This is a modern-English version of The Rainbow, originally written by Lawrence, D. H. (David Herbert).
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.
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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.
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 omitted by this publisher due to 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
TO OTHER
Contents
Chapter I. | How Tom Brangwen Married a Polish Lady |
Chapter II. | They Live at the Marsh |
Chapter III. | Childhood of Anna Lensky |
Chapter IV. | Girlhood of Anna Brangwen |
Chapter V. | Wedding at the Marsh |
Chapter VI. | Anna Victrix |
Chapter VII. | The Cathedral |
Chapter VIII. | The Child |
Chapter IX. | The Marsh and the Flood |
Chapter X. | The Widening Circle |
Chapter XI. | First Love |
Chapter XII. | Shame |
Chapter XIII. | The Man’s World |
Chapter XIV. | The Widening Circle |
Chapter XV. | The Bitterness of Ecstasy |
Chapter XVI. | 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.
The Brangwens had lived for generations on the Marsh Farm, in the meadows where the Erewash lazily wound through the alder trees, marking the border between Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire. Two miles away, a church tower stood on a hill, with the houses of the little country town climbing steadily up to it. Whenever one of the Brangwens in the fields looked up from his work, he saw the church tower at Ilkeston against the empty sky. So, as he turned back to the flat land, he was aware of something standing above him and far off 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.
There was a look in the eyes of the Brangwens as if they were expecting something unknown that they were eager for. They had that sense of readiness for whatever was coming their way, a kind of certainty, an anticipation, the look of someone who is about to inherit.
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.
They were fresh, blond people who spoke slowly and revealed themselves clearly, but gradually, so you could see the shift in their eyes from laughter to anger—bright blue, joyful laughter to a hard, icy blue stare of anger; reflecting all the uncertain stages of the sky when the weather is shifting.
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.
Living on fertile land, on their own property, close to a growing town, they had forgotten what it was like to be in difficult situations. They had never gotten wealthy because there were always children, and the inheritance was split every time. But there was always enough at the Marsh.
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.
So the Brangwens came and went without worrying about necessity, working hard because of the life inside them, not out of need for money. They weren’t careless with their resources either. They paid attention to every last penny, and their instincts made them cautious not to waste the peel of their apple, as it would help feed the cattle. But heaven and earth were buzzing around them, and how could that ever stop? They felt the rush of sap in spring, they understood the unstoppable wave that every year pushes forth new seeds and, as it recedes, leaves the young ones on the earth. They recognized the connection between heaven and earth, sunshine soaking into their hearts and souls, the rain being absorbed in the daytime, the exposure that autumn's wind brings, revealing bird nests that are no longer worth hiding. Their life and connections were like that; sensing the pulse and body of the soil that opened to their plow for the grain, becoming smooth and pliable after cultivation, and clinging to their feet with a weight that felt like desire, lying hard and unyielding when it was time to harvest the crops. The young corn waved and glistened, and a shimmer flowed over the bodies of the men who looked at it. They milked the cows, and the cows produced milk and warmth against the men’s hands, the pulse of the cows’ teats syncing with the pulse in the men’s hands. They mounted their horses, feeling life between their knees, they harnessed their horses to the wagon, and, with a hand on the bridle rings, guided the horses’ movements according to 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.
In autumn, the partridges took off, flocks of birds scattered like spray across the fields, rooks showed up in the gray, cloudy sky, cawing as they flew into winter. Meanwhile, the men sat by the fire in the house while the women moved around confidently. The men’s bodies and limbs felt weighed down by the day—by the cattle, the earth, the plants, and the sky. They sat by the fire with their minds dull, their blood heavy with the experiences of the 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.
The women were different. They too felt the heaviness of blood bonds—calves nursing, hens flocking together, and young geese fluttering in their hands while food was shoved down their throats. But the women gazed out from the intense, chaotic routine of farm life to the outside world. They were aware of the voices and ideas of the world communicating and expressing themselves; they heard the distant sounds and 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.
It was enough for the men that the earth shook and opened its fields to them, that the wind blew to dry the wet wheat, and made the young ears of corn sway happily around; it was enough that they helped a cow give birth, or chased the rats out from under the barn, or broke the back of a rabbit with a sharp smack of the hand. They understood so much warmth and creation, pain and death in their bones—earth, sky, animals, and green plants—that they lived fully and intensely, their senses well-nourished, their faces always turned towards the warmth of life, staring into the sun, mesmerized by the source of creation, unable to look away.
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.
But the woman wanted a different life than this, something beyond just intimate relationships. Her house overlooked the farm buildings and fields, facing the road and the village with its church and hall, and the world beyond. She stood to gaze at the distant world of cities and governments, the vibrant realm where secrets were revealed and desires were fulfilled. She looked outward to where men moved confidently and creatively, having turned their backs on the intense experience of creation, and with that behind them, they set out to discover what lay beyond, to broaden their own possibilities and freedom. In contrast, the Brangwen men focused inward on the bustling life of creation that flowed through 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.
Looking out, as she had to, from the front of her house towards the busy world, while her husband gazed out at the back at the sky, crops, animals, and land, she squinted to see what mankind had achieved in the pursuit of knowledge. She strained to hear how he expressed himself in his struggles, her strongest wish resting on the distant battle she sensed being fought at the edge of the unknown. She wanted to understand and be part of the fighting force.
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.
At home, even as close as Cossethay, was the vicar, who spoke a different, almost magical language and had a more refined presence, both of which she noticed but could never reach. The vicar existed in realms beyond where her own men lived. Did she not know her own men: fresh, slow, sturdy men, confident enough, but grounded, connected to the earth, lacking flair and breadth of experience? Meanwhile, the vicar, dark and dry and small next to her husband, had a quickness and a depth of being that made Brangwen, with his large friendliness, seem dull and provincial. She understood her husband well. But within the vicar was something that surpassed her understanding. Just as Brangwen had control over the cattle, the vicar had influence over her husband. What was it about the vicar that elevated him above ordinary men, much like a man is elevated above an animal? She longed to understand. She wished to achieve this higher quality, if not within herself, then through her children. What makes a man strong even if he is small and fragile, just as any man seems small and fragile next to a bull, yet is stronger than the bull? What was it? It wasn’t money, power, or social status. What power did the vicar have over Tom Brangwen? None. Yet if you stripped them of everything and placed them on a deserted island, the vicar would be the one in charge. His spirit dominated the other man’s. And why—why was that? She concluded it was a matter 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.
The curate was pretty poor and not very effective as a person, but he was still considered one of the higher-ups. She watched his kids being born and saw them playing as little ones next to their mother. And already, they were different from her own kids, set apart. Why were her kids seen as lesser? Why did the curate’s kids automatically take priority over hers, why were they given an advantage from the beginning? It wasn’t about money or even social class. She figured it was about education and experience.
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?
It was this, this education, this higher form of existence, that the mother wanted to provide for her children, so they too could experience the best life on earth. For her children, at least the ones she held close to her heart, possessed the full potential to stand alongside the vibrant, living people in the world, not be left behind, hidden among the workers. Why should they stay hidden and constrained their entire lives? Why should they struggle with a lack of freedom to explore? How would they find their way into the richer, more dynamic 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.
Her imagination was sparked by the squire’s wife at Shelly Hall, who came to church at Cossethay with her little kids, girls in neat beaver fur capes and stylish little hats, looking like a winter rose—so beautiful and delicate. So beautiful, so perfectly formed, so radiant—what was it that Mrs. Hardy felt that Mrs. Brangwen did not? How was Mrs. Hardy’s nature different from that of the ordinary women of Cossethay? What set her apart? All the women of Cossethay talked eagerly about Mrs. Hardy—her husband, her kids, her guests, her clothes, her staff, and her housekeeping. The lady of the Hall was the living dream of their lives; her life was the epic that inspired them. They lived vicariously through her, gossiping about her husband who drank too much, her scandalous brother, and her friend Lord William Bentley, a member of Parliament for the area. In doing so, they enacted their own Odyssey, with Penelope and Ulysses in their minds, and Circe, the pigs, 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.
So the women in the village were lucky. They saw themselves in the lady of the manor, each of them living out their own version of Mrs. Hardy's life. And the Brangwen wife from the Marsh sought something beyond herself, striving for a deeper existence, for the greater self she showed, like a traveler who reveals distant places that exist within him. But why should knowing about far-off places change a man's life, making it more refined or larger? And why is a man more than the animals and cattle that serve him? It's essentially 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.
The male part of the poem was filled in by men like the vicar and Lord William, lean and eager guys with unusual movements, men who had control over the broader fields, whose lives covered a vast area. Ah, it was truly desirable to know these wonderful men who had the power of thought and understanding. The women of the village might have preferred Tom Brangwen and felt more at ease with him, but if they had lost the vicar and Lord William, a key part of their lives would have been gone, and they would have felt heavy, uninspired, and likely resentful. As long as the wonder of the unknown was in front of them, they could manage, no matter their circumstances. And Mrs. Hardy, the vicar, and Lord William, these were the ones who moved in the realm of the unknown and were visible to the people of Cossethay in their actions.
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.
About 1840, a canal was built across the meadows of the Marsh Farm, connecting the newly opened coal mines of the Erewash Valley. A tall embankment ran along the fields to support the canal, which passed near the homestead and, upon reaching the road, crossed over with a large 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.
So the Marsh was cut off from Ilkeston and surrounded by the small valley, which ended at 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.
The Brangwens received a good amount of money from this intrusion on their land. Shortly after, a coal mine was dug on the other side of the canal, and soon the Midland Railway came down the valley at the base of Ilkeston hill, completing the invasion. The town expanded quickly, the Brangwens stayed busy supplying goods, they became wealthier, and they were almost merchants.
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.
Still, the Marsh was untouched and natural, on the peaceful side of the canal bank, in the sunny valley where the slow water flowed alongside rigid alders, and the road passed under ash trees by 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.
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 coal mine working away in the near distance, and further, red, rough houses clustered all over the valley, and beyond it all, the hazy, smokey 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.
The homestead was just on the outskirts of civilization, just beyond the gate. The house was set back from the road, accessed by a straight garden path, which in spring was filled with vibrant green and yellow daffodils. On either side of the house were lilac, guelder-rose, and privet bushes, completely concealing the farm buildings behind them.
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 the back, a jumble of sheds extended into the yard from a couple of unclear areas. The duck pond was beyond the farthest wall, scattering its white feathers on the soft earthen banks, sending stray dirty feathers into the grass and gorse bushes below the canal embankment, which rose like a steep wall nearby, so that occasionally a man's figure appeared in silhouette, or a man and a towing horse moved across the skyline.
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.
At first, the Brangwens were shocked by all the commotion happening around them. The construction of a canal across their land made them feel like strangers in their own home, and the bare earth bank cutting them off was unsettling. While they worked in the fields, the rhythmic sounds of the winding engines from beyond the now-familiar embankment were startling at first, but eventually became like a drug to their minds. Then the sharp whistle of the trains echoed through their hearts, bringing a mix of excitement and dread, signaling that something far away was coming closer and was about to happen.
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.
As they drove home from town, the local farmers encountered the soot-covered coal miners coming from the mine. As they collected the harvest, the west wind carried a slight, sulfurous odor of burning coal waste. While they pulled up the turnips in November, the sharp clink-clink-clink-clink-clink of empty trucks moving along the tracks resonated in their hearts with the awareness of other activities happening around 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.
