. Day by day the madness accumulated in him. The horror of -not-being possessed him. - -He went here, there, and everywhere. But whatever he did, he -knew that only the cipher of him was there, nothing was filled -in. He went to the theatre; what he heard and saw fell upon a -cold surface of consciousness, which was now all that he was, -there was nothing behind it, he could have no experience of any -sort. Mechanical registering took place in him, no more. He had -no being, no contents. Neither had the people he came into -contact with. They were mere permutations of known quantities. -There was no roundness or fullness in this world he now -inhabited, everything was a dead shape mental arrangement, -without life or being. - -Much of the time, he was with friends and comrades. Then he -forgot everything. Their activities made up for his own -negation, they engaged his negative horror. - -He only became happy when he drank, and he drank a good deal. -Then he was just the opposite to what he had been. He became a -warm, diffuse, glowing cloud, in a warm, diffuse formless -fashion. Everything melted down into a rosy glow, and he was the -glow, and everything was the glow, everybody else was the glow, -and it was very nice, very nice. He would sing songs, it was so -nice. - -Ursula went back to Beldover shut and firm. She loved -Skrebensky, of that she was resolved. She would allow nothing -else. - -She read his long, obsessed letter about getting married and -going to India, without any particular response. She seemed to -ignore what he said about marriage. It did not come home to her. -He seemed, throughout the greater part of his letter, to be -talking without much meaning. - -She replied to him pleasantly and easily. She rarely wrote -long letters. - -India sounds lovely. I can just see myself on an elephant -swaying between lanes of obsequious natives. But I don't know if -father would let me go. We must see. - -I keep living over again the lovely times we have had. But I -don't think you liked me quite so much towards the end, did you? -You did not like me when we left Paris. Why didn't you? - -I love you very much. I love your body. It is so clear and -fine. I am glad you do not go naked, or all the women would fall -in love with you. I am very jealous of it, I love it so -much. - -He was more or less satisfied with this letter. But day after -day he was walking about, dead, non-existent. - -He could not come again to Nottingham until the end of April. -Then he persuaded her to go with him for a week-end to a -friend's house near Oxford. By this time they were engaged. He -had written to her father, and the thing was settled. He brought -her an emerald ring, of which she was very proud. - -Her people treated her now with a little distance, as if she -had already left them. They left her very much alone. - -She went with him for the three days in the country house -near Oxford. It was delicious, and she was very happy. But the -thing she remembered most was when, getting up in the morning -after he had gone back quietly to his own room, having spent the -night with her, she found herself very rich in being alone, and -enjoying to the full her solitary room, she drew up her blind -and saw the plum trees in the garden below all glittering and -snowy and delighted with the sunshine, in full bloom under a -blue sky. They threw out their blossom, they flung it out under -the blue heavens, the whitest blossom! How excited it made -her. - -She had to hurry through her dressing to go and walk in the -garden under the plum trees, before anyone should come and talk -to her. Out she slipped, and paced like a queen in fairy -pleasaunces. The blossom was silver-shadowy when she looked up -from under the tree at the blue sky. There was a faint scent, a -faint noise of bees, a wonderful quickness of happy morning. - -She heard the breakfast gong and went indoors. - -"Where have you been?" asked the others. - -"I had to go out under the plum trees," she said, her face -glowing like a flower. "It is so lovely." - -A shadow of anger crossed Skrebensky's soul. She had not -wanted him to be there. He hardened his will. - -At night there was a moon, and the blossom glistened ghostly, -they went together to look at it. She saw the moonlight on his -face as he waited near her, and his features were like silver -and his eyes in shadow were unfathomable. She was in love with -him. He was very quiet. - -They went indoors and she pretended to be tired. So she went -quickly to bed. - -"Don't be long coming to me," she whispered, as she was -supposed to be kissing him good night. - -And he waited, intent, obsessed, for the moment when he could -come to her. - -She enjoyed him, she made much of him. She liked to put her -fingers on the soft skin of his sides, or on the softness of his -back, when he made the muscles hard underneath, the muscles -developed very strong through riding; and she had a great thrill -of excitement and passion, because of the unimpressible hardness -of his body, that was so soft and smooth under her fingers, that -came to her with such absolute service. - -She owned his body and enjoyed it with all the delight and -carelessness of a possessor. But he had become gradually afraid -of her body. He wanted her, he wanted her endlessly. But there -had come a tension into his desire, a constraint which prevented -his enjoying the delicious approach and the lovable close of the -endless embrace. He was afraid. His will was always tense, -fixed. - -Her final examination was at midsummer. She insisted on -sitting for it, although she had neglected her work during the -past months. He also wanted her to go in for the degree. Then, -he thought, she would be satisfied. Secretly he hoped she would -fail, so that she would be more glad of him. - -"Would you rather live in India or in England when we are -married?" he asked her. - -"Oh, in India, by far," she said, with a careless lack of -consideration which annoyed him. - -Once she said, with heat: - -"I shall be glad to leave England. Everything is so meagre -and paltry, it is so unspiritual--I hate democracy." - -He became angry to hear her talk like this, he did not know -why. Somehow, he could not bear it, when she attacked things. It -was as if she were attacking him. - -"What do you mean?" he asked her, hostile. "Why do you hate -democracy?" - -"Only the greedy and ugly people come to the top in a -democracy," she said, "because they're the only people who will -push themselves there. Only degenerate races are -democratic." - -"What do you want then--an aristocracy?" he asked, -secretly moved. He always felt that by rights he belonged to the -ruling aristocracy. Yet to hear her speak for his class pained -him with a curious, painful pleasure. He felt he was acquiescing -in something illegal, taking to himself some wrong, -reprehensible advantages. - -"I do want an aristocracy," she cried. "And I'd far -rather have an aristocracy of birth than of money. Who are the -aristocrats now--who are chosen as the best to rule? Those -who have money and the brains for money. It doesn't matter what -else they have: but they must have money-brains,--because -they are ruling in the name of money." - -"The people elect the government," he said. - -"I know they do. But what are the people? Each one of them is -a money-interest. I hate it, that anybody is my equal who has -the same amount of money as I have. I know I am better -than all of them. I hate them. They are not my equals. I hate -equality on a money basis. It is the equality of dirt." - -Her eyes blazed at him, he felt as if she wanted to destroy -him. She had gripped him and was trying to break him. His anger -sprang up, against her. At least he would fight for his -existence with her. A hard, blind resistance possessed him. - -"I don't care about money," he said, "neither do I -want to put my finger in the pie. I am too sensitive about my -finger." - -"What is your finger to me?" she cried, in a passion. "You -with your dainty fingers, and your going to India because you -will be one of the somebodies there! It's a mere dodge, your -going to India." - -"In what way a dodge?" he cried, white with anger and -fear. - -"You think the Indians are simpler than us, and so you'll -enjoy being near them and being a lord over them," she said. -"And you'll feel so righteous, governing them for their own -good. Who are you, to feel righteous? What are you righteous -about, in your governing? Your governing stinks. What do you -govern for, but to make things there as dead and mean as they -are here!" - -"I don't feel righteous in the least," he said. - -"Then what do you feel? It's all such a nothingness, -what you feel and what you don't feel." - -"What do you feel yourself?" he said. "Aren't you righteous -in your own mind?" - -"Yes, I am, because I'm against you, and all your old, dead -things," she cried. - -She seemed, with the last words, uttered in hard knowledge, -to strike down the flag that he kept flying. He felt cut off at -the knees, a figure made worthless. A horrible sickness gripped -him, as if his legs were really cut away, and he could not move, -but remained a crippled trunk, dependent, worthless. The ghastly -sense of helplessness, as if he were a mere figure that did not -exist vitally, made him mad, beside himself. - -Now, even whilst he was with her, this death of himself came -over him, when he walked about like a body from which all -individual life is gone. In this state he neither heard nor saw -nor felt, only the mechanism of his life continued. - -He hated her, as far as, in this state, he could hate. His -cunning suggested to him all the ways of making her esteem him. -For she did not esteem him. He left her and did not write to -her. He flirted with other women, with Gudrun. - -This last made her very fierce. She was still fiercely -jealous of his body. In passionate anger she upbraided him -because, not being man enough to satisfy one woman, he hung -round others. - -["Don't I satisfy you?" he asked of her, again going white to the throat. - -"No," she said. "You've never satisfied me since the first week in London. -You never satisfy me now. What does it mean to me, your having me--"] -She lifted her shoulders and turned aside her face in a motion of cold, -indifferent