The Alfred Brangwen of this time had married a woman from Heanor, the daughter of the “Black Horse.” She was a slim, attractive, dark-haired woman, quirky in her speech and whimsical, so the sharp things she said didn’t hurt. She was uniquely herself, a bit complaining in her manner, but fundamentally distinct and indifferent, so her long, mournful complaints, especially when directed at her husband and then at everyone else, only made those who listened wonder about her and feel affection for her, even while they felt annoyed and impatient. She complained at length and loudly about her husband, but always with a smooth, carefree voice and an amusing way of speaking that made him feel proud and triumphant, even as he grimaced 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.
As a result, Brangwen had a humorous glint in his eyes, a kind of hearty laugh that was soft but full, and he was pampered like a king. He did what he wanted, laughed off their complaints, teased in a way she adored, followed his instincts, and sometimes, when he went too far, he would trigger a deep, tense anger in her that seemed to focus on him and linger for days—a fury she would do anything to calm. They were two very distinct individuals, deeply connected, yet completely unaware of each other, living in their own ways but stemming from the same source.
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.
There were four sons and two daughters. The oldest son ran away to sea early on and never returned. After that, the mother became more of the focal point in the home. The second son, Alfred, whom the mother admired the most, was very reserved. He was sent to school in Ilkeston and made some progress. But despite his stubborn, eager effort, he couldn't get past the basics of anything except drawing. In that, where he had some talent, he worked as if it were his only hope. After a lot of complaining and fierce resistance to everything, and after trying and moving around a lot, when his father was angry with him and his mother was almost hopeless, he became a draftsman at 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 was still hefty and a bit awkward, speaking with a strong Derbyshire accent, clinging to his job and his place in town with all his determination, creating good designs and becoming relatively well-off. However, when it came to drawing, his hand moved naturally in big, bold strokes, a bit loose, making it painful for him to get bogged down in lace designing, working from the tiny squares of his paper, counting and planning meticulously. He did it stubbornly, in agony, as if he was crushing something inside him, sticking to his chosen path no matter what it cost him. When he re-entered life, he was set and stiff, a man of few words, almost grumpy.
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.
He married the daughter of a chemist, who had a bit of a social edge, and he became somewhat of a snob in his stubborn way, focused on outward sophistication at home and getting upset when anything awkward or crude happened. Later, as his three kids were growing up and he appeared to be a solid, almost middle-aged guy, he started pursuing unusual women and became a quiet, mysterious seeker of forbidden pleasures, completely ignoring his frustrated bourgeois wife without a second thought.
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.
Frank, the third son, has always refused to engage with learning. From the start, he spent his time hanging around the slaughterhouse located in the back of the farm. The Brangwens had always slaughtered their own meat and served the local community. This eventually led to a steady butcher’s business linked to 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.
As a kid, Frank was fascinated by the trickle of dark blood flowing over the pavement from the slaughterhouse to the yard, and by the sight of the guy carrying a massive side of beef to the meat shed, with the kidneys visible, nestled in layers of thick 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.
He was a handsome young man with soft brown hair and regular features, reminiscent of a later Roman youth. He was more easily excited and swept away than others, and had a weaker character. At eighteen, he married a young factory girl, a pale, plump, quiet girl with sly eyes and a coaxing voice, who wormed her way into his life, bore him a child every year, and made a fool of him. Once he took over the butcher shop, he started to develop a growing indifference and a sort of contempt for it, which made him neglect his work. He drank a lot and could often be found at his local pub, rambling on as if he knew everything, when in reality he was just a loud 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.
Of the daughters, Alice, the older one, married a coal miner and had a tumultuous time living in Ilkeston before moving to Yorkshire with her large family. Effie, the younger one, stayed 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.
The youngest child, Tom, was much younger than his brothers, so he often spent time with his sisters. He was his mother’s favorite. She mustered her determination and sent him off to a grammar school in Derby when he turned twelve. He didn't want to go, and his father would have allowed him to stay, but Mrs. Brangwen was set on it. Her slim, pretty figure, dressed in a full-skirted outfit, had become the focal point of resolve in the household, and when she was determined about something, which wasn’t very often, the family couldn't resist 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.
So Tom went to school, an unwilling failure from the start. He believed his mother was right to send him to school, but he knew she was only right because she wouldn't see his true nature. He sensed, with a child's deep, instinctive understanding of what was about to happen, that he would make a poor impression at school. But he accepted this fate as unavoidable, as if he were guilty of being himself, as if his existence was wrong and his mother's expectations were correct. If he could have been whoever he wanted, he would have been what his mother hoped he was, with all her misguided love. He would have been smart and capable of becoming a gentleman. It was her dream for him, so he saw it as the dream for any boy. But you can't turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse, as he told his mother very early on about himself; much to her embarrassment and disappointment.
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.
When he arrived at school, he fought hard against his inability to focus on his studies. He sat there, looking pale and ghostly, trying to concentrate on the book and absorb what he needed to learn. But it didn’t work. Even if he pushed past his initial disgust and forced himself to engage with the material, he barely made any progress. He just couldn’t learn intentionally. His mind simply wouldn’t cooperate.
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.
In his feelings, he was grown, aware of the vibe around him—maybe harsh, but also very gentle, quite gentle. Because of this, he didn't think much of himself. He was aware of his own limitations. He realized that his mind was slow and pretty useless. 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 at the same time, his feelings were more nuanced than most of the boys’, and he felt lost. He was more in touch with his senses and had a more refined instinct than they did. He resented them for their mindless behavior and felt a deep contempt for them. But when it came to intellectual matters, he found himself at a disadvantage. He was at their mercy. He felt foolish. He didn’t have the ability to counter even the dumbest argument, so he was forced to accept things he didn’t really believe. And after accepting them, he wasn’t sure if he believed them or not; he leaned toward thinking 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.
But he loved anyone who could share insights with him through emotion. He sat there, overwhelmed with feelings when the literature teacher read Tennyson’s “Ulysses” or Shelley’s “Ode to the West Wind” with such passion. His lips parted, and his eyes shone with a strained, almost pained light. The teacher kept reading, energized by his influence on the boy. Tom Brangwen was profoundly affected by this experience, almost frightened by its depth. But when, almost secretly and with shame, he picked up the book himself and began reading the words “Oh wild west wind, thou breath of autumn’s being,” the very sight of the print sparked a prickly sensation of disgust across his skin, his face flushed, and his heart swelled with overwhelming anger and inadequacy. He tossed the book aside, stepped over it, and walked out to the cricket field. He hated books as if they were his enemies, even more than 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 couldn't control where his attention went. His mind didn't have any set patterns to follow; he had nothing to grasp, no starting point. For him, there was nothing solid, nothing familiar within himself that he could use to learn. He didn't know how to start. Because of this, he felt powerless when it came to intentional understanding or purposeful 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 had a knack for math, but if that let him down, he felt completely lost. It was like the ground was always unsteady beneath him; he felt like he was nowhere. His ultimate downfall was his total inability to respond to a question that didn’t have any hints. When he had to write a formal paper about the Army, he eventually learned to recite the few facts he knew: “You can join the army at eighteen. You have to be over five foot eight.” But he always thought this was just a cop-out and that his basic statements were pathetic. Then he would get really embarrassed, feel a deep sense of shame, scratch out what he’d written, struggle to come up with something in a proper writing style, fail at that, get angry and humiliated, put his pen down, and would rather face anything than try 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 quickly adjusted to the Grammar School, and the Grammar School adjusted to him, labeling him as a hopeless loser in learning, but respecting his generous and honest nature. Only one arrogant, overbearing guy, the Latin teacher, bullied him and drove him to madness with shame and anger. There was a terrible incident when the boy hit the teacher in the head with a slate, and then everything went back to normal. The teacher received little sympathy. But Brangwen cringed and couldn't stand to think about the incident, not even years later when he was an adult.
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 was happy to leave school. It hadn't been bad; he had enjoyed hanging out with the other kids—or at least he thought he did. Time had flown by in a whirlwind of activities. But he always knew that he was in a shameful position at this place of learning. He felt a constant sense of failure and inadequacy. Still, he was too healthy and optimistic to feel miserable; he was too full of life. Yet, his soul felt almost hopelessly wretched.
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.
He had loved a warm, smart boy who was physically weak, a bit sickly. The two shared a nearly legendary friendship, like David and Jonathan, with Brangwen being the supportive one. However, he had never felt equal to his friend because the other’s intellect was ahead of his, leaving him feeling ashamed and far behind. So as soon as they left school, the two boys went their separate ways. But Brangwen always remembered his friend from the past, holding onto him as a kind of guiding light, a wonderful memory to cherish.
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.
Tom Brangwen was happy to be back at the farm, where he felt like himself again. “I’ve got a turnip on my shoulders, let me stick to the fallow,” he said to his frustrated mother. He had a pretty low opinion of himself. But he went about his work on the farm with enough enthusiasm, enjoying the physical labor and the smell of the earth again, full of youth, energy, and humor, with a sharp wit, having the will and ability to forget his own flaws, sometimes feeling intense anger, but usually getting along well with everyone 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.
When he was seventeen, his father fell off a stack and broke his neck. After that, the mother, son, and daughter continued living on the farm, occasionally interrupted by loud complaints and jealous visits from Frank the butcher, who held a grudge against the world, believing it was always shortchanging him. Frank especially targeted young Tom, calling him a spoiled baby, and Tom responded with fury, his face flushing and his blue eyes glaring. Effie took Tom's side against Frank. However, when Alfred arrived from Nottingham—heavy-jawed and brooding, speaking very little but treating everyone at home with some disdain—both Effie and their mother began to favor him and overshadow Tom. It annoyed Tom that his older brother was treated like a hero by the women just because he didn’t live at home, was a lace designer, and was almost a gentleman. But Alfred was a bit of a tragic figure, so the women adored him. Later, Tom came 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.
As the youngest son, Tom felt a sense of responsibility when the care of the farm fell to him. He was only eighteen, but he was fully capable of handling everything his father had done. And of course, his mother continued to be the heart of the home.
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 young man grew up vibrant and sharp, enjoying every moment of life. He worked, rode, and drove to market, hung out with friends, got tipsy from time to time, played skittles, and visited small traveling theaters. Once, while he was drunk at a bar, he went upstairs with a prostitute who seduced him. He was nineteen at the time.
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.
The situation surprised him. In the close quarters of the farm kitchen, the woman held the top position. The men looked to her for guidance on all household matters, as well as moral and behavioral issues. She represented the deeper aspects of life that included faith, love, and morality. The men entrusted her with their consciences, saying to her, “Be my conscience keeper, the guardian at the door for my comings and goings.” The woman took on this responsibility, and the men relied on her without question, reacting to her praise or criticism with either pleasure or anger. They might rebel and lash out, but they never fully escaped her influence in their hearts. They needed her for their stability. Without her, they would feel like leaves caught in the wind, tossed around aimlessly. She was their anchor and safety, and at times, a figure to be harshly criticized.
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.
Now, when Tom Brangwen, at nineteen, a young man fresh like a plant, rooted in his mother and his sister, discovered that he had slept with a prostitute in a public house, he was quite shocked. Until that moment, there had only been one type of woman for him—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 now? He didn’t know how to feel. There was a bit of wonder, a flash of anger, disappointment, a first taste of ash and cold fear that this was all there would be, that his relationships with women would be nothing more than this emptiness; there was a slight sense of shame in front of the prostitute, fear that she would look down on him for his inadequacy; there was a cold distaste for her, and a fear of her; there was a moment of frozen horror when he thought he might have caught something from her; and on top of all that chaotic mix of emotions was the calming voice of reason, which said it didn’t matter much, as long as he had no disease. He soon found his balance again, and really, it didn’t matter all that 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.
But it had shocked him and filled him with doubt, amplifying his fear of what was inside him. However, in just a few days, he was back to his usual carefree, laid-back self, his blue eyes just as clear and honest as ever, his face just as fresh, and his appetite just as strong.
Or apparently so. He had, in fact, lost some of his buoyant confidence, and doubt hindered his outgoing.
Or so it seemed. He had actually lost some of his lively confidence, and doubt held him back from being 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.
For a while after this, he was quieter, more aware of how he drank, and pulled back from friendships. The disappointment from his first sexual experience with a woman, combined with his deep desire to see in a woman the embodiment of all his unspoken, intense religious feelings, kept him in check. He felt like he had something to lose that he was scared of losing, something he wasn't even sure he truly had. This first relationship didn't mean much to him, but, deep down, love was the most serious and frightening thing in his life.
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 was now overwhelmed with sexual desire, his mind constantly drifting to lustful fantasies. But what really kept him from going back to an easy woman, aside from his natural discomfort, was the memory of how lacking his last experience had been. It had felt so insignificant, so dull and routine, that he was embarrassed to put himself at risk of going through it again.
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 fought hard and instinctively to keep his natural cheerfulness intact. He had a natural flow of life and humor, a feeling of contentment and energy that made things easy. But now, it started to create tension. A strained look appeared in his eyes, and he had a slight furrow in his brow. His loud humor was replaced by heavy silences, and days went by in a kind 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.
He didn’t really know what had changed in him; mostly, he felt this slow anger and resentment bubbling inside. But he realized he was constantly thinking about women, or one specific woman, every single day, and that drove him crazy. He felt trapped by it, and he was ashamed. He had one or two girlfriends, hoping they would lead to something more. But when he was with a girl he liked, he found himself unable to move things forward as he wanted. Just having her next to him made it impossible. He couldn’t think of her that way; he couldn’t imagine her nakedness. She was just a girl he liked, and even the thought of seeing her that way terrified him. He understood that when it came to being completely vulnerable, he didn’t exist to her, nor she to him. On the other hand, if he was with a more carefree girl and things started to heat up, she offended him so much that he was never sure if he wanted to get away from her as fast as he could or if he was just acting out of desperate need. Once again, he learned his lesson: if he ended up with her, it was a situation he had to look down on. He didn’t despise himself or the girl, but he deeply and bitterly despised what the experience had turned into for him.
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.
Then, at twenty-three, his mother passed away, and he was left at home with Effie. Her death was another unexpected shock. He couldn't wrap his head around it; he knew there was no point in trying. One had to accept these unforeseen hits that come out of nowhere and leave a lasting bruise that hurts whenever it's touched. He started to fear everything that was 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.
After that, Effie and he had a fierce argument. They meant a lot to each other, but both were under a weird, intense strain. He tried to stay out of the house as much as he could. He found a special corner for himself at the “Red Lion” in Cossethay and became a regular presence by the fire, a fresh-faced young guy with a solid build and his head held back, mostly quiet but observant and engaged, always enthusiastic when greeting people he knew and shy around strangers. He playfully teased all the women, who really liked him, and he listened attentively to the men, being 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.
To drink made him quickly turn very red in the face, highlighting the look of self-consciousness and uncertainty, almost confusion, in his blue eyes. When he came home in this tipsy state, his sister hated him and insulted him, and he lost his temper, like a crazy 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.
He had another fling with a light-hearted girl. One Whitsun, he went on a trip with two other young guys, on horseback, to Matlock and then to Bakewell. At that time, Matlock was just starting to become a popular tourist destination, attracting visitors from Manchester and the nearby towns in Staffordshire. At the hotel where the young men stopped for lunch, there were two girls, and they all hit it off.
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.
The young woman who approached Tom Brangwen, who was twenty-four at the time, was a beautiful, impulsive girl who had been left unattended for the afternoon by the man who had brought her out. She noticed Brangwen and felt drawn to him, as all women did, for his warmth, generous spirit, and natural sensitivity. However, she recognized that he was someone who would need a little push to take action. Still, she felt excited and unfulfilled, and her playful side kicked in, prompting her to take risks. It would be a simple distraction, helping her regain her confidence.
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.
She was an attractive girl with a curvy figure, dark hair, and blue eyes, a girl full of spontaneous laughter, sun-kissed skin, and a habit of wiping her laughing face in a very natural and charming way.
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.
Brangwen was filled with wonder. He treated her with a teasing kind of respect, excited but very unsure of himself, terrified of being too forward, embarrassed at the thought of being seen as backward, crazy with desire yet held back by a natural respect for women from making any direct move, all while feeling that his behavior was silly and blushing deeply with embarrassment. She, on the other hand, grew bold and daring as he became more flustered; it amused her to watch him approach.
“When must you get back?” she asked.
“When do you need to be back?” she asked.
“I’m not particular,” he said.
"I'm easygoing," he said.
There the conversation again broke down.
There, the conversation broke down again.
Brangwen’s companions were ready to go on.
Brangwen's friends were all set to move on.
“Art commin’, Tom,” they called, “or art for stoppin’?”
“Art coming, Tom,” they called, “or are you stopping?”
“Ay, I’m commin’,” he replied, rising reluctantly, an angry sense of futility and disappointment spreading over him.
“Yeah, I’m coming,” he replied, getting up reluctantly, a frustrating sense of helplessness and disappointment washing over him.
He met the full, almost taunting look of the girl, and he trembled with unusedness.
He met the girl’s full, almost challenging gaze, and he shook with inexperience.
“Shall you come an’ have a look at my mare,” he said to her, with his hearty kindliness that was now shaken with trepidation.
“Will you come and take a look at my mare?” he asked her, his warm friendliness now tinged with nervousness.
“Oh, I should like to,” she said, rising.
“Oh, I would love to,” she said, getting up.
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.
And she followed him, his slightly slouched shoulders and his fabric riding gaiters, out of the room. The young men took their own horses out of the stable.
“Can you ride?” Brangwen asked her.
“Can you ride?” Brangwen asked her.
“I should like to if I could—I have never tried,” she said.
“I would like to if I could—I’ve never tried,” she said.
“Come then, an’ have a try,” he said.
“Come on, give it a shot,” he said.
And he lifted her, he blushing, she laughing, into the saddle.
And he lifted her up, both of them blushing and laughing, into the saddle.
“I s’ll slip off—it’s not a lady’s saddle,” she cried.
“I'll slip off—it's not a lady's saddle,” she said.
“Hold yer tight,” he said, and he led her out of the hotel gate.
“Hold on 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 girl sat uncomfortably, holding on tightly. He placed a hand on her waist to steady her. He held her close, enclosing her in an embrace, feeling overwhelmed with desire as he walked beside her.
The horse walked by the river.
The horse walked along the river.
“You want to sit straddle-leg,” he said to her.
"You want to sit with your legs crossed," he said to her.
“I know I do,” she said.
“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 was the era of very full skirts. She managed to get on the horse quite gracefully, clearly making an effort to cover her lovely leg.
“It’s a lot’s better this road,” she said, looking down at him.
“It’s a lot better this way,” 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.”
“Yeah, it is,” he said, feeling the energy drain from his body from the look in her eyes. “I don’t know why they have that side-saddle thing, twisting a woman in two.”
“Should us leave you then—you seem to be fixed up there?” called Brangwen’s companions from the road.
“Should we leave you then—you seem to be stuck up there?” called Brangwen’s companions from the road.
He went red with anger.
He got really mad.
“Ay—don’t worry,” he called back.
"Hey—don’t worry," he called back.
“How long are yer stoppin’?” they asked.
“How long are you staying?” they asked.
“Not after Christmas,” he said.
"Not after Christmas," he said.
And the girl gave a tinkling peal of laughter.
And the girl laughed with a bright, cheerful sound.
“All right—by-bye!” called his friends.
"Alright—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.
And they rode off at a steady pace, leaving him feeling pretty embarrassed, trying to act cool with the girl. But soon he returned to the hotel, handed his horse over to a stablehand, and wandered off into the woods with the girl, not really aware of where he was or what he was doing. His heart raced, and he thought it was the most exciting adventure, completely consumed 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.
Afterward, he felt a rush of happiness. Wow, that was something! He [stayed the afternoon with the girl, and] wanted to stay the night. However, she told him that wasn’t possible: her boyfriend would be back by dark, and she had to be with him. He, Brangwen, must not let on that anything had happened between them.
She gave him an intimate smile, which made him feel confused and gratified.
She smiled at him in a way that felt personal, leaving him both confused and pleased.
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 couldn't pull himself away, even though he had promised not to get involved with the girl. He stayed at the hotel overnight. He noticed the other guy during dinner: a short, middle-aged man with iron-gray hair and a strange face, almost like a monkey's, but interesting, and in a way, almost beautiful. Brangwen suspected he was a foreigner. He was with another man, an Englishman, who was dry and tough. The four of them sat at the table: two men and two women. Brangwen watched closely.
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.
He noticed how the foreigner treated the women with polite indifference, as if they were just pretty animals. Brangwen's girl had adopted a refined demeanor, but her voice gave her away. She wanted to win back her man. When dessert was served, though, the small foreigner turned from his table and scanned the room, as if he had nothing else to do. Brangwen was struck by the cold, animal-like intelligence of his expression. The brown eyes were wide, revealing all of the brown pupil, resembling a monkey’s, and looked around calmly, observing others without acknowledging them at all. His gaze landed on Brangwen. Brangwen was amazed by the old face turning to him, looking without any interest in getting to know him. The eyebrows of the round, observant, yet indifferent eyes were positioned quite high, with slight wrinkles above them, much like a monkey’s. It was an old, timeless 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.
The man was always an incredible gentleman, an aristocrat. Brangwen stared in fascination. The girl was anxiously pushing her crumbs around on the cloth, 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:
As Brangwen sat still in the hall afterward, too overwhelmed and unsure of what to do, the little stranger approached him with a beautiful smile and demeanor, offering a cigarette and saying:
“Will you smoke?”
"Do you want to 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 never smoked cigarettes, but he accepted the one offered to him, awkwardly fumbling with his thick fingers, blushing deeply. Then he looked with his warm blue eyes at the almost sarcastic, half-closed eyes of the foreigner. The foreigner sat down next to him, and they started talking, mostly about 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.
Brangwen admired the other man for his exceptional kindness, tact, and calm confidence. They chatted about horses, Derbyshire, and farming. The stranger genuinely grew fond of the young man, and Brangwen felt thrilled. He was overjoyed to meet this strange, middle-aged, dry-skinned guy in person. The conversation was nice, but that wasn't the main thing. It was the courteous demeanor and the meaningful connection that truly mattered.
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.
They talked for a long time, with Brangwen blushing like a girl when the other didn’t get his way of speaking. Then they said goodnight and shook hands. Once more, the foreigner bowed and wished him goodnight again.
“Good night, and bon voyage.”
“Good night and safe travels.”
Then he turned to the stairs.
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?
Brangwen went up to his room and lay staring out at the stars on that summer night, his whole being in turmoil. What was it all about? There was a life so different from what he was familiar with. What was out there beyond what he knew, and how much of it? What was this that he had experienced? What was he in this new influence? What did everything mean? Where was life—was it in what he knew or everything outside of 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.
He fell asleep, and by morning he had left without any of the other visitors waking up. He dreaded the thought of facing 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.
His mind was all excitement. The girl and the foreigner: he didn’t know either of their names. Still, they had ignited a fire in his soul, and he would soon be forced out of hiding. Of the two encounters, maybe the one with the foreigner was more important. But the girl—he still hadn’t figured her out.
He did not know. He had to leave it there, as it was. He could not sum up his experiences.
He didn't know. He had to leave it as it was. He couldn't 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.