worthlessness. He felt he would kill her. - -When she had roused him to a pitch of madness, when she saw -his eyes all dark and mad with suffering, then a great suffering -overcame her soul, a great, inconquerable suffering. And she -loved him. For, oh, she wanted to love him. Stronger than life -or death was her craving to be able to love him. - -And at such moments, when he was made with her destroying -him, when all his complacency was destroyed, all his everyday -self was broken, and only the stripped, rudimentary, primal man -remained, demented with torture, her passion to love him became -love, she took him again, they came together in an overwhelming -passion, in which he knew he satisfied her. - -But it all contained a developing germ of death. After each -contact, her anguished desire for him or for that which she -never had from him was stronger, her love was more hopeless. -After each contact his mad dependence on her was deepened, his -hope of standing strong and taking her in his own strength was -weakened. He felt himself a mere attribute of her. - -Whitsuntide came, just before her examination. She was to -have a few days of rest. Dorothy had inherited her patrimony, -and had taken a cottage in Sussex. She invited them to stay with -her. - -They went down to Dorothy's neat, low cottage at the foot of -the downs. Here they could do as they liked. Ursula was always -yearning to go to the top of the downs. The white track wound up -to the rounded summit. And she must go. - -Up there, she could see the Channel a few miles away, the sea -raised up and faintly glittering in the sky, the Isle of Wight a -shadow lifted in the far distance, the river winding bright -through the patterned plain to seaward, Arundel Castle a shadowy -bulk, and then the rolling of the high, smooth downs, making a -high, smooth land under heaven, acknowledging only the heavens -in their great, sun-glowing strength, and suffering only a few -bushes to trespass on the intercourse between their great, -unabateable body and the changeful body of the sky. - -Below she saw the villages and the woods of the weald, and -the train running bravely, a gallant little thing, running with -all the importance of the world over the water meadows and into -the gap of the downs, waving its white steam, yet all the while -so little. So little, yet its courage carried it from end to end -of the earth, till there was no place where it did not go. Yet -the downs, in magnificent indifference, bearing limbs and body -to the sun, drinking sunshine and sea-wind and sea-wet cloud -into its golden skin, with superb stillness and calm of being, -was not the downs still more wonderful? The blind, pathetic, -energetic courage of the train as it steamed tinily away through -the patterned levels to the sea's dimness, so fast and so -energetic, made her weep. Where was it going? It was going -nowhere, it was just going. So blind, so without goal or aim, -yet so hasty! She sat on an old prehistoric earth-work and -cried, and the tears ran down her face. The train had tunnelled -all the earth, blindly, and uglily. - -And she lay face downwards on the downs, that were so strong, -that cared only for their intercourse with the everlasting -skies, and she wished she could become a strong mound smooth -under the sky, bosom and limbs bared to all winds and clouds and -bursts of sunshine. - -But she must get up again and look down from her foothold of -sunshine, down and away at the patterned, level earth, with its -villages and its smoke and its energy. So shortsighted the train -seemed, running to the distance, so terrifying in their -littleness the villages, with such pettiness in their -activity. - -Skrebensky wandered dazed, not knowing where he was or what -he was doing with her. All her passion seemed to be to wander up -there on the downs, and when she must descend to earth, she was -heavy. Up there she was exhilarated and free. - -She would not love him in a house any more. She said she -hated houses, and particularly she hated beds. There was -something distasteful in his coming to her bed. - -She would stay the night on the downs, up there, he with her. -It was midsummer, the days were glamorously long. At about -half-past ten, when the bluey-black darkness had at last fallen, -they took rugs and climbed the steep track to the summit of the -downs, he and she. - -Up there, the stars were big, the earth below was gone into -darkness. She was free up there with the stars. Far out they saw -tiny yellow lights--but it was very far out, at sea, or on -land. She was free up among the stars. - -She took off her clothes, and made him take off all his, and -they ran over the smooth, moonless turf, a long way, more than a -mile from where they had left their clothing, running in the -dark, soft wind, utterly naked, as naked as the downs -themselves. Her hair was loose and blew about her shoulders, she -ran swiftly, wearing sandals when she set off on the long run to -the dew-pond. - -In the round dew-pond the stars were untroubled. She ventured -softly into the water, grasping at the stars with her hands. - -And then suddenly she started back, running swiftly. He was -there, beside her, but only on sufferance. He was a screen for -her fears. He served her. She took him, she clasped him, -clenched him close, but her eyes were open looking at the stars, -it was as if the stars were lying with her and entering the -unfathomable darkness of her womb, fathoming her at last. It was -not him. - -The dawn came. They stood together on a high place, an -earthwork of the stone-age men, watching for the light. It came -over the land. But the land was dark. She watched a pale rim on -the sky, away against the darkened land. The darkness became -bluer. A little wind was running in from the sea behind. It -seemed to be running to the pale rift of the dawn. And she and -he darkly, on an outpost of the darkness, stood watching for the -dawn. - -The light grew stronger, gushing up against the dark sapphire -of the transparent night. The light grew stronger, whiter, then -over it hovered a flush of rose. A flush of rose, and then -yellow, pale, new-created yellow, the whole quivering and -poising momentarily over the fountain on the sky's rim. - -The rose hovered and quivered, burned, fused to flame, to a -transient red, while the yellow urged out in great waves, thrown -from the ever-increasing fountain, great waves of yellow -flinging into the sky, scattering its spray over the darkness, -which became bluer and bluer, paler, till soon it would itself -be a radiance, which had been darkness. - -The sun was coming. There was a quivering, a powerful -terrifying swim of molten light. Then the molten source itself -surged forth, revealing itself. The sun was in the sky, too -powerful to look at. - -And the ground beneath lay so still, so peaceful. Only now -and again a cock crew. Otherwise, from the distant yellow hills -to the pine trees at the foot of the downs, everything was newly -washed into being, in a flood of new, golden creation. - -It was so unutterably still and perfect with promise, the -golden-lighted, distinct land, that Ursula's soul rocked and -wept. Suddenly he glanced at her. The tears were running over -her cheeks, her mouth was working strangely. - -"What is the matter?" he asked. - -After a moment's struggle with her voice. - -"It is so beautiful," she said, looking at the glowing, -beautiful land. It was so beautiful, so perfect, and so -unsullied. - -He too realized what England would be in a few hours' -time--a blind, sordid, strenuous activity, all for nothing, -fuming with dirty smoke and running trains and groping in the -bowels of the earth, all for nothing. A ghastliness came over -him. - -He looked at Ursula. Her face was wet with tears, very -bright, like a transfiguration in the refulgent light. Nor was -his the hand to wipe away the burning, bright tears. He stood -apart, overcome by a cruel ineffectuality. - -Gradually a great, helpless sorrow was rising in him. But as -yet he was fighting it away, he was struggling for his own life. -He became very quiet and unaware of the things about him, -awaiting, as it were, her judgment on him. - -They returned to Nottingham, the time of her examination -came. She must go to London. But she would not stay with him in -an hotel. She would go to a quiet little pension near the -British Museum. - -Those quiet residential squares of London made a great -impression on her mind. They were very complete. Her mind seemed -imprisoned in their quietness. Who was going to liberate -her? - -In the evening, her practical examinations being over, he -went with her to dinner at one of the hotels down the river, -near Richmond. It was golden and beautiful, with yellow water -and white and scarlet-striped boat-awnings, and blue shadows -under the trees. - -"When shall we be married?" he asked her, quietly, simply, as -if it were a mere question of comfort. - -She watched the changing pleasure-traffic of the river. He -looked at her golden, puzzled museau. The knot gathered -in his throat. - -"I don't know," she said. - -A hot grief gripped his throat. - -"Why don't you know--don't you want to be married?" he -asked her. - -Her head turned slowly, her face, puzzled, like a boy's face, -expressionless because she was trying to think, looked towards -his face. She did not see him, because she was pre-occupied. She -did not quite know what she was going to say. - -"I don't think I want to be married," she said, and her -naive, troubled, puzzled eyes rested a moment on his, then -travelled away, pre-occupied. - -"Do you mean never, or not just yet?" he asked. - -The knot in his throat grew harder, his face was drawn as if -he were being strangled. - -"I mean never," she said, out of some far self which spoke -for once beyond her. - -His drawn, strangled face watched her blankly for a few -moments, then a strange sound took place in his throat. She -started, came to herself, and, horrified, saw him. His head made -a queer motion, the chin jerked back against the throat, the -curious, crowing, hiccupping sound came again, his face twisted -like insanity, and he was crying, crying blind and twisted as if -something were broken which kept him in control. - -"Tony--don't," she cried, starting up. - -It tore every one of her nerves to see him. He made groping -movements to get out of his chair. But he was crying -uncontrollably, noiselessly, with his face twisted like a mask, -contorted and the tears running down the amazing grooves in his -cheeks. Blindly, his face always this horrible working mask, he -groped for his hat, for his way down from the terrace. It was -eight o'clock, but still brightly light. The other people were -staring. In great agitation, part of which was exasperation, she -stayed behind, paid the waiter with a half-sovereign, took her -yellow silk coat, then followed Skrebensky. - -She saw him walking with brittle, blind steps along the path -by the river. She could tell by the strange stiffness and -brittleness of his figure that he was still crying. Hurrying -after him, running, she took his arm. - -"Tony," she cried, "don't! Why are you like this? What are -you doing this for? Don't. It's not necessary." - -He heard, and his manhood was cruelly, coldly defaced. Yet it -was no good. He could not gain control of his face. His face, -his breast, were weeping violently, as if automatically. His -will, his knowledge had nothing to do with it. He simply could -not stop. - -She walked holding his arm, silent with exasperation and -perplexity and pain. He took the uncertain steps of a blind man, -because his mind was blind with weeping. - -"Shall we go home? Shall we have a taxi?" she said. - -He could pay no attention. Very flustered, very agitated, she -signalled indefinitely to a taxi-cab that was going slowly by. -The driver saluted and drew up. She opened the door and pushed -Skrebensky in, then took her own place. Her face was uplifted, -the mouth closed down, she looked hard and cold and ashamed. She -winced as the driver's dark red face was thrust round upon her, -a full-blooded, animal face with black eyebrows and a thick, -short-cut moustache. - -"Where to, lady?" he said, his white teeth showing. Again for -a moment she was flustered. - -"Forty, Rutland Square," she said. - -He touched his cap and stolidly set the car in motion. He -seemed to have a league with her to ignore Skrebensky. - -The latter sat as if trapped within the taxi-cab, his face -still working, whilst occasionally he made quick slight -movements of the head, to shake away his tears. He never moved -his hands. She could not bear to look at him. She sat with face -uplifted and averted to the window. - -At length, when she had regained some control over herself, -she turned again to him. He was much quieter. His face was wet, -and twitched occasionally, his hands still lay motionless. But -his eyes were quite still, like a washed sky after rain, full of -a wan light, and quite steady, almost ghost-like. - -A pain flamed in her womb, for him. - -"I didn't think I should hurt you," she said, laying her hand -very lightly, tentatively, on his arm. "The words came without -my knowing. They didn't mean anything, really." - -He remained quite still, hearing, but washed all wan and -without feeling. She waited, looking at him, as if he were some -curious, not-understandable creature. - -"You won't cry again, will you, Tony?" - -Some shame and bitterness against her burned him in the -question. She noticed how his moustache was soddened wet with -tears. Taking her handkerchief, she wiped his face. The driver's -heavy, stolid back remained always turned to them, as if -conscious but indifferent. Skrebensky sat motionless whilst -Ursula wiped his face, softly, carefully, and yet clumsily, not -as well as he would have wiped it himself. - -Her handkerchief was too small. It was soon wet through. She -groped in his pocket for his own. Then, with its more ample -capacity, she carefully dried his face. He remained motionless -all the while. Then she drew his cheek to hers and kissed him. -His face was cold. Her heart was hurt. She saw the tears welling -quickly to his eyes again. As if he were a child, she again -wiped away his tears. By now she herself was on the point of -weeping. Her underlip was caught between her teeth. - -So she sat still, for fear of her own tears, sitting close by -him, holding his hand warm and close and loving. Meanwhile the -car ran on, and a soft, midsummer dusk began to gather. For a -long while they sat motionless. Only now and again her hand -closed more closely, lovingly, over his hand, then gradually -relaxed. - -The dusk began to fall. One or two lights appeared. The -driver drew up to light his lamps. Skrebensky moved for the -first time, leaning forward to watch the driver. His face had -always the same still, clarified, almost childlike look, -impersonal. - -They saw the driver's strange, full, dark face peering into -the lamps under drawn brows. Ursula shuddered. It was the face -almost of an animal yet of a quick, strong, wary animal that had -them within its knowledge, almost within its power. She clung -closer to Krebensky. - -"My love?" she said to him, questioningly, when the car was -again running in full motion. - -He made no movement or sound. He let her hold his hand, he -let her reach forward, in the gathering darkness, and kiss his -still cheek. The crying had gone by--he would not cry any -more. He was whole and himself again. - -"My love," she repeated, trying to make him notice her. But -as yet he could not. - -He watched the road. They were running by Kensington Gardens. -For the first time his lips opened. - -"Shall we get out and go into the park," he asked. - -"Yes," she said, quietly, not sure what was coming. - -After a moment he took the tube from its peg. She saw the -stout, strong, self-contained driver lean his head. - -"Stop at Hyde Park Corner." - -The dark head nodded, the car ran on just the same. - -Presently they pulled up. Skrebensky paid the man. Ursula -stood back. She saw the driver salute as he received his tip, -and then, before he set the car in motion, turn and look at her, -with his quick, powerful, animal's look, his eyes very -concentrated and the whites of his eyes flickering. Then he -drove away into the crowd. He had let her go. She had been -afraid. - -Skrebensky turned with her into the park. A band was still -playing and the place was thronged with people. They listened to -the ebbing music, then went aside to a dark seat, where they sat -closely, hand in hand. - -Then at length, as out of the silence, she said to him, -wondering: - -"What hurt you so?" - -She really did not know, at this moment. - -"When you said you wanted never to marry me," he replied, -with a childish simplicity. - -"But why did that hurt you so?" she said. "You needn't mind -everything I say so particularly." - -"I don't know--I didn't want to do it," he said, humbly, -ashamed. - -She pressed his hand warmly. They sat close together, -watching the soldiers go by with their sweethearts, the lights -trailing in myriads down the great thoroughfares that beat on -the edge of the park. - -"I didn't know you cared so much," she said, also humbly. - -"I didn't," he said. "I was knocked over myself.--But I -care--all the world." - -His voice was so quiet and colourless, it made her heart go -pale with fear. - -"My love!" she said, drawing near to him. But she spoke out -of fear, not out of love. - -"I care all the world--I care for nothing -else--neither in life nor in death," he said, in the same -steady, colourless voice of essential truth. - -"Than for what?" she murmured duskily. - -"Than for you--to be with me." - -And again she was afraid. Was she to be conquered by this? -She cowered close to him, very close to him. They sat perfectly -still, listening to the great, heavy, beating sound of the town, -the murmur of lovers going by, the footsteps of soldiers. - -She shivered against him. - -"You are cold?" he said. - -"A little." - -"We will go and have some supper." - -He was now always quiet and decided and remote, very -beautiful. He seemed to have some strange, cold power over -her. - -They went to a restaurant, and drank chianti. But his pale, -wan look did not go away. - -"Don't leave me to-night," he said at length, looking at her, -pleading. He was so strange and impersonal, she was afraid. - -"But the people of my place," she said, quivering. - -"I will explain to them--they know we are engaged." - -She sat pale and mute. He waited. - -"Shall we go?" he said at length. - -"Where?" - -"To an hotel." - -Her heart was hardened. Without answering, she rose to -acquiesce. But she was now cold and unreal. Yet she could not -refuse him. It seemed like fate, a fate she did not want. - -They went to an Italian hotel somewhere, and had a sombre -bedroom with a very large bed, clean, but sombre. The ceiling -was painted with a bunch of flowers in a big medallion over the -bed. She thought it was pretty. - -He came to her, and cleaved to her very close, like steel -cleaving and clinching on to her. Her passion was roused, it was -fierce but cold. But it was fierce, and extreme, and good, their -passion this night. He slept with her fast in his arms. All -night long he held her fast against him. She was passive, -acquiscent. But her sleep was not very deep nor very real. - -She woke in the morning to a sound of water dashed on a -courtyard, to sunlight streaming through a lattice. She thought -she was in a foreign country. And Skrebensky was there an -incubus upon her. - -She lay still, thinking, whilst his arm was round her, his -head against her shoulders, his body against hers, just behind -her. He was still asleep. - -She watched the sunshine coming in bars through the -persiennes, and her immediate surroundings again melted -away. - -She was in some other land, some other world, where the old -restraints had dissolved and vanished, where one moved freely, -not afraid of one's fellow men, nor wary, nor on the defensive, -but calm, indifferent, at one's ease. Vaguely, in a sort of -silver light, she wandered at large and at ease. The bonds of -the world were broken. This world of England had vanished away. -She heard a voice in the yard below calling: - -"O Giovann'--O'-O'-O'-Giovann'----!" - -And she knew she was in a new country, in a new life. It was -very delicious to lie thus still, with one's soul wandering -freely and simply in the silver light of some other, simpler, -more finely natural world. - -But always there was a foreboding waiting to command