The outcome of these meetings was that he dreamt constantly about a sensuous woman and his encounter with a small, frail foreigner of noble descent. As soon as he found himself alone, away from his own friends, he started to envision a close connection with delicate, refined individuals like the foreigner at Matlock, and in the midst of this refined closeness was always the pleasure of a sensual 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.
He walked around lost in the excitement and reality of this dream. His eyes sparkled, he walked with confidence, filled with the delightful joy of refined elegance and grace, tormented by his longing 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.
Then gradually the glow started to fade, and the harshness of his usual life began to reveal itself. He felt resentful about it. Had he been deceived by his own illusion? He resisted the narrow confinement of reality, standing stubbornly like a bull at a gate, refusing to go back to the familiar routine of his 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 drank more than usual to maintain the buzz. But it kept fading anyway. He clenched his teeth at the ordinary, which he refused to accept. It stood out starkly before him, despite everything.
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 to get married, to settle down somehow, to escape the mess he was in. But how? He felt paralyzed. He remembered seeing a small creature stuck in bird-lime, and that image haunted him. He started to feel overwhelmed with anger from his helplessness.
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.
He wanted something to grab onto, to lift himself up. But there was nothing. He stared intently at the young women, looking for one he could marry. But he didn't want any of them. And he realized that the thought of a life among people like 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.
Yet he dreamed of it, held onto his dreams, and refused to accept the reality of Cossethay and Ilkeston. There he sat stubbornly in his corner at the “Red Lion,” smoking and lost in thought, occasionally lifting his beer mug and saying nothing, just like a gaping farm laborer, as he described 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 a wave of restless anger hit him. He wanted to leave—right away. He dreamed of distant places. But somehow, he felt no connection to them. And there was a very strong bond that tied him to the Marsh, to his own home 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.
Then Effie got married, and he was left in the house with only Tilly, the cross-eyed housekeeper who had been with them for fifteen years. He felt like everything was coming to an end. All along, he had stubbornly resisted the pull of the everyday monotony that wanted to pull him in. But now he had to take action.
He was by nature temperate. Being sensitive and emotional, his nausea prevented him from drinking too much.
He was naturally moderate. Being sensitive and emotional, his queasiness kept 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.”
But, in fruitless anger, with a strong sense of determination and a fake smile, he started drinking to get drunk. “Damn it,” he said to himself, “you have to choose a side—you can’t tie your horse to a shadow—you’ve got legs, so at some point, you’ve got to get off your butt.”
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?
So he got up and went down to Ilkeston, a bit awkwardly took his place among a group of young guys, bought drinks for everyone, and realized he could handle it quite well. He felt like everyone in the room was just like him, that everything was great, everything was perfect. When someone, in a panic, told him his coat pocket was on fire, he could only smile from a flushed, happy face and say, “It’s all right—it’s all right—let it be, let it be——” and he laughed with joy, feeling a bit offended that others thought it was strange for his coat pocket to be burning: it was the happiest and most natural thing in the world—right?
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.
He went home talking to himself and to the moon, which was high and small, tripping over the moonlight reflecting off the puddles at his feet, wondering What the Hanover! then laughing confidently at the moon, assuring her this was first class, it really 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.
In the morning, he woke up and thought about it, and for the first time in his life, he really understood what it meant to feel intensely irritated, caught in a misery of genuine bad temper. After yelling and snapping at Tilly, he left out of sheer embarrassment to be by himself. Looking at the gray fields and the dull roads, he wondered what in the world he could do to escape this annoying sense of disgust and physical revulsion. And he realized that this was the consequence of his amazing 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.
And his stomach didn't want any more brandy. He trudged across the fields with his terrier, looking at everything with a skeptical 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.
The next evening, he returned to his spot at the “Red Lion,” calm and composed. There he sat, determinedly waiting to see 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.
Did he really believe he belonged to this world of Cossethay and Ilkeston? There was nothing in it he wanted. Yet could he ever escape it? Was there anything in him that could take him away? Or was he just a clueless kid, not mature enough to be like the other guys who drank a lot and hooked up a little without any doubts, and were happy?
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.
He pushed through stubbornly for a while. Then the pressure became too much for him. A burning awareness was always present in his chest, his wrists felt swollen and trembling, his mind was filled with lustful thoughts, and his eyes seemed bloodshot. He struggled fiercely with himself to stay composed. He didn't pursue any woman. He just continued as if everything was fine. Until he had to either take some action or hit 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.
Then he walked purposefully to Ilkeston, silent, focused, and beaten. He drank to get drunk. He downed the brandy, and more brandy, until his face turned pale, his eyes burning. And still he couldn’t break free. He passed out drunk, woke up at four in the morning, and kept drinking. He would find a way to be free. Gradually, the tension inside him started to ease. He began to feel happy. His tight-lipped silence loosened, and he started to talk and ramble. He was happy and felt connected to everyone, united with all people in a strong bond. So, after three days of nonstop brandy-drinking, he had burned away his youth, achieving that intense state of oneness with the world, which is the ultimate fulfillment of youth’s deepest desire. But he had found his satisfaction by erasing his own individuality, which his manhood depended on preserving and developing.
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.
So he became a binge drinker, going on three or four-day stretches of brandy drinking, getting drunk the entire time. He didn’t think about it. A deep resentment burned inside him. He stayed away from any women, keeping a distance.
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.
When he was twenty-eight, a sturdy, rigid, fair man with a smooth complexion and blue eyes looking straight ahead, he was coming one day down from Cossethay with a load of seed from Nottingham. It was a time when he was preparing for another round of drinking, so he stared fixedly in front of him, watchful yet lost in thought, aware of everything but nothing at the same time, coiled in on 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.
He walked steadily next to the horse, the load rattling behind him as the hill got steeper. The road curved downhill in front of him, under banks and hedges, visible 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.
Slowly navigating the curve at the steepest part of the slope, his horse struggling between the shafts, he noticed a woman coming toward him. But for the moment, his focus was on 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.
Then he turned to look at her. She was dressed in black, looking pretty small and slight under her long black cloak, and she wore a black bonnet. She walked quickly, almost as if she couldn't see, with her head leaning a bit forward. It was her strange, focused, darting movement, as if she was moving past everyone unnoticed, that first caught his attention.
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.
She heard the cart and looked up. Her face was pale and clear, with thick dark eyebrows and a wide mouth, held in a curious way. He saw her face clearly, as if illuminated by a light in the air. He saw her face so distinctly that he stopped curling up and was frozen in place.
“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.
"That's her," he said without thinking. As the cart rolled by, splashing through the shallow mud, she leaned against the bank. Then, as he continued next to his saddled horse, their eyes locked. He quickly looked away, tilting his head back, overwhelmed by a wave of joy. He couldn't bear to think of anything else.
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.
He turned around at the last moment. He saw her bonnet, her figure in the black cloak, the way she moved as she walked. Then she disappeared around 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.
She had walked by. He felt like he was strolling again in a distant world, not Cossethay, a distant world, the delicate reality. He continued on, silent, suspended, ethereal. He couldn’t stand to think or to speak, nor make any noise or gesture, nor alter his steady motion. He could hardly bear to think of her face. He moved within the understanding 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.
The feeling that they had recognized each other consumed him like a madness, like a torment. How could he be sure? What proof did he have? The doubt felt like an endless void, an emptiness, overwhelming. He held tightly in his heart the desire for certainty. They had recognized each other.
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.
He wandered around like this for the next few days. Then, like a fog, it started to lift, revealing the ordinary, bleak world. He was kind to both people and animals, but he feared the harshness of reality creeping back in.
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.
As he stood with his back to the fire a few days later after dinner, he saw the woman walking by. He needed to know that she recognized him, that she was aware of him. He wanted it to be known that there was something between them. So he stood there nervously, watching her as she walked down the road. He called out to Tilly.
“Who might that be?” he asked.
“Who could 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.
Tilly, the cross-eyed woman in her forties who loved him, eagerly ran to the window to look. She was always happy when he asked her for anything. She leaned her head over the short curtain, her little tight knot of black hair sticking out awkwardly as she moved around.
“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—”
“Oh why”—she lifted her head and looked with her sharp, dark brown eyes—“why, you know who it is—it’s her from the vicarage—you know—”
“How do I know, you hen-bird,” he shouted.
“How do I know, you silly bird,” he shouted.
Tilly blushed and drew her neck in and looked at him with her squinting, sharp, almost reproachful look.
Tilly flushed, pulled her neck in, and looked at him with her squinting, sharp, almost accusatory gaze.
“Why you do—it’s the new housekeeper.”
“Why are you doing that? It’s the new housekeeper.”
“Ay—an’ what by that?”
"Ay—and what's that about?"
“Well, an’ what by that?” rejoined the indignant Tilly.
“Well, and what does that mean?” Tilly replied indignantly.
“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?”
"She's a woman, right? Housekeeper or not? She's got a lot more to her than just that! Who is she—doesn't she have 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.
“Well, if she has, I don’t know,” Tilly shot back, refusing to be pushed around by this guy who had grown up into a man.
“What’s her name?” he asked, more gently.
“What's her name?” he asked, more softly.
“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you,” replied Tilly, on her dignity.
"I’m sure I couldn't tell you," Tilly replied, maintaining her dignity.
“An’ is that all as you’ve gathered, as she’s housekeeping at the vicarage?”
“Is that all you’ve figured out since she’s been taking care of things at the vicarage?”
“I’ve ’eered mention of ’er name, but I couldn’t remember it for my life.”
“I’ve heard her name mentioned, but I couldn’t remember it to save my life.”
“Why, yer riddle-skulled woman o’ nonsense, what have you got a head for?”
“Why, you confusing woman full of nonsense, what do you have 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.
“For what other people have got theirs for,” Tilly shot back, who loved nothing more than these exchanges when he would insult her.
There was a lull.
It was quiet.
“I don’t believe as anybody could keep it in their head,” the woman-servant continued, tentatively.
“I don’t believe anyone could keep it in their head,” the woman-servant continued, hesitantly.
“What?” he asked.
"What?" he asked.
“Why, ’er name.”
"What's her name?"
“How’s that?”
"How's that working for you?"
“She’s fra some foreign parts or other.”
"She's from some foreign place or another."
“Who told you that?”
"Who said that?"
“That’s all I do know, as she is.”
"That's all I know, as she is."
“An’ wheer do you reckon she’s from, then?”
“Where do you think 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.
“I don’t know. They say she comes from the North Pole. I don’t know,” Tilly quickly added, realizing he would go after her.
“Fra th’ Pole, why do you hail fra th’ Pole? Who set up that menagerie confabulation?”
“Why do you greet from the Pole? Who created that bizarre gathering?”
“That’s what they say—I don’t know——”
“That’s what they say—I don’t know——”
“Who says?”
“Who said that?”
“Mrs. Bentley says as she’s fra th’ Pole—else she is a Pole, or summat.”
“Mrs. Bentley says she’s from Poland—otherwise, she’s a Pole, or something.”
Tilly was only afraid she was landing herself deeper now.
Tilly was just worried she was getting herself into even more trouble now.
“Who says she’s a Pole?”
“Who says she’s Polish?”
“They all say so.”
"They all say that."
“Then what’s brought her to these parts?”
“Then what’s she doing around here?”
“I couldn’t tell you. She’s got a little girl with her.”
“I can’t tell you. She has a little girl with her.”
“Got a little girl with her?”
“Does she have a little girl with her?”
“Of three or four, with a head like a fuzz-ball.”
“Of three or four, with a head like a fuzz ball.”
“Black?”
"Black?"
“White—fair as can be, an’ all of a fuzz.”
“White—as fair as can be, and with a bit of fuzz.”
“Is there a father, then?”
"Is there a dad, then?"
“Not to my knowledge. I don’t know.”
“Not that I know of. I don’t know.”
“What brought her here?”
“What brought her here?”
“I couldn’t say, without th’ vicar axed her.”
“I couldn’t say, unless the vicar asked her.”
“Is the child her child?”
“Is the kid her kid?”
“I s’d think so—they say so.”
"I would think so—they say so."
“Who told you about her?”
"Who told you about her?"
“Why, Lizzie—a-Monday—we seed her goin’ past.”
“Hey, Lizzie—on Monday—we saw her walking by.”
“You’d have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past.”
"You’d have to be making some noise if anything went by."
Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the “Red Lion”, half with the intention of hearing more.
Brangwen stood lost in thought. That evening, he went up to Cossethay to the "Red Lion," partly intending to learn 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.
She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he realized. Her husband had passed away, a refugee, in London. She had a slight accent, but you could easily understand her. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman’s last 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.
Brangwen felt that he had finally found a sense of unreality. He also had a strange certainty about her, as if she was meant for him. It gave him deep 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.
A quick change had happened on earth for him, as if a new world had come to life, where he truly existed. Before, everything had felt empty, fake, and lifeless. Now, they were real things that he could touch.
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.
He could hardly bear to think about the woman. He felt scared. Yet, all the while, he was aware of her presence nearby; he existed within her. But he didn’t dare to know her, not even to familiarize 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.
One day he saw her walking down the road with her little girl. The child had a face like an apple blossom bud and shiny fair hair that stuck out in wild, fiery tufts, with very dark eyes. The girl clung closely to her mother’s side when he looked at her, staring back with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost blankly. And the emptiness of her gaze excited him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with deep, dark pupils. He felt a warm rush under his skin, as if all his veins were igniting at the surface. And he continued walking, lost in thought.
It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would come.
It was coming, he knew, his destiny. The world was changing, and there was no stopping it. He didn’t act: whatever was meant to happen would happen.
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.
When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he decided to go with her to church for once. In the tiny place, with its just a dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was something refined about her, a sadness in the way she sat and held her head high. She was unusual, from far away, yet somehow familiar. She came from somewhere distant, a presence that felt so close to his soul. She wasn’t really there, sitting in Cossethay church with her little girl. She wasn’t living the obvious life of her days. She belonged to another place. He felt it intensely, as something real and natural. But a wave of fear for his own tangible life, which was just Cossethay, pained him and filled him with doubt.
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.
Her thick dark eyebrows nearly joined above her uneven nose, and she had a wide, somewhat thick mouth. However, her face was turned toward another world of life: not to heaven or death, but to a place where she still existed, despite 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 child next to her watched everything with wide, dark eyes. She had a peculiar, defiant look, her small red mouth pressed tightly shut. She seemed to be fiercely protecting something, always ready to defend. She met Brangwen’s close, vacant, familiar gaze, and a throbbing hostility, almost like a flame of pain, flared up in her wide, overly aware 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.
The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unbothered as always. And there was the foreign woman with an exotic vibe, untouched, and the strange child, also foreign, protectively holding onto 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.
When the service ended, he walked toward a different life out of the church. As he and his sister walked down the church path behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly broke free from her mother’s hand, and quickly slipped back, almost unnoticed, to pick at something right under Brangwen’s feet. Her tiny fingers were quick and delicate, but they missed the red button.
“Have you found something?” said Brangwen to her.
“Did you find something?” Brangwen asked 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.
And he also bent down for the button. But she already had it, and she stepped back with it held against her little coat, her dark eyes glaring at him, as if to warn him to ignore her. Then, having silenced him, she quickly said, “Mom——,” and disappeared 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.
The mother had stood there, watching without emotion, not looking at the child, but at Brangwen. He realized the woman was gazing at him, standing there alone yet, for him, powerful in her unfamiliar 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.
He didn't know what to do and looked to his sister. But her big gray eyes, almost blank yet so expressive, held him captive.
“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?”
“Mother, can I have it, please?” came the child's proud, bright voice. “Mother”—she always seemed to be calling for her mom to remember her—“mother”—and she didn't have anything else to say now that her mom had replied, “Yes, my child.” But, with quick thinking, the child stumbled and continued, “What are those people's names?”
Brangwen heard the abstract:
Brangwen heard the summary:
“I don’t know, dear.”
"I don't know, honey."
He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside.
He walked down the road as if he wasn't living inside himself, but somewhere else.
“Who was that person?” his sister Effie asked.
“Who was that person?” his sister Effie asked.
“I couldn’t tell you,” he answered unknowing.
“I can’t tell you,” he replied, unsure.
“She’s somebody very funny,” said Effie, almost in condemnation. “That child’s like one bewitched.”
“She’s someone really funny,” Effie said, almost in disapproval. “That kid acts like she’s under a spell.”
“Bewitched—how bewitched?” he repeated.
“Bewitched—how so?” 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.”
“You can see for yourself. The mom is pretty plain, I have to admit—but the kid looks like a little fairy. She’d be around thirty-five.”
But he took no notice. His sister talked on.
But he didn’t pay any attention. His sister kept talking.
“There’s your woman for you,” she continued. “You’d better marry her.” But still he took no notice. Things were as they were.
“There’s your woman for you,” she continued. “You’d better marry her.” But he still didn’t pay attention. 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.
Another day, at tea-time, while he was sitting alone at the table, there was a knock at the front door. It startled him like a sign. No one ever knocked at the front door. He got up and started sliding back the bolts, turning the large key. When he opened the door, a strange woman was standing on the threshold.
“Can you give me a pound of butter?” she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language.
“Can you give me a pound of butter?” she asked, in a curious, detached manner like someone 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 attempted to address her question. She was looking at him with curiosity. But beneath that question, what was present in her stillness that impacted 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.
He stepped aside, and she immediately walked into the house, as if the door had been opened just for her. That surprised him. Usually, everyone waits on the doorstep until they're invited in. 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.
His tea set was laid out on the clean table, a big fire was crackling, and a dog got up from the hearth and approached her. She stood still just inside the kitchen.
“Tilly,” he called loudly, “have we got any butter?”
“Tilly,” he shouted, “do we have any butter?”
The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak.
The stranger stood there like a quiet presence in her black cloak.
“Eh?” came the shrill cry from the distance.
“Huh?” came the high-pitched shout from afar.
He shouted his question again.
He yelled his question again.
“We’ve got what’s on t’ table,” answered Tilly’s shrill voice out of the dairy.
“We’ve got what’s on the table,” replied Tilly's high-pitched voice from 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.
Brangwen looked at the table. There was a big block of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round and imprinted with acorns and oak leaves.
“Can’t you come when you’re wanted?” he shouted.
“Can't you come when you're needed?” he shouted.
“Why, what d’you want?” Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door.
“Why, what do you want?” Tilly protested, as she peeked in curiously through the other door.
She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing.
She saw the strange woman, stared at her with crossed eyes, but didn’t say anything.
“Haven’t we any butter?” asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question.
“Don’t we have any butter?” Brangwen asked again, impatiently, as if he could summon some just by asking.
“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.”
“I’m telling you what’s on the table,” Tilly said, frustrated that she couldn’t provide anything else for him. “We don’t have a bite besides.”
There was a moment’s silence.
There was a moment of silence.
The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first.
The stranger spoke in her uniquely distinct, detached way, as if she had to think through her words before saying them.
“Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you.”
“Oh, thank you so much. I'm sorry for bothering 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.
She couldn't understand the complete lack of manners and felt a bit puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation feel more impersonal. But this was a case of conflicting wills. Brangwen blushed at her polite words. Still, he didn’t let her go.
“Get summat an’ wrap that up for her,” he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table.
“Get something and 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.
And using a clean knife, he sliced off the part of the butter that had been touched.
His speech, the “for her”, penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly.
His speech, the “for her,” slowly got through to the foreign woman and made Tilly angry.
“Vicar has his butter fra Brown’s by rights,” said the insuppressible servant-woman. “We s’ll be churnin’ to-morrow mornin’ first thing.”
“Vicar has his butter from Brown’s, that’s for sure,” said the determined servant woman. “We’ll be churning first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Yes”—the long-drawn foreign yes—“yes,” said the Polish woman, “I went to Mrs. Brown’s. She hasn’t any more.”
“Yeah”—the prolonged foreign yeah—“yeah,” said the Polish woman, “I went to Mrs. Brown’s. She doesn’t have 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.
Tilly held her head up high, eager to point out that, based on the etiquette of those who buy butter, it was completely rude to show up at a cool place and knock on the front door asking for a pound as a temporary fix while your other sources ran out. If you go to Brown’s, you go to Brown’s, and my butter isn’t just for making do when Brown’s has run out.
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.
Brangwen completely got Tilly’s silent communication. The Polish lady didn’t. And since she needed butter for the vicar and 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.
“Come on now,” Brangwen said loudly after the silence broke; and Tilly went out 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.
“I’m afraid I shouldn’t come, so,” said the stranger, looking at him questioningly, as if expecting him to respond in the usual way.
He felt confused.
He was confused.
“How’s that?” he said, trying to be genial and being only protective.
“How’s that?” he asked, attempting to be friendly but only coming off as 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.
“Do you——?” she started carefully. But she wasn't confident in what to say, and the conversation ended there. She kept her eyes on him the whole time because she couldn't find the words.
They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it.
They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He crouched down to it.
“And how’s your little girl?” he asked.
“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.
“Yeah, thanks, she’s doing really well,” was the response, just a polite phrase in another language.
“Sit you down,” he said.
“Take a seat,” he said.
And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap.
And she sat in a chair, her slim arms poking out 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.
“You're not from around here,” he said, still standing on the rug in front of the fire, without his coat, watching the woman with an intense gaze. He was impressed by her confidence and felt inspired, as if it liberated him in a strange way. It seemed almost harsh to feel so in control of himself and the situation.
Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech.
Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, full of questions, as she contemplated the meaning of what he just said.
“No,” she said, understanding. “No—it is strange.”
“No,” she said, understanding. “No—it is strange.”
“You find it middlin’ rough?” he said.
“You think it’s kind of rough?” he said.
Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again.
Her eyes were fixed on him, waiting for him to say it again.
“Our ways are rough to you,” he repeated.
"Our methods are tough for you," he repeated.
“Yes—yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire——”
“Yes—yes, I get it. Yes, it’s different, it’s weird. But I was in Yorkshire——”
“Oh, well then,” he said, “it’s no worse here than what they are up there.”
“Oh, well then,” he said, “it’s no worse here than it is 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?
She didn’t fully understand. His protective attitude, confidence, and closeness confused her. What did he mean? If he was her equal, why was he acting so casually?
“No——” she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him.
“No—” she said, vaguely, her eyes on him.
She saw him fresh and naïve, 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 saw him as fresh and innocent, rough around the edges, almost completely disconnected from her. Still, he was attractive, with his light hair and bright blue eyes full of life, and his fit body that seemed to match hers. She observed him closely. He was hard for her to figure out, warm, unrefined, and self-assured, moving with a confidence that suggested he didn’t know what it felt like to be uncertain. So what was it that gave him this intriguing sense of 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.
She didn’t know. She wondered. She looked around the room he lived in. It had a cozy familiarity that both fascinated and scared her a little. The furniture was old and felt like family, and the whole place seemed so connected to him, as if it was a part of him, that she felt uneasy.
“It is already a long time that you have lived in this house—yes?” she asked.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve lived in this house—right?” she asked.
“I’ve always lived here,” he said.
“I’ve always lived here,” he said.
“Yes—but your people—your family?”
"Yes—but what about 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.
“We’ve been here for over two hundred years,” he said. Her eyes were on him the whole time, wide-open and trying to understand him. He felt that he was there for her.