her. She -became more aware of Skrebensky. She knew he was waking up. She -must modify her soul, depart from her further world, for -him. - -She knew he was awake. He lay still, with a concrete -stillness, not as when he slept. Then his arm tightened almost -convulsively upon her, and he said, half timidly: - -"Did you sleep well?" - -"Very well." - -"So did I." - -There was a pause. - -"And do you love me?" he asked. - -She turned and looked at him searchingly. He seemed outside -her. - -"I do," she said. - -But she said it out of complacency and a desire not to be -harried. There was a curious breach of silence between them, -which frightened him. - -They lay rather late, then he rang for breakfast. She wanted -to be able to go straight downstairs and away from the place, -when she got up. She was happy in this room, but the thought of -the publicity of the hall downstairs rather troubled her. - -A young Italian, a Sicilian, dark and slightly pock-marked, -buttoned up in a sort of grey tunic, appeared with the tray. His -face had an almost African imperturbability, impassive, -incomprehensible. - -"One might be in Italy," Skrebensky said to him, genially. A -vacant look, almost like fear, came on the fellow's face. He did -not understand. - -"This is like Italy," Skrebensky explained. - -The face of the Italian flashed with a non-comprehending -smile, he finished setting out the tray, and was gone. He did -not understand: he would understand nothing: he disappeared from -the door like a half-domesticated wild animal. It made Ursula -shudder slightly, the quick, sharp-sighted, intent animality of -the man. - -Skrebensky was beautiful to her this morning, his face -softened and transfused with suffering and with love, his -movements very still and gentle. He was beautiful to her, but -she was detached from him by a chill distance. Always she seemed -to be bearing up against the distance that separated them. But -he was unaware. This morning he was transfused and beautiful. -She admired his movements, the way he spread honey on his roll, -or poured out the coffee. - -When breakfast was over, she lay still again on the pillows, -whilst he went through his toilet. She watched him, as he -sponged himself, and quickly dried himself with the towel. His -body was beautiful, his movements intent and quick, she admired -him and she appreciated him without reserve. He seemed completed -now. He aroused no fruitful fecundity in her. He seemed added -up, finished. She knew him all round, not on any side did he -lead into the unknown. Poignant, almost passionate appreciation -she felt for him, but none of the dreadful wonder, none of the -rich fear, the connection with the unknown, or the reverence of -love. He was, however, unaware this morning. His body was quiet -and fulfilled, his veins complete with satisfaction, he was -happy, finished. - -Again she went home. But this time he went with her. He -wanted to stay by her. He wanted her to marry him. It was -already July. In early September he must sail for India. He -could not bear to think of going alone. She must come with him. -Nervously, he kept beside her. - -Her examination was finished, her college career was over. -There remained for her now to marry or to work again. She -applied for no post. It was concluded she would marry. India -tempted her--the strange, strange land. But with the -thought of Calcutta, or Bombay, or of Simla, and of the European -population, India was no more attractive to her than -Nottingham. - -She had failed in her examination: she had gone down: she had -not taken her degree. It was a blow to her. It hardened her -soul. - -"It doesn't matter," he said. "What are the odds, whether you -are a Bachelor of Arts or not, according to the London -University? All you know, you know, and if you are Mrs. -Skrebensky, the B.A. is meaningless." - -Instead of consoling her, this made her harder, more -ruthless. She was now up against her own fate. It was for her to -choose between being Mrs. Skrebensky, even Baroness Skrebensky, -wife of a lieutenant in the Royal Engineers, the Sappers, as he -called them, living with the European population in -India--or being Ursula Brangwen, spinster, school-mistress. -She was qualified by her Intermediate Arts examination. She -would probably even now get a post quite easily as assistant in -one of the higher grade schools, or even in Willey Green School. -Which was she to do? - -She hated most of all entering the bondage of teaching once -more. Very heartily she detested it. Yet at the thought of -marriage and living with Skrebensky amid the European population -in India, her soul was locked and would not budge. She had very -little feeling about it: only there was a deadlock. - -Skrebensky waited, she waited, everybody waited for the -decision. When Anton talked to her, and seemed insidiously to -suggest himself as a husband to her, she knew how utterly locked -out he was. On the other hand, when she saw Dorothy, and -discussed the matter, she felt she would marry him promptly, at -once, as a sharp disavowal of adherence with Dorothy's -views. - -The situation was almost ridiculous. - -"But do you love him?" asked Dorothy. - -"It isn't a question of loving him," said Ursula. "I love him -well enough--certainly more than I love anybody else in the -world. And I shall never love anybody else the same again. We -have had the flower of each other. But I don't care about love. -I don't value it. I don't care whether I love or whether I -don't, whether I have love or whether I haven't. What is it to -me?" - -And she shrugged her shoulders in fierce, angry contempt. - -Dorothy pondered, rather angry and afraid. - -"Then what do you care about?" she asked, -exasperated. - -"I don't know," said Ursula. "But something impersonal. -Love--love--love--what does it mean--what -does it amount to? So much personal gratification. It doesn't -lead anywhere." - -"It isn't supposed to lead anywhere, is it?" said Dorothy, -satirically. "I thought it was the one thing which is an end in -itself." - -"Then what does it matter to me?" cried Ursula. "As an end in -itself, I could love a hundred men, one after the other. Why -should I end with a Skrebensky? Why should I not go on, and love -all the types I fancy, one after another, if love is an end in -itself? There are plenty of men who aren't Anton, whom I could -love--whom I would like to love." - -"Then you don't love him," said Dorothy. - -"I tell you I do;--quite as much, and perhaps more than -I should love any of the others. Only there are plenty of things -that aren't in Anton that I would love in the other men." - -"What, for instance?" - -"It doesn't matter. But a sort of strong understanding, in -some men, and then a dignity, a directness, something -unquestioned that there is in working men, and then a jolly, -reckless passionateness that you see--a man who could -really let go----" - -Dorothy could feel that Ursula was already hankering after -something else, something that this man did not give her. - -"The question is, what do you want," propounded -Dorothy. "Is it just other men?" - -Ursula was silenced. This was her own dread. Was she just -promiscuous? - -"Because if it is," continued Dorothy, "you'd better marry -Anton. The other can only end badly." - -So out of fear of herself Ursula was to marry Skrebensky. - -He was very busy now, preparing to go to India. He must visit -relatives and contract business. He was almost sure of Ursula -now. She seemed to have given in. And he seemed to become again -an important, self-assured man. - -It was the first week in August, and he was one of a large -party in a bungalow on the Lincolnshire coast. It was a tennis, -golf, motor-car, motor-boat party, given by his great-aunt, a -lady of social pretensions. Ursula was invited to spend the week -with the party. - -She went rather reluctantly. Her marriage was more or less -fixed for the twenty-eighth of the month. They were to sail for -India on September the fifth. One thing she knew, in her -subconsciousness, and that was, she would never sail for -India. - -She and Anton, being important guests on account of the -coming marriage, had rooms in the large bungalow. It was a big -place, with a great central hall, two smaller writing-rooms, and -then two corridors from which opened eight or nine bedrooms. -Skrebensky was put on one corridor, Ursula on the other. They -felt very lost, in the crowd. - -Being lovers, however, they were allowed to be out alone -together as much as they liked. Yet she felt very strange, in -this crowd of strange people, uneasy, as if she had no privacy. -She was not used to these homogeneous crowds. She was -afraid. - -She felt different from the rest of them, with their hard, -easy, shallow intimacy, that seemed to cost them so little. She -felt she was not pronounced enough. It was a kind of -hold-your-own unconventional atmosphere. - -She did not like it. In crowds, in assemblies of people, she -liked formality. She felt she did not produce the right effect. -She was not effective: she was not beautiful: she was nothing. -Even before Skrebensky she felt unimportant, almost inferior. He -could take his part very well with the rest. - -He and she went out into the night. There was a moon behind -clouds, shedding a diffused light, gleaming now and again in -bits of smoky mother-of-pearl. So they walked together on the -wet, ribbed sands near the sea, hearing the run of the long, -heavy waves, that made a ghostly whiteness and a whisper. - -He was sure of himself. As she walked, the soft silk of her -dress--she wore a blue shantung, full-skirted--blew -away from the sea and flapped and clung to her legs. She wished -it would not. Everything seemed to give her away, and she could -not rouse herself to deny, she was so confused. - -He would lead her away to a pocket in the sand-hills, secret -amid the grey thorn-bushes and the grey, glassy grass. He held -her close against him, felt all her firm, unutterably desirable -mould of body through the fine fibre of the silk that fell about -her limbs. The silk, slipping fierily on the hidden, yet -revealed roundness and firmness of her body, her loins, seemed -to run in him like fire, make his brain burn like brimstone. She -liked it, the electric fire of the silk under his hands upon her -limbs, the fire flew over her, as he drew nearer and nearer to -discovery. She vibrated like a jet of electric, firm fluid in -response. Yet she did not feel beautiful. All the time, she felt -she was not beautiful to him, only exciting. [She let him take her, -and he seemed mad, mad with excited passion. But she, as she lay -afterwards on the cold, soft sand, looking up at the blotted, -faintly luminous sky, felt that she was as cold now as she -had been before. Yet he, breathing heavily, seemed almost savagely -satisfied. He seemed revenged. - -A little wind wafted the sea grass and passed over her face. Where was the -supreme fulfilment she would never enjoy? Why was she so cold, so -unroused, so indifferent? - -As they went home, and she saw the many, hateful lights of the bungalow, -of several bungalows in a group, he said softly: - -"Don't lock your door." - -"I'd rather, here," she said. - -"No, don't. We belong to each other. Don't let us deny it." - -She did not answer. He took her silence for consent. - -He shared his room with another man. - -"I suppose," he said, "it won't alarm the house if I go across to happier -regions." - -"So long as you don't make a great row going, and don't try the wrong -door," said the other man, turning in to sleep. - -Skrebensky went out in his wide-striped sleeping suit. He crossed the big -dining hall, whose low firelight smelled of cigars and whisky and coffee, -entered the other corridor and found Ursula's room. She was lying awake, -wide-eyed and suffering. She was glad he had come, if only for -consolation. It was consolation to be held in his arms, to feel his body -against hers. Yet how foreign his arms and body were! Yet still, not so -horribly foreign and hostile as the rest of the house felt to her. - -She did not know how she suffered in this house. She was -healthy and exorbitantly full of interest. So she played tennis -and learned golf, she rowed out and swam in the deep sea, and -enjoyed it very much indeed, full of zest. Yet all the time, -among those others, she felt shocked and wincing, as if her -violently-sensitive nakedness were exposed to the hard, brutal, -material impact of the rest of the people. - -The days went by unmarked, in a full, almost strenuous -enjoyment of one's own physique. Skrebensky was one among the -others, till evening came, and he took her for himself. She was -allowed a great deal of freedom and was treated with a good deal -of respect, as a girl on the eve of marriage, about to depart -for another continent. - -The trouble began at evening. Then a yearning for something -unknown came over her, a passion for something she knew not -what. She would walk the foreshore alone after dusk, expecting, -expecting something, as if she had gone to a rendezvous. The -salt, bitter passion of the sea, its indifference to the earth, -its swinging, definite motion, its strength, its attack, and its -salt burning, seemed to provoke her to a pitch of madness, -tantalizing her with vast suggestions of fulfilment. And then, -for personification, would come Skrebensky, Skrebensky, whom she -knew, whom she was fond of, who was attractive, but whose soul -could not contain her in its waves of strength, nor his breast -compel her in burning, salty passion. - -One evening they went out after dinner, across the low golf -links to the dunes and the sea. The sky had small, faint stars, -all was still and faintly dark. They walked together in silence, -then ploughed, labouring, through the heavy loose sand of the -gap between the dunes. They went in silence under the even, -faint darkness, in the darker shadow of the sandhills. - -Suddenly, cresting the heavy, sandy pass, Ursula lifted her -head, and shrank back, momentarily frightened. There was a great -whiteness confronting her, the moon was incandescent as a round -furnace door, out of which came the high blast of moonlight, -over the seaward half of the world, a dazzling, terrifying glare -of white light. They shrank back for a moment into shadow, -uttering a cry. He felt his chest laid bare, where the secret -was heavily hidden. He felt himself fusing down to nothingness, -like a bead that rapidly disappears in an incandescent -flame. - -"How wonderful!" cried Ursula, in low, calling tones. "How -wonderful!" - -And she went forward, plunging into it. He followed behind. -She too seemed to melt into the glare, towards the moon. - -The sands were as ground silver, the sea moved in solid -brightness, coming towards them, and she went to meet the -advance of the flashing, buoyant water. [She gave her breast -to the moon, her belly to the flashing, heaving water.] He stood -behind, encompassed, a shadow ever dissolving. - -She stood on the edge of the water, at the edge of the solid, -flashing body of the sea, and the wave rushed over her feet. - -"I want to go," she cried, in a strong, dominant voice. "I -want to go." - -He saw the moonlight on her face, so she was like metal, he -heard her ringing, metallic voice, like the voice of a harpy to -him. - -She prowled, ranging on the edge of the water like a -possessed creature, and he followed her. He saw the froth of the -wave followed by the hard, bright water swirl over her feet and -her ankles, she swung out her arms, to balance, he expected -every moment to see her walk into the sea, dressed as she was, -and be carried swimming out. - -But she turned, she walked to him. - -"I want to go," she cried again, in the high, hard voice, -like the scream of gulls. - -"Where?" he asked. - -"I don't know." - -And she seized hold of his arm, held him fast, as if captive, -and walked him a little way by the edge of the dazzling, dazing -water. - -Then there in the great flare of light, she clinched hold of -him, hard, as if suddenly she had the strength of destruction, -she fastened her arms round him and tightened him in her grip, -whilst her mouth sought his in a hard, rending, ever-increasing -kiss, till his body was powerless in her grip, his heart melted -in fear from the fierce, beaked, harpy's kiss. The water washed -again over their feet, but she took no notice. She seemed -unaware, she seemed to be pressing in her beaked mouth till she -had the heart of him. Then, at last, she drew away and looked at -him--looked at him. He knew what she wanted. He took her by -the hand and led her across the foreshore, back to the -sandhills. She went silently. He felt as if the ordeal of proof -was upon him, for life or death. He led her to a dark -hollow. - -"No, here," she said, going out to the slope full under the -moonshine. She lay motionless, with wide-open eyes looking at -the moon. He came direct to her, without preliminaries. She held -him pinned down at the chest, awful. The fight, the struggle for -consummation was terrible. It lasted till it was agony to his -soul, till he succumbed, till he gave way as if dead, lay with -his face buried, partly in her hair, partly in the sand, -motionless, as if he would be motionless now for ever, hidden -away in the dark, buried, only buried, he only wanted to be -buried in the goodly darkness, only that, and no more. - -He seemed to swoon. It was a long time before he came to -himself. He was aware of an unusual motion of her breast. He -looked up. Her face lay like an image in the moonlight, the eyes -wide open, rigid. But out of the eyes, slowly, there rolled a -tear, that glittered in the moonlight as it ran down her -cheek. - -He felt as if as the knife were being pushed into his already -dead body. With head strained back, he watched, drawn tense, for -some minutes, watched the unaltering, rigid face like metal in -the moonlight, the fixed, unseeing eye, in which slowly the -water gathered, shook with glittering moonlight, then -surcharged, brimmed over and ran trickling, a tear with its -burden of moonlight, into the darkness, to fall in the sand. - -He drew gradually away as if afraid, drew away--she did -not move. He glanced at her--she lay the same. Could he -break away? He turned, saw the open foreshore, clear in front of -him, and he plunged away, on and on, ever farther from the -horrible figure that lay stretched in the moonlight on the sands -with the tears gathering and travelling on the motionless, -eternal face. - -He felt, if ever he must see her again, his bones must be -broken, his body crushed, obliterated for ever. And as yet, he -had the love of his own living body. He wandered on a long, long -way, till his brain drew dark and he was unconscious with -weariness. Then he curled in the deepest darkness he could find, -under the sea-grass, and lay there without consciousness. - -She broke from her tense cramp of agony gradually, though -each movement was a goad of heavy pain. Gradually, she lifted -her dead body from the sands, and rose at last. There was now no -moon for her, no sea. All had passed away. She trailed her dead -body to the house, to her room, where she lay down inert. - -Morning brought her a new access of superficial life. But all -within her was cold, dead, inert. Skrebensky appeared at -breakfast. He was white and obliterated. They did not look at -each other nor speak to each other. Apart from the ordinary, -trivial talk of civil people, they were separate, they did not -speak of what was between them during the remaining two days of -their stay. They were like two dead people who dare not -recognize, dare not see each other. - -Then she packed her bag and put on her things. There were -several guests leaving together, for the same train. He would -have no opportunity to speak to her. - -He tapped at her bedroom door at the last minute. She stood -with her umbrella in her hand. He closed the door. He did not -know what to say. - -"Have you done with me?" he asked her at length, lifting his -head. - -"It isn't me," she said. "You have done with me--we have -done with each other." - -He looked at her, at the closed face, which he thought so -cruel. And he knew he could never touch her again. His will was -broken, he was seared, but he clung to the life of his body. - -"Well, what have I done?" he asked, in a rather querulous -voice. - -"I don't know," she said, in the same dull, feelingless -voice. "It is finished. It had been a failure." - -He was silent. The words still burned his bowels. - -"Is it my fault?" he said, looking up at