“It is your own place, the house, the farm——?”
“It’s 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.
“Yes,” he said. He looked down at her and met her gaze. It unsettled her. She didn’t know him. He was a stranger, and they had nothing in common. Yet his gaze made her aware of him. He was so oddly confident and straightforward.
“You live quite alone?”
"Do you live alone?"
“Yes—if you call it alone?”
"Yes—if you call it alone?"
She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the meaning of it?
She didn't understand. It seemed strange to her. What did it mean?
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?
And whenever her eyes, after watching him for a while, inevitably met his, she felt a warmth rising in her awareness. She sat still and torn. Who was this strange man who felt so close to her? What was happening to her? Something in his young, warm, sparkling eyes seemed to claim a connection with her, to reach out to her, to offer her his protection. But how? Why did he talk to her? Why were his eyes so sure, so bright and confident, waiting for no approval or cue?
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.
Tilly came back with a big leaf and noticed the two were quiet. Immediately, he felt it was his duty to say something, now that the waitress had returned.
“How old is your little girl?” he asked.
“How old is your daughter?” he asked.
“Four years,” she replied.
“4 years,” she replied.
“Her father hasn’t been dead long, then?” he asked.
“Her father hasn't been gone for long, then?” he asked.
“She was one year when he died.”
“She was one year old when he died.”
“Three years?”
"Three years?"
“Yes, three years that he is dead—yes.”
“Yes, it's been three years since he died—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.
Curiously quiet, she seemed almost lost in thought as she answered his questions. She looked at him again, with a hint of innocence in her eyes. He felt frozen, unable to move towards her or away from her. Something about her presence pained him, making him feel almost stiff in front of her. He noticed the girl's look of curiosity growing in her eyes.
Tilly handed her the butter and she rose.
Tilly handed her the butter, and she got up.
“Thank you very much,” she said. “How much is it?”
“Thank you so much,” she said. “How much does it cost?”
“We’ll make th’ vicar a present of it,” he said. “It’ll do for me goin’ to church.”
“We’ll give the vicar a gift of it,” he said. “It’ll work for me going 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.
“It would look better for you if you went to church and took the money for your butter,” Tilly said, sticking to her point.
“You’d have to put in, shouldn’t you?” he said.
“You should put in, right?” he said.
“How much, please?” said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let be.
“How much is it, please?” the Polish woman asked Tilly. Brangwen stood by and let it be.
“Then, thank you very much,” she said.
“Thanks so much,” she said.
“Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th’ fowls and horses,” he said,—“if she’d like it.”
“Bring your little girl down sometime to see the chickens and horses,” he said, “if she’d be interested.”
“Yes, she would like it,” said the stranger.
“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.
And she left. Brangwen stood there, overshadowed by her absence. He didn't notice Tilly, who was watching him anxiously, hoping for some reassurance. He couldn't think of anything. He felt like he had formed some invisible bond with the mysterious 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.
A haze had settled over his mind; he felt a different awareness. Deep inside him, somewhere in his chest or gut, another force had begun to stir. It was like a bright light was shining there, and he was in the dark about everything, except that this change ignited a connection between him and her, like an invisible force.
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.
Since she arrived at the house, he moved around in a haze, barely noticing the things he touched, drifting, calm, in a state of change. He accepted what was happening to him, surrendering his will, experiencing the loss of himself, always on the edge of bliss, like a being evolving towards a new beginning.
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.
She visited the farm twice with her child, but there was a pause between them, a deep calm and passivity that felt almost like lethargy, preventing any real change from happening. He hardly noticed the child, yet with his natural good humor, he won her trust and even her affection, allowing her to ride a horse and giving her corn for the chickens.
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.
Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if seeking comfort, while the mother sat very still. There was a haziness, like a soft mist surrounding them, and a silence as if their wills were on pause. Only he noticed her ungloved hands, folded in her lap, and the wedding ring on her finger. It set him apart: it was a closed circle. The wedding ring represented her life, a life in which he had no place. Still, beyond all this, there was her and him, waiting to connect.
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.
As he helped her down from the carriage, nearly lifting her, he felt entitled to hold her like this. She still belonged to that other person, to what was in the past. But he had to look after her too. She was too vibrant to be ignored.
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.
Sometimes her lack of clarity, in which he felt adrift, made him angry, made him furious. But he kept himself in check for now. She gave no reply, showed no interest in him. It confused and infuriated him, but he endured it for a long time. Then, from the mounting frustration of her ignoring him, a fury eventually erupted, destructive, and he wanted to leave, to get away from 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.
She happened to come down to the Marsh with the child while he was in this mood. He stood facing her, strong and heavy in his rebellion, and even though he didn’t say anything, she could still feel his anger and deep impatience gripping her; it shook her out of a daze. Her heart raced with a sudden, overwhelming impulse as she looked at him, this stranger who wasn’t a gentleman but insisted on entering her life, and the pain of something new awakening inside her set all her veins on edge. She would have to start over, find a new self, a new way to respond to that blind, determined figure standing in front of 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.
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 had to protect herself against it, because 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.
As he worked alone on the farm, or stayed up with his ewes during lambing season, the details and distractions of his daily life faded away, exposing the core of his purpose. It suddenly struck him that he would marry her and she would be his whole 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.
Gradually, even without seeing her, he got to know her. He wanted to think of her as something he was meant to protect, like a child without parents. But that was off-limits for him. He had to let go of this nice perspective. She could reject him. Plus, 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.
But during the long February nights with the ewes in labor, looking out from the shelter at the flashing stars, he realized he didn’t belong to himself. He had to accept that he was only a part of something bigger, something unfinished and dependent. The stars in the dark sky were moving, the whole group passing by on some endless journey. So he sat there, feeling small and yielding to the greater order of things.
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.
Unless she came to him, he would remain invisible. It was a tough experience. But after she kept ignoring him, after he had seen so many times that he didn't matter to her, after he had fought and tried to break free, declaring that he was good enough on his own, that he was a man and could stand alone, he had to, in the vastness of the starry night, humble himself and accept 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 nobody. But with her, he would feel alive. If she were walking across the cold grass by the sheep shelter, navigating the restless bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him wholeness and fulfillment. And if it were meant to be that she would come to him! It was meant to be—it was destined to happen.
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 spent a long time deciding for sure to ask her to marry him. And he knew that if he asked her, she would definitely say yes. She had to; it couldn't be any other way.
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.
He had learned a bit about her. She was poor, very much alone, and had struggled in London, both before and after her husband passed away. But in Poland, she was a well-born lady, the daughter of a landowner.
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.
All these things were just words to him—the fact that she came from a higher social class, the fact that her husband had been an outstanding doctor, the fact that he was her inferior in almost every way that mattered. There was a deeper truth, a connection of the soul, that linked her to 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.
One evening in March, when the wind was howling outside, it was time to ask her. He sat with his hands in front of him, leaning toward the fire. As he watched the flames, he realized without much thought that he was going to do it that evening.
“Have you got a clean shirt?” he asked Tilly.
“Do you have a clean shirt?” he asked Tilly.
“You know you’ve got clean shirts,” she said.
“You know you have clean shirts,” she said.
“Ay,—bring me a white one.”
“Hey, 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.
Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited from his father and laid it out in front of the fire to air. She loved him with a quiet, aching love as he sat there, leaning with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, completely unaware of her. Recently, she felt this quivering urge to cry whenever she did something for him while he was around. Now her hands shook as she spread the shirt. He wasn't shouting or teasing anymore. The deep silence in the house made her uneasy.
He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his stillness.
He went to wash up. Strange little flashes of awareness popped up and burst like bubbles from the depths of his calm.
“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.”
“It has to be done,” he said as he bent down to grab the shirt from the fender, “it has to be done, so why hesitate?” And as he styled his hair in front of the mirror on the wall, he shot back at himself, somewhat dismissively: “The woman isn’t completely silent. She’s not just sitting there doing nothing. She has the right to do what makes her happy and annoy whoever she wants.”
This streak of common sense carried him a little further.
This bit of common sense took 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.
“Did you want anything?” asked Tilly, suddenly appearing after hearing him speak. She stood watching him comb his light beard. His eyes were calm and focused.
“Ay,” he said, “where have you put the scissors?”
“Ay,” he said, “where did you put the scissors?”
She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward, he trimmed his beard.
She brought them to him and stood watching as he angled his chin forward and 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.
“Don’t go and cut yourself like you’re in a sheep-shearing contest,” she said, worryingly. He quickly blew the fine-curled hair 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.
He put on all clean clothes, carefully folded his collar, and put on his best coat. Then, ready to go, as the gray twilight was setting in, he walked over to the orchard to pick the daffodils. The wind was howling in the apple trees, the yellow flowers swayed wildly up and down, and he even heard the soft whisper of their stems as he bent down to snap the flattened, brittle stalks of the flowers.
“What’s to-do?” shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate.
“What’s up?” shouted a friend who met him as he left the garden gate.
“Bit of courtin’, like,” said Brangwen.
“Just a bit of courtship,” 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.
And Tilly, feeling a mix of nervousness and excitement, let the wind carry her across the field to the big gate, where she could watch him leave.
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.
He walked up the hill toward the vicarage, the wind howling through the hedges, while he tried to protect his bunch of daffodils by his side. He didn’t think about anything, just 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.
Night was settling in, and the bare trees rustled and whistled. The vicar would be in his study, while the Polish woman was in the kitchen, a cozy space with her child. In the deepest twilight, he walked through the gate and down the path where a few daffodils bowed in the wind, and broken crocuses created a pale, colorless mess.
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.
There was light shining onto the bushes at the back from the kitchen window. He started to hesitate. How could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw her sitting in the rocking chair with the child, already in her nightgown, on her knee. The fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping toward the warmth of the fire, which lit up the child's bright cheeks and clear skin, making her seem deep in thought, almost like an adult. The mother’s face was dark and still, and he felt a pang as he realized she was lost in the life that used to be. The child's hair shimmered like spun glass, and her face glowed as if lit from within. The wind howled fiercely. Mother and child sat still, silent, the child staring blankly with dark eyes into the fire, the mother gazing into space. The little girl was nearly asleep. It was her determination that 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.
Suddenly, she turned around, looking worried, as the wind rattled the house, and Brangwen noticed her small lips moving. The mother started to rock, and he heard the faint creak of the chair's rockers. Then he caught the low, steady hum of a song in a foreign language. After that, a strong gust of wind came, and it seemed like the mother had floated away; the child's eyes were dark and wide. Brangwen glanced up at the clouds racing across the dark sky in a chaotic hurry.
Then there came the child’s high, complaining, yet imperative voice:
Then the child’s high, whiny, yet insistent voice came:
“Don’t sing that stuff, mother; I don’t want to hear it.”
“Don’t sing that stuff, Mom; I don’t want to hear it.”
The singing died away.
The singing faded out.
“You will go to bed,” said the mother.
“You're going 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:
He saw the child's desperate cling, the mother's distant indifference, the child's desperate struggle to hold on. Then suddenly, there came the clear childish challenge:
“I want you to tell me a story.”
“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 wind blew, the story started, the child snuggled against the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, watching the wild swaying of the trees in the wind and the approaching darkness. He had his destiny to pursue, and 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 child sat curled up against her mother, still and quiet, her dark eyes wide and unblinking among the strands of hair, like a small animal dozing except for her eyes. The mother seemed to disappear into the shadows while the story continued on its own. Brangwen stood outside, watching the night settle in. He was unaware of how much time had passed. The hand that held the daffodils was stiff 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.
The story came to an end, and the mother finally stood up, with the child wrapped around her neck. She must be strong to carry such a big child so effortlessly. Little Anna clung to her mother’s neck. The child’s fair, unusual face peeked over the mother’s shoulder, all asleep except for her wide, dark eyes, which remained alert, resisting and fighting against 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.
When they left, Brangwen finally moved from where he stood and looked around at the night. He wished it was truly as beautiful and familiar as it appeared in these few moments of freedom. Along with the child, he felt a strange tension within him, a pain, like a destiny.
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.
The mother came down again and started folding the child's clothes. He knocked. She opened the door, looking a bit surprised and uncertain, as if she were a stranger in her own home.
“Good evening,” he said. “I’ll just come in a minute.”
“Good evening,” he said. “I’ll just be 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.
A change flashed across her face; she wasn’t ready for it. She gazed down at him as he stood in the light from the window, holding the daffodils, with the darkness behind him. In his black clothes, she didn’t recognize him again. She felt a bit scared.
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.
But he was already stepping onto the threshold and closing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of her thoughts by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat and approached her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes and black tie, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood back, at his mercy, pulled out of herself. She didn’t know him; she only knew he was a man come for her. All she could see was the figure of the dark-clad man standing there in front of her and the clenched fist of flowers. She couldn't see his face or the living eyes.
He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath of her presence.
He was watching her, not really knowing her, just aware of her presence deep down.
“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.
“I need to talk to you,” he said, walking over to the table and putting down his hat and the flowers, which fell apart and ended up in a messy pile. She had recoiled from his approach. She felt powerless, as if she didn't exist. The wind roared in the chimney, and he waited. He had freed his hands. Now he clenched his fists.
He was aware of her standing there unknown, dread, yet related to him.
He was aware of her standing there, unfamiliar and intimidating, yet connected 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?”
“I came up,” he said, speaking in a curious, straightforward tone, “to ask if you’d marry me. You’re free, right?”
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.
There was a long silence as his blue eyes, oddly detached, met hers in search of the truth. He was trying to get the truth from her. And she, almost in a trance, felt compelled to answer at length.
“Yes, I am free to marry.”
"Yes, I'm ready 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.
The look in his eyes shifted, becoming less distant, as if he was truly seeing her, understanding her. They were steady, focused, and timeless, as if they would never change. It felt like they were locking onto her and defining her. She trembled, feeling herself come alive, without a will of her own, merging into him, sharing a collective will with him.
“You want me?” she said.
“Do you want me?” she said.
A pallor came over his face.
A pale look crossed his face.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes,” he replied.
Still there was no response and silence.
Still, there was no response and silence.
“No,” she said, not of herself. “No, I don’t know.”
“No,” she said, not about 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.
He felt the tension fading away, his fists relaxed, and he couldn't move. He stood there looking at her, feeling helpless in his vague downfall. For a moment, she seemed unreal to him. Then he saw her come towards him, strangely direct and almost without motion, like a sudden wave. She placed her hand on 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.
“Yes, I want to,” she said casually, looking at him with wide, sincere, newly-opened eyes that reflected pure truth. He turned very pale as he stood still, unable to move; only his eyes were caught by hers, and he felt the pain of it. She seemed to see him with her wide, childlike eyes, and with a strange movement that caused him agony, she slowly leaned forward, her dark face and chest reaching toward him, with a teasing suggestion of a kiss that shattered something in his mind, leaving him in darkness 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 held her in his arms, completely lost, kissing her. It was pure, overwhelming pain for him to pull away from his own feelings. She was so small and light, so accepting in his arms, like a child, yet with such an air of warmth, of endless affection, that he couldn't handle it, he couldn't take it.
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.
He turned and looked for a chair, and holding her close in his arms, sat down with her pressed against his chest. Then, for a few seconds, he fell completely asleep, deeply and totally in the darkest kind of sleep, total, 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.
From which he gradually arrived, always keeping her warm and close to him, and she just as completely silent as he was, lost in the same oblivion, the fertile 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.
He came back slowly, but feeling renewed, like after a period of growth, a fresh start, emerging from darkness. Everything felt airy and light, as new as a morning, fresh and just beginning. The newness and joy filled the air like dawn. And she sat completely still with him, as if in harmony with it all.
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.
Then she looked up at him, her bright, youthful eyes shining with light. He leaned down and kissed her on the lips. The dawn shone in their eyes, their new life began, it was incredibly good, so good that it felt almost unreal, like a brief moment of transcendence. He pulled 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.
For soon the light began to fade within her, little by little, and as she was in his arms, her head dropped, she leaned against him, and lay still, with her head lowered, a bit exhausted, diminished because she was weary. And in her exhaustion was a certain denial of him.
“There is the child,” she said, out of the long silence.
“There’s the child,” she said, breaking 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.
He didn't understand. It had been a long time since he had heard a voice. Now he also heard the wind howling, as if it had just started up 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.
“Yes,” he said, not understanding. There was a slight tightness of pain in his chest, a slight tension in his eyebrows. Something he wanted to grasp but couldn’t.
“You will love her?” she said.
"You'll love her?" she asked.
The quick contraction, like pain, went over him again.
The swift cramp, like a jolt of pain, hit him again.
“I love her now,” he said.
“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.
She lay quietly against him, soaking up his warmth without a care. It was a huge comfort for him to feel her there, taking in his heat, returning her weight and her unusual confidence to him. But where was she, that she felt so distant? His mind was filled with curiosity. He didn’t really know her.
“But I am much older than you,” she said.
“But I'm much older than you,” she said.
“How old?” he asked.
"How old are you?" he asked.
“I am thirty-four,” she said.
"I'm 34," she said.
“I am twenty-eight,” he said.
"I'm 28," he said.
“Six years.”
"6 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.
She felt a strange mix of concern, almost like it pleased her a bit. He sat quietly, listening and contemplating. It was quite remarkable to be so overlooked by her while she rested against him; he could sense her weight anchoring him as he breathed, and it gave him a sense of wholeness and unshakeable strength. He didn’t try to engage her. He didn’t even really know her. It was odd to have her so relaxed, resting her weight fully on him. He was quietly thrilled. He felt strong, physically buoying her with his breath. The strange, unbreakable bond between them made him feel as confident and steady as God. Amused, he wondered what the vicar would think if he knew.
“You needn’t stop here much longer, housekeeping,” he said.
“You don’t need to stay 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.”
“I like it here too,” she said. “When you’ve been to a lot of places, it’s really 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.
He was quiet again at this. She lay so close to him, yet her response felt so distant. But he didn't mind.
“What was your own home like, when you were little?” he asked.
“What was your childhood home like?” he asked.
“My father was a landowner,” she replied. “It was near a river.”
“My dad owned some land,” she said. “It was close to 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.
This didn't mean much to him. Everything felt as unclear as before. But he didn't mind, as long as she was so close.
“I am a landowner—a little one,” he said.
“I’m a landowner—a small one,” he said.
“Yes,” she 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.
He didn't dare to move. He sat there with his arms around her, her lying still on his chest, and for a long time, he didn't shift. Then gently, hesitantly, his hand rested on the softness of her arm, exploring the unfamiliar. She seemed to press a little closer. A warm sensation surged from his stomach 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.
But it was too soon. She stood up and walked across the room to a drawer, pulling out a small tray cloth. There was something calm and professional about her. She had been a nurse alongside her husband, both in Warsaw and during the rebellion that followed. She started arranging a tray. It felt as if she was ignoring Brangwen. He sat up, unable to handle any contradiction in her. She moved around with an air of mystery.
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.
Then, as he sat there, lost in thought and curiosity, she approached him, watching him with her large, grey eyes that seemed to hold a gentle light. But her strangely beautiful mouth remained still and sorrowful. He felt a sense of fear.
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.
His eyes, tired and alert from not being used, shrank a little at the sight of her. He felt himself shrinking too, but he still got up, as if responding to her. He leaned down and kissed her heavy, sad, wide mouth, which had been kissed and didn't change. Fear was too strong in him. Again, he hadn’t won her over.
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.
She turned away. The vicarage kitchen was messy, but to him, it was beautiful because of the chaos created by her and her child. There was something wonderfully distant about her, yet also something that connected with him, making his heart pound in his chest. He stood there, waiting, feeling 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.
Again she approached him, as he stood there in his black clothes, his blue eyes bright and confused for her, his face tense and alive, his hair messy. She got close to him, to his focused, black-clad body, and placed her hand on his arm. He stayed still. Her eyes, dark with memories battling against raw passion deep inside, both pushed him away and drew him in at the same time. Yet he remained unchanged. He breathed laboriously, and sweat trickled from the roots of his hair, on his forehead.
“Do you want to marry me?” she asked slowly, always uncertain.
“Do you want to marry me?” she asked slowly, still unsure.
He was afraid lest he could not speak. He drew breath hard, saying:
He was afraid he wouldn't be able to speak. He took a deep breath and said:
“I do.”
"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.
Then again, what felt like torture to him, as she rested a hand lightly on his arm, she leaned in a bit, and with a strange, primitive hint of embrace, pressed her lips to his. It was both ugly and beautiful, and he couldn’t stand it. He kissed her back, and slowly, slowly, the response came, building intensity and desire, until it felt like she was overwhelming him to the point of breaking. He pulled away, pale and breathless. Yet, in his blue eyes, there was a concentration of something from within him. And in her eyes, there was a faint smile against a dark 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.
She was pulling away from him again. And he wanted to leave. It was unbearable. He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to go. Yet he hesitated. But she turned away from him.
With a little pang of anguish, of denial, it was decided.
With a slight feeling of pain and denial, it was decided.
“I’ll come an’ speak to the vicar to-morrow,” he said, taking his hat.
“I'll go talk to the vicar tomorrow,” he said, grabbing his hat.
She looked at him, her eyes expressionless and full of darkness. He could see no answer.
She looked at him, her eyes blank and filled with darkness. He could see no response.
“That’ll do, won’t it?” he said.
"That works, yeah?" he said.
“Yes,” she answered, mere echo without body or meaning.
“Yes,” she replied, a hollow echo with no substance or significance.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night.”
“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.
He left her standing there, blank and empty as she was. Then she continued setting the table for the vicar. Needing the space, she set the daffodils aside on the dresser without really seeing them. Only their coolness, brushing against her hand, lingered there for a long time.
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.
They were total strangers, and they would always be strangers, which made his passion feel like a painful torment. The closeness of their embrace contrasted sharply with the complete unfamiliarity between them. It was too much to handle. He couldn’t stand being near her, knowing just how foreign they were to one another. He stepped out into the wind. Big gaps were blown into the sky, and the moonlight swirled around. Occasionally, a bright, liquid moon raced across an empty patch of sky before hiding behind electric, brown-tinted cloud edges. Then came a patch of cloud and shadow. Then, somewhere in the night, light appeared once more, like vapor. The entire sky was alive and in chaos, filled with a massive disorder of moving shapes, darkness, and ragged bursts of light, along with a great, swirling brown halo. Then there was the startling sight of the moon bursting forth, liquid and bright, for a moment, blinding the eyes before it dove back under a cloud’s cover.
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.
She was the daughter of a Polish landowner who was heavily in debt to the Jews and had married a wealthy German woman before he died right before the rebellion. She was quite young when she married Paul Lensky, an intellectual who had studied in Berlin and returned to Warsaw as a patriot. Her mother had married a German merchant and moved away.
Lydia Lensky, married to the young doctor, became with him a patriot and an émancipée. 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”.
Lydia Lensky, married to the young doctor, became a patriot and an independent woman alongside him. They were poor, but they were very self-important. She learned nursing as a sign of her independence. They embodied the new movement that had just started in Russia, but they were also very patriotic and, at the same time, quite "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.