length, challenging -the last stroke. - -"You couldn't----" she began. But she broke -down. - -He turned away, afraid to hear more. She began to gather her -bag, her handkerchief, her umbrella. She must be gone now. He -was waiting for her to be gone. - -At length the carriage came and she drove away with the rest. -When she was out of sight, a great relief came over him, a -pleasant banality. In an instant, everything was obliterated. He -was childishly amiable and companionable all the day long. He -was astonished that life could be so nice. It was better than it -had been before. What a simple thing it was to be rid of her! -How friendly and simple everything felt to him. What false thing -had she been forcing on him? - -But at night he dared not be alone. His room-mate had gone, -and the hours of darkness were an agony to him. He watched the -window in suffering and terror. When would this horrible -darkness be lifted off him? Setting all his nerves, he endured -it. He went to sleep with the dawn. - -He never thought of her. Only his terror of the hours of -night grew on him, obsessed him like a mania. He slept fitfully, -with constant wakings of anguish. The fear wore away the core of -him. - -His plan was to sit up very late: drink in company until one -or half-past one in the morning; then he would get three hours -of sleep, of oblivion. It was light by five o'clock. But he was -shocked almost to madness if he opened his eyes on the -darkness. - -In the daytime he was all right, always occupied with the -thing of the moment, adhering to the trivial present, which -seemed to him ample and satisfying. No matter how little and -futile his occupations were, he gave himself to them entirely, -and felt normal and fulfilled. He was always active, cheerful, -gay, charming, trivial. Only he dreaded the darkness and silence -of his own bedroom, when the darkness should challenge him upon -his own soul. That he could not bear, as he could not bear to -think about Ursula. He had no soul, no background. He never -thought of Ursula, not once, he gave her no sign. She was the -darkness, the challenge, the horror. He turned to immediate -things. He wanted to marry quickly, to screen himself from the -darkness, the challenge of his own soul. He would marry his -Colonel's daughter. Quickly, without hesitation, pursued by his -obsession for activity, he wrote to this girl, telling her his -engagement was broken--it had been a temporary infatuation -which he less than any one else could understand now it was -over--and could he see his very dear friend soon? He would -not be happy till he had an answer. - -He received a rather surprised reply from the girl, but she -would be glad to see him. She was living with her aunt. He went -down to her at once, and proposed to her the first evening. He -was accepted. The marriage took place quietly within fourteen -days' time. Ursula was not notified of the event. In another -week, Skrebensky sailed with his new wife to India. - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -THE RAINBOW - -Ursula went home to Beldover faint, dim, closed up. She could -scarcely speak or notice. It was as if her energy were frozen. -Her people asked her what was the matter. She told them she had -broken off the engagement with Skrebensky. They looked blank and -angry. But she could not feel any more. - -The weeks crawled by in apathy. He would have sailed for -India now. She was scarcely interested. She was inert, without -strength or interest. - -Suddenly a shock ran through her, so violent that she thought -she was struck down. Was she with child? She had been so -stricken under the pain of herself and of him, this had never -occurred to her. Now like a flame it took hold of her limbs and -body. Was she with child? - -In the first flaming hours of wonder, she did not know what -she felt. She was as if tied to the stake. The flames were -licking her and devouring her. But the flames were also good. -They seemed to wear her away to rest. What she felt in her heart -and her womb she did not know. It was a kind of swoon. - -Then gradually the heaviness of her heart pressed and pressed -into consciousness. What was she doing? Was she bearing a child? -Bearing a child? To what? - -Her flesh thrilled, but her soul was sick. It seemed, this -child, like the seal set on her own nullity. Yet she was glad in -her flesh that she was with child. She began to think, that she -would write to Skrebensky, that she would go out to him, and -marry him, and live simply as a good wife to him. What did the -self, the form of life matter? Only the living from day to day -mattered, the beloved existence in the body, rich, peaceful, -complete, with no beyond, no further trouble, no further -complication. She had been wrong, she had been arrogant and -wicked, wanting that other thing, that fantastic freedom, that -illusory, conceited fulfilment which she had imagined she could -not have with Skrebensky. Who was she to be wanting some -fantastic fulfilment in her life? Was it not enough that she had -her man, her children, her place of shelter under the sun? Was -it not enough for her, as it had been enough for her mother? She -would marry and love her husband and fill her place simply. That -was the ideal. - -Suddenly she saw her mother in a just and true light. Her -mother was simple and radically true. She had taken the life -that was given. She had not, in her arrogant conceit, insisted -on creating life to fit herself. Her mother was right, -profoundly right, and she herself had been false, trashy, -conceited. - -A great mood of humility came over her, and in this humility -a bondaged sort of peace. She gave her limbs to the bondage, she -loved the bondage, she called it peace. In this state she sat -down to write to Skrebensky. - -Since you left me I have suffered a great deal, and so have -come to myself. I cannot tell you the remorse I feel for my -wicked, perverse behaviour. It was given to me to love you, and -to know your love for me. But instead of thankfully, on my -knees, taking what God had given me, I must have the moon in my -keeping, I must insist on having the moon for my own. Because I -could not have it, everything else must go. - -I do not know if you can ever forgive me. I could die with -shame to think of my behaviour with you during our last times, -and I don't know if I could ever bear to look you in the face -again. Truly the best thing would be for me to die, and cover my -fantasies for ever. But I find I am with child, so that cannot -be. - -It is your child, and for that reason I must revere it and -submit my body entirely to its welfare, entertaining no thought -of death, which once more is largely conceit. Therefore, because -you once loved me, and because this child is your child, I ask -you to have me back. If you will cable me one word, I will come -to you as soon as I can. I swear to you to be a dutiful wife, -and to serve you in all things. For now I only hate myself and -my own conceited foolishness. I love you--I love the -thought of you--you were natural and decent all through, -whilst I was so false. Once I am with you again, I shall ask no -more than to rest in your shelter all my life---- - -This letter she wrote, sentence by sentence, as if from her -deepest, sincerest heart. She felt that now, now, she was at the -depths of herself. This was her true self, forever. With this -document she would appear before God at the Judgment Day. - -For what had a woman but to submit? What was her flesh but -for childbearing, her strength for her children and her husband, -the giver of life? At last she was a woman. - -She posted her letter to his club, to be forwarded to him in -Calcutta. He would receive it soon after his arrival in -India--within three weeks of his arrival there. In a -month's time she would receive word from him. Then she would -go. - -She was quite sure of him. She thought only of preparing her -garments and of living quietly, peacefully, till the time when -she should join him again and her history would be concluded for -ever. The peace held like an unnatural calm for a long time. She -was aware, however, of a gathering restiveness, a tumult -impending within her. She tried to run away from it. She wished -she could hear from Skrebensky, in answer to her letter, so that -her course should be resolved, she should be engaged in -fulfilling her fate. It was this inactivity which made her -liable to the revulsion she dreaded. - -It was curious how little she cared about his not having -written to her before. It was enough that she had sent her -letter. She would get the required answer, that was all. - -One afternoon in early October, feeling the seething rising -to madness within her, she slipped out in the rain, to walk -abroad, lest the house should suffocate her. Everywhere was -drenched wet and deserted, the grimed houses glowed dull red, -the butt houses burned scarlet in a gleam of light, under the -glistening, blackish purple slates. Ursula went on towards -Willey Green. She lifted her face and walked swiftly, seeing the -passage of light across the shallow valley, seeing the colliery -and its clouds of steam for a moment visionary in dim -brilliance, away in the chaos of rain. Then the veils closed -again. She was glad of the rain's privacy and intimacy. - -Making on towards the wood, she saw the pale gleam of Willey -Water through the cloud below, she walked the open space where -hawthorn trees streamed like hair on the wind and round bushes -were presences slowing through the atmosphere. It was very -splendid, free and chaotic. - -Yet she hurried to the wood for shelter. There, the vast -booming overhead vibrated down and encircled her, tree-trunks -spanned the circle of tremendous sound, myriads of tree-trunks, -enormous and streaked black with water, thrust like stanchions -upright between the roaring overhead and the sweeping of the -circle underfoot. She glided between the tree-trunks, afraid of -them. They might turn and shut her in as she went through their -martialled silence. - -So she flitted along, keeping an illusion that she was -unnoticed. She felt like a bird that has flown in through the -window of a hall where vast warriors sit at the board. Between -their grave, booming ranks she was hastening, assuming she was -unnoticed, till she emerged, with beating heart, through the far -window and out into the open, upon the vivid green, marshy -meadow. - -She turned under the shelter of the common, seeing the great -veils of rain swinging with slow, floating waves across the -landscape. She was very wet and a long way from home, far -enveloped in the rain and the waving landscape. She must beat -her way back through all this fluctuation, back to stability and -security. - -A solitary thing, she took the track straight across the -wilderness, going back. The path was a narrow groove in the turf -between high, sere, tussocky grass; it was scarcely more than a -rabbit run. So she moved swiftly along, watching her footing, -going like a bird on the wind, with no thought, contained in -motion. But her heart had a small, living seed of fear, as she -went through the wash of hollow space. - -Suddenly she knew there was something else. Some horses were -looming in the rain, not near yet. But they were going to be -near. She continued her path, inevitably. They were horses in -the lee of a clump of trees beyond, above her. She pursued her -way with bent head. She did not want to lift her face to them. -She did not want to know they were there. She went on in the -wild track. - -She knew the heaviness on her heart. It was the weight of the -horses. But she would circumvent them. She would bear the weight -steadily, and so escape. She would go straight on, and on, and -be gone by. - -Suddenly the weight deepened and her heart grew tense to bear -it. Her breathing was laboured. But this weight also she could -bear. She knew without looking that the horses were moving -nearer. What were they? She felt the thud of their heavy hoofs -on the ground. What was it that was drawing near her, what -weight oppressing her heart? She did not know, she did not -look. - -Yet now her way was cut off. They were blocking her back. She -knew they had gathered on a log bridge over the sedgy dike, a -dark, heavy, powerfully heavy knot. Yet her feet went on and on. -They would burst before her. They would burst before her. Her -feet went on and on. And tense, and more tense became her nerves -and her veins, they ran hot, they ran white hot, they must fuse -and she must die. - -But the horses had burst before her. In a sort of lightning -of knowledge their movement travelled through her, the quiver -and strain and thrust of their powerful flanks, as they burst -before her and drew on, beyond. - -She knew they had not gone, she knew they awaited her still. -But she went on over the log bridge that their hoofs had churned -and drummed, she went on, knowing things about them. She was -aware of their breasts gripped, clenched narrow in a hold that -never relaxed, she was aware of their red nostrils flaming with -long endurance, and of their haunches, so rounded, so massive, -pressing, pressing, pressing to burst the grip upon their -breasts, pressing for ever till they went mad, running against -the walls of time, and never bursting free. Their great haunches -were smoothed and darkened with rain. But the darkness and -wetness of rain could not put out the hard, urgent, massive fire -that was locked within these flanks, never, never. - -She went on, drawing near. She was aware of the great flash -of hoofs, a bluish, iridescent flash surrounding a hollow of -darkness. Large, large seemed the bluish, incandescent flash of -the hoof-iron, large as a halo of lightning round the knotted -darkness of the flanks. Like circles of lightning came the flash -of hoofs from out of the powerful flanks. - -They were awaiting her again. They had gathered under an oak -tree, knotting their awful, blind, triumphing flanks together, -and waiting, waiting. They were waiting for her approach. As if -from a far distance she was drawing near, towards the line of -twiggy oak trees where they made their intense darkness, -gathered on a single bank. - -She must draw near. But they broke away, they cantered round, -making a wide circle to avoid noticing her, and cantered back -into the open hillside behind her. - -They were behind her. The way was open before her, to the -gate in the high hedge in the near distance, so she could pass -into the smaller, cultivated field, and so out to the high-road -and the ordered world of man. Her way was clear. She lulled her -heart. Yet her heart was couched with fear, couched with fear -all along. - -Suddenly she hesitated as if seized by lightning. She seemed -to fall, yet found herself faltering forward with small steps. -The thunder of horses galloping down the path behind her shook -her, the weight came down upon her, down, to the moment of -extinction. She could not look round, so the horses thundered -upon her. - -Cruelly, they swerved and crashed by on her left hand. She -saw the fierce flanks crinkled and as yet inadequate, the great -hoofs flashing bright as yet only brandished about her, and one -by one the horses crashed by, intent, working themselves up. - -They had gone by, brandishing themselves thunderously about -her, enclosing her. They slackened their burst transport, they -slowed down, and cantered together into a knot once more, in the -corner by the gate and the trees ahead of her. They stirred, -they moved uneasily, they settled their uneasy flanks into one -group, one purpose. They were up against her. - -Her heart was gone, she had no more heart. She knew she dare -not draw near. That concentrated, knitted flank of the -horse-group had conquered. It stirred uneasily, awaiting her, -knowing its triumph. It stirred uneasily, with the uneasiness of -awaited triumph. Her heart was gone, her limbs were dissolved, -she was dissolved like water. All the hardness and looming power -was in the massive body of the horse-group. - -Her feet faltered, she came to a standstill. It was the -crisis. The horses stirred their flanks uneasily. She looked -away, failing. On her left, two hundred yards down the slope, -the thick hedge ran parallel. At one point there was an oak -tree. She might climb into the boughs of that oak tree, and so -round and drop on the other side of the hedge. - -Shuddering, with limbs like water, dreading every moment to -fall, she began to work her way as if making a wide detour round -the horse-mass. The horses stirred their flanks in a knot -against her. She trembled forward as if in a trance. - -Then suddenly, in a flame of agony, she darted, seized the -rugged knots of the oak tree and began to climb. Her body was -weak but her hands were as hard as steel. She knew she was -strong. She struggled in a great effort till she hung on the -bough. She knew the horses were aware. She gained her foot-hold -on the bough. The horses were loosening their knot, stirring, -trying to realize. She was working her way round to the other -side of the tree. As they started to canter towards her, she -fell in a heap on the other side of the hedge. - -For some moments she could not move. Then she saw through the -rabbit-cleared bottom of the hedge the great, working hoofs of -the horses as they cantered near. She could not bear it. She -rose and walked swiftly, diagonally across the field. The horses -galloped along the other side of the hedge to the corner, where -they were held up. She could feel them there in their huddled -group all the while she hastened across the bare field. They -were almost pathetic, now. Her will alone carried her, till, -trembling, she climbed the fence under a leaning thorn tree that -overhung the grass by the high-road. The use went from her, she -sat on the fence leaning back against the trunk of the thorn -tree, motionless. - -As she sat there, spent, time and the flux of change passed -away from her, she lay as if unconscious upon the bed of the -stream, like a stone, unconscious, unchanging, unchangeable, -whilst everything rolled by in transience, leaving her there, a -stone at rest on the bed of the stream, inalterable and passive, -sunk to the bottom of all change. - -She lay still a long time, with her back against the thorn -tree trunk, in her final isolation. Some colliers passed, -tramping heavily up the wet road, their voices sounding out, -their shoulders up to their ears, their figures blotched and -spectral in the rain. Some did not see her. She opened her eyes -languidly as they passed by. Then one man going alone saw her. -The whites of his eyes showed in his black face as he looked in -wonderment at her. He hesitated in his walk, as if to speak to -her, out of frightened concern for her. How she dreaded his -speaking to her, dreaded his questioning her. - -She slipped from her seat and went vaguely along the -path--vaguely. It was a long way home. She had an idea that -she must walk for the rest of her life, wearily, wearily. Step -after step, step after step, and always along the wet, rainy -road between the hedges. Step after step, step after step, the -monotony produced a deep, cold sense of nausea in her. How -profound was her cold nausea, how profound! That too plumbed the -bottom. She seemed destined to find the bottom of all things -to-day: the bottom of all things. Well, at any rate she was -walking along the bottom-most bed--she was quite safe: -quite safe, if she had to go on and on for ever, seeing this was -the very bottom, and there was nothing deeper. There was nothing -deeper, you see, so one could not but feel certain, passive. - -She arrived home at last. The climb up the hill to Beldover -had been very trying. Why must one climb the hill? Why must one -climb? Why not stay below? Why force one's way up the slope? Why -force one's way up and up, when one is at the bottom? Oh, it was -very trying, very wearying, very burdensome. Always burdens, -always, always burdens. Still, she must get to the top and go -home to bed. She must go to bed. - -She got in and went upstairs in the dusk without its being -noticed she was in such a sodden condition. She was too tired to -go downstairs again. She got into bed and lay shuddering with -cold, yet too apathetic to get up or call for relief. Then -gradually she became more ill. - -She was very ill for a fortnight, delirious, shaken and -racked. But always, amid the ache of delirium, she had a dull -firmness of being, a sense of permanency. She was in some way -like the stone at the bottom of the river, inviolable and -unalterable, no matter what storm raged in her body. Her soul -lay still and permanent, full of pain, but itself for ever. -Under all her illness, persisted a deep, inalterable -knowledge. - -She knew, and she cared no more. Throughout her illness, -distorted into vague forms, persisted the question of herself -and Skrebensky, like a gnawing ache that was still superficial, -and did not touch her isolated, impregnable core of reality. But -the corrosion of him burned in her till it burned itself -out. - -Must she belong to him, must she adhere to him? Something -compelled her, and yet it was not real. Always the ache, the -ache of unreality, of her belonging to Skrebensky. What bound -her to him when she was not bound to him? Why did the falsity -persist? Why did the falsity gnaw, gnaw, gnaw at her, why could -she not wake up to clarity, to reality. If she could but wake -up, if she could but wake up, the falsity of the dream, of her -connection with Skrebensky, would be gone. But the sleep, the -delirium pinned her down. Even when she was calm and sober she -was in its spell. - -Yet she was never in its spell. What extraneous thing bound -her to him? There was some bond put upon her. Why could she not -break it through? What was it? What was it? - -In her delirium she beat and beat at the question. And at -last her weariness gave her the answer--it was the child. -The child bound her to him. The child was like a bond round her -brain, tightened on her brain. It bound her to Skrebensky. - -But why, why did it bind her to Skrebensky? Could she not -have a child of herself? Was not the child her own affair? all -her own affair? What had it to do with him? Why must she be -bound, aching and cramped with the bondage, to Skrebensky and -Skrebensky's world? Anton's world: it became in her feverish -brain a compression which enclosed her. If she could not get out -of the compression she would go mad. The compression was Anton -and Anton's world, not the Anton she possessed, but the Anton -she did not possess, that which was owned by some other -influence, by the world. - -She fought and fought and fought all through her illness to -be free of him and his world, to put it aside, to put it aside, -into its place. Yet ever anew it gained ascendency over her, it -laid new hold on her. Oh, the unutterable weariness of her -flesh, which she could not cast off, nor yet extricate. If she -could but extricate herself, if she could but disengage herself -from feeling, from her body, from all the vast encumbrances of -the world that was in contact with her, from her father, and her -mother, and her lover, and all her acquaintance. - -Repeatedly, in an ache of utter weariness she repeated: "I -have no father nor mother nor lover, I have no allocated place -in the world of things, I do not belong to Beldover nor to -Nottingham nor to England nor to this world, they none of them -exist, I am trammelled and entangled in them, but they are all -unreal. I must break out of it, like a nut from its shell which -is an unreality." - -And again, to her feverish brain, came the vivid reality of -acorns in February lying on the floor of a wood with their -shells burst and discarded and the kernel issued naked to put -itself forth. She was the naked, clear kernel thrusting forth -the clear, powerful shoot, and the world was a bygone winter, -discarded, her mother and father and Anton, and college and all -her friends, all cast off like a year that has gone by, whilst -the kernel was free and naked and striving to take new root, to -create a new knowledge of Eternity in the flux of Time. And the -kernel was the only reality; the rest was cast off into -oblivion. - -This grew and grew upon her. When she opened her eyes in the -afternoon and saw the window of her room and the faint, smoky -landscape beyond, this was all husk and shell lying by, all husk -and shell, she could see nothing else, she was enclosed still, -but loosely enclosed. There was a space between her and the -shell. It was burst, there was a rift in it. Soon she would have -her root fixed in a new Day, her nakedness would take itself the -bed of a new sky and a new air, this old, decaying, fibrous husk -would be gone. - -Gradually she began really to sleep. She slept in the -confidence of her new reality. She slept breathing with her soul -the new air of a new world. The peace was very deep and -enrichening. She had her root in new ground, she was gradually -absorbed into growth. - -When she woke at last it seemed as if a new day had come on -the earth. How long, how long had she fought through the dust -and obscurity, for this new dawn? How frail and fine and clear -she felt, like the most fragile flower that opens in the end of -winter. But the pole of night was turned and the dawn was coming -in. - -Very far off was her old experience--Skrebensky, her -parting with him--very far off. Some things were real; -those first glamorous weeks. Before, these had seemed like -hallucination. Now they seemed like common reality. The rest was -unreal. She knew that Skrebensky had never become finally real. -In the weeks of passionate ecstasy he had been with her in her -desire, she had created him for the time being. But in the end -he had failed and broken down. - -Strange, what a void separated him and her. She liked him -now, as she liked a memory, some bygone self. He was something -of the past, finite. He was that which is known. She felt a -poignant affection for him, as for that which is past. But, when -she looked with her face forward, he was not. Nay, when she -looked ahead, into the undiscovered land before her, what was -there she could recognize but a fresh glow of light and -inscrutable trees going up from the earth like smoke. It was the -unknown, the unexplored, the undiscovered upon whose shore she -had landed, alone, after crossing the void, the darkness which -washed the New World and the Old. - -There would be no child: she was glad. If there had been a -child, it would have made little difference, however. She would -have kept the child and herself, she would not have gone to -Skrebensky. Anton belonged to the past. - -There came the cablegram from Skrebensky: "I am married." An -old pain and anger and contempt stirred in her. Did he belong so -utterly to the cast-off past? She repudiated him. He was as he -was. It was good that he was as he was. Who was she to have a -man according to her own desire? It was not for her to create, -but to recognize a man created by God. The man should come from -the Infinite and she should hail him. She was glad she could not -create her man. She was glad she had nothing to do with his -creation. She was glad that this lay within the scope of that -vaster power in which she rested at last. The man would come out -of Eternity to which she herself belonged. - -As she grew better, she sat to watch a new creation. As she -sat at her window, she saw the people go by in the street below, -colliers, women, children, walking each in the husk of an old -fruition, but visible through the husk, the swelling and the -heaving contour of the new germination. In the still, silenced -forms of the colliers she saw a sort of suspense, a waiting in -pain for the new liberation; she saw the same in the false hard -confidence of the women. The confidence of the women was -brittle. It would break quickly to reveal the strength and -patient effort of the new germination. - -In everything she saw she grasped and groped to find the -creation of the living God, instead of the old, hard barren form -of bygone living. Sometimes great terror possessed her. -Sometimes she lost touch, she lost her feeling, she could only -know the old horror of the husk which bound in her and all -mankind. They were all in prison, they were all going mad. - -She saw the stiffened bodies of the colliers, which seemed -already enclosed in a coffin, she saw their unchanging eyes, the -eyes of those who are buried alive: she saw the hard, cutting -edges of the new houses, which seemed to spread over the -hillside in their insentient triumph, the triumph of horrible, -amorphous angles and straight lines, the expression of -corruption triumphant and unopposed, corruption so pure that it -is hard and brittle: she saw the dun atmosphere over the -blackened hills opposite, the dark blotches of houses, slate -roofed and amorphous, the old church-tower standing up in -hideous obsoleteness above raw new houses on the crest of the -hill, the amorphous, brittle, hard edged new houses advancing -from Beldover to meet the corrupt new houses from Lethley, the -houses of Lethley advancing to mix with the houses of Hainor, a -dry, brittle, terrible corruption spreading over the face of the -land, and she was sick with a nausea so deep that she perished -as she sat. And then, in the blowing clouds, she saw a band of -faint iridescence colouring in faint colours a portion of the -hill. And forgetting, startled, she looked for the hovering -colour and saw a rainbow forming itself. In one place it gleamed -fiercely, and, her heart anguished with hope, she sought the -shadow of iris where the bow should be. Steadily the colour -gathered, mysteriously, from nowhere, it took presence upon -itself, there was a faint, vast rainbow. The arc bended and -strengthened itself till it arched indomitable, making great -architecture of light and colour and the space of heaven, its -pedestals luminous in the corruption of new houses on the low -hill, its arch the top of heaven. - -And the rainbow stood on the earth. She knew that the sordid -people who crept hard-scaled and separate on the face of the -world's corruption were living still, that the rainbow was -arched in their blood and would quiver to life in their spirit, -that they would cast off their horny covering of disintegration, -that new, clean, naked bodies would issue to a new germination, -to a new growth, rising to the light and the wind and the clean -rain of heaven. She saw in the rainbow the earth's new -architecture, the old, brittle corruption of houses and -factories swept away, the world built up in a living fabric of -Truth, fitting to the over-arching heaven. - - - - -THE END - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Rainbow, by D. H. 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