They had two kids. Then the big rebellion started. Lensky, really passionate and talkative, went around getting his fellow countrymen fired up. Young Poles charged down the streets of Warsaw, ready to take on every Muscovite. So they headed into southern Russia, and it was usual for six young rebels to ride into a Jewish village, waving swords and shouting that they were going to kill every single 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.
Lensky was a bit of a firebrand too. Lydia, influenced by her German heritage and coming from a different background, was overwhelmed, swept up in her husband’s passionate declarations and his whirlwind of patriotism. He was undoubtedly a brave man, but no amount of bravery could match the intensity of his words. He worked tirelessly, until all that remained in him were his eyes. And Lydia, as if in a daze, followed him like a shadow, serving and echoing him. Sometimes she had their two kids with her, and other times 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.
She returned once to find them both dead from diphtheria. Her husband cried out, oblivious to everyone around him. But the war continued, and soon he was back to work. A darkness had settled over Lydia’s mind. She walked in a constant shadow, silenced, gripped by a strange, deep fear; she wanted to find solace in that fear, to retreat to a nunnery, to fulfill the instinctive dread within her through the service of a dark faith. But she couldn’t.
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.
Then came the flight to London. Lensky, the small, thin man, had locked all his life into a state of resistance and could not relax again. He lived in a kind of insane irritability, touchy, extremely haughty, and fractious, which soon made him impossible to work with as an assistant doctor in one of the hospitals. They were nearly destitute. But he still held on to his grand ideas of himself; he seemed to exist in a complete hallucination where he appeared vivid and commanding. He guarded his wife jealously against the shame of her situation, rushing around her like a weapon, an astonishing sight to the English eye, keeping her under his control as if he had hypnotized her. She was passive, dark, always in the shadows.
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.
He was fading away. When the child was born, he looked like nothing but skin and bones and a singular obsession. She watched him decline, took care of him, took care of the baby, but didn’t really pay attention to much else. A heaviness settled over her, like guilt, or like a haunting memory of a dark, wild, mystical journey filled with fear, death, and the threat of vengeance. When her husband passed away, she felt a sense of relief. He wouldn’t be darting around her anymore.
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.
England matched her mood, with its distance and unfamiliarity. She had learned a bit of the language before arriving, and her instinctive grasp allowed her to pick it up fairly easily. But she knew nothing about the English or their way of life. In fact, they didn’t exist for her. She felt like someone wandering in the Underworld, where the spirits crowd around but have no real connection to her. She perceived the English as a powerful, cold, somewhat unfriendly crowd among whom she moved alone.
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.
The English people were generally respectful towards her, and the Church noticed that she had everything she needed. She moved through life without much feeling, like a ghost, occasionally stirred by moments of love for her child. Her dying husband, with his pain-filled eyes and tight skin, felt more like a vision to her than a reality. In her mind, he was buried and gone. Then the vision faded, and she felt at ease; time stretched on, dull and colorless, like a long journey where she sat unaware as the scenery passed by her. When she rocked her baby in the evening, she might have draped herself in a Polish lullaby, or she would sometimes talk to herself in Polish. Otherwise, she didn’t think about Poland or the life she had once led. It was a significant void shrouded in darkness. In the surface-level activities of her life, she was completely English. She even thought in English. But her long stretches of silence and dark moments were distinctly 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.
So she lived for a while. Then, with a bit of unease, she started to wake up to the streets of London. She realized that there was something around her that felt very foreign; she recognized she was in an unfamiliar place. Then, she was sent away to the countryside. Now, memories of her childhood home came to her mind: the big house on the land and the villagers.
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.
She was sent to Yorkshire to care for an elderly rector in his seaside rectory. This was the first shift of the kaleidoscope that revealed something she needed to experience. The open countryside and the moors overwhelmed her; they caused her pain, again and again. Yet, they pressed upon her as something vibrant, awakening a part of her childhood within her; it felt connected to her in some way.
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.
The air around her was filled with green, silver, and blue now. There was a strange brightness coming from the sea that she needed to focus on. Primroses sparkled all around her, and she bent down to the tempting flowers near her feet, even picking a few, faintly remembering the vibrant life that had been. All day long, while she sat at the upper window, the light reflected off the sea, steady and relentless, making it feel like it was pulling her away, and the sound of the waves lulled her into a drowsy state, almost like sleep. Her mind started to drift a bit; she stumbled occasionally, and a sharp, fleeting image of her living child pierced her heart. Her soul snapped back 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.
The constant sparkle of the sea laid bare in the sky was very strange, and the graveyard felt warm and sweet, tucked into a corner of the hill, catching the sunlight and holding it like someone holds a bee in their hands when it's stunned. There was grey grass, lichens, a small church, snowdrops scattered among the rough grass, and a cupful of surprisingly 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.
She felt uneasy. Hearing the sound of the stream below the trees, she was startled and wondered what it was. As she walked down, she noticed the bluebells around her shining like a beacon 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.
Summer arrived, the moors were tangled with harebells like water in the ruts of the roads, the heather bloomed rosy under the skies, awakening the whole world. And she felt uneasy. She walked past the gorse bushes, avoiding their presence, stepping into the heather as if entering an invigorating bath that almost stung. Her fingers brushed against the clasped fingers of the child, and she heard the worried voice of the baby, trying to get her to speak, frantic.
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.
And she pulled away again, retreating into her darkness, and for a long time stayed hidden safely away from life. But autumn arrived with the faint red glow of robins singing, winter darkened the moors, and almost fiercely she turned back to life, insisting on reclaiming her life, wanting it to be like it was when she was a girl, on the land at home, under the sky. Snow spread out in vast areas, the telegraph posts stood tall over the white ground, stretching away under the dreary sky. And fiercely her desire surged within her again, declaring that this was Poland, her youth, that everything belonged to her once more.
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.
But there were no sleds or bells; she didn’t see the peasants coming out like new people, in their sheepskins and their fresh, rosy, bright faces that seemed to come alive when the snow lit up the ground. The life of her youth didn’t return to her. There was a brief struggle, then a return to the darkness of the convent, where Satan and the devils raged against the walls, and Christ stood pale 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.
She watched from the sickroom as the snow swirled by, like flocks of shadows in a rush, racing toward some final destination out to a dull, unchanging sea, beyond the last whiteness of the curving shoreline and the snow-flecked darkness of the partially submerged rocks. But up close, the snow on the trees was soft and blooming. Only the voice of the dying vicar broke the silence, sounding gray and complaining 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.
By the time the snowdrops bloomed, he was gone. He was gone. But with a strange calm, the woman returning watched the snowdrops at the edge of the grass below, white in the wind, but not carried away. She observed them fluttering and bobbing, the white, closed 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.
As she got up in the morning, the dawn was breaking bright, with streams of light swirling like a light snowstorm coming from the east, blowing stronger and more intensely, until the pink and gold colors showed up, and the sea sparkled below. She was calm and unconcerned. Still, she was beyond the boundaries 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.
There was another moment of darkness, the familiar sense of dread, during which she was transported, unaware, to Cossethay. There was nothing at first—just gray nothingness. But then one morning, the light from the yellow jasmine caught her attention, and after that, morning and evening, the constant singing of thrushes from the bushes compelled her heart, worn down, to lift its voice in response. Little melodies filled her mind. She was overwhelmed almost to the point of anguish. Stubbornly, she realized she had lost. Out of fear of darkness, she turned to fear of light. She would have hidden herself indoors if she could. Above all, she longed for the peace and heavy oblivion of her previous state. She couldn’t stand to awaken, to become aware. The first pangs of this new beginning were so intense, she knew she couldn’t endure it. She would rather remain outside of life than be torn apart and mutilated by this birth, which she felt she couldn’t survive. She lacked the strength to come to life now, in England, so alien, with skies so unwelcoming. She knew she would die like an early, colorless, scentless flower that emerges mercilessly at the end of winter. And she wanted to nurture her small spark of 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.
But a sunny day arrived, filled with the scent of a mezereon tree, as bees buzzed around the yellow crocuses, and she forgot everything; she felt like someone else, not herself—a new person, genuinely happy. But she knew it was a delicate feeling, and that made her anxious. The vicar added pea flowers to the crocuses for his bees to enjoy, and she laughed. Then night fell, with bright stars she recognized from her childhood. They shone so brightly that she knew they were winners.
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.
She could do neither wake up nor fall asleep. It was as if she was trapped between the past and the future, like a flower that breaks through the surface only to find a heavy stone above it; she felt powerless.
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?”
The confusion and helplessness continued; she was surrounded by large, moving masses that felt like they would crush her. And there was no way out. Except for the old numbness, the cold darkness she tried to hold on to. But the vicar showed her eggs in the thrush’s nest near the back door. She imagined herself as the mother thrush on the nest, and how her wings were spread, so eager over her secret. The tense, eager wings of nesting moved her beyond what she could bear. She thought of them in the morning when she heard the thrush whistling as he woke up, and she thought, “Why didn’t I die out there, why am I 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.
She noticed people moving around her, not as individuals, but as overwhelming figures. It was really hard for her to adapt. In Poland, the common people had been like livestock to her, something she owned and utilized. Who were these people? Now she was starting to realize, and she felt 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.
But she had felt Brangwen pass by, almost as if he had touched her. She felt a charge in her body as she walked up the road. After being with him in the Marsh kitchen, her body's desire had become strong and urgent. Soon, she wanted him. He was the man who had come closest to 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.
Always, though, in between moments, she would slip back into the old unawareness, feeling indifferent, and there was a part of her that wanted to escape from life altogether. But one morning she would wake up and feel her blood flowing, feel herself exposed like a flower opened up to the sun, vibrant and full of need.
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.
She got to know him better, and her instinct focused on him—just on him. Her attraction was strong against him because he wasn’t like her. But one blind instinct led her to take him, to leave him, and then to give herself to him. It would be safe. She felt his rooted safety and the life in him. Plus, he was young and very energetic. She enjoyed the blue, steady vitality of his eyes like the 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.
Then she slipped back into a daze and indifference. But this was bound to change. The warmth flowed through her, she felt herself opening up, blossoming, reaching out, like a flower fully opening under the sun, like the beaks of tiny birds opening wide to receive. As she unfolded, she turned to him, directly to him. He approached slowly, hesitant, held back by awkward fear but driven by a desire greater 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.
When she turned to face him, everything that had been and everything that was disappeared from her; she felt as fresh as a flower blooming, always ready, waiting, and open. He couldn’t grasp this. In his confusion, he clung to the idea of honorable courtship and approved marriage. So, after he went to the vicarage and asked for her, she remained under this spell for several days, open and receptive to him. He was thrown into turmoil. He talked to the vicar and had the banns read. Then he waited.
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.
She kept herself open and instinctively ready for him, waiting to receive him. He couldn't take action because of his own fear and his sense of honor toward her. So he stayed in a confused state.
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.
And after a few days, she slowly withdrew from him, becoming closed off and unresponsive. Then a deep, dark despair set in for him; he realized what he had lost. He felt like he had lost it for good and understood what it meant to have connected with her, only to be shut out again. In his misery, with his heart feeling like a heavy stone, he wandered through life as if he were not really living.
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.
Till he gradually became desperate, lost his understanding, and was caught in a revolt that seemed endless. Wordlessly, he moved with her at the Marsh in intense, dark, silent passion, almost filled with hatred for her. But gradually she became aware of him, aware of herself in relation to him, her blood stirring to life; she began to open up to him, to flow toward him again. He waited until the connection was there between them again, until they were together in one rushing, quickening fire. And then, once more, he felt bewildered, bound as if with cords, unable to reach out to her. So she approached him, unbuttoned the front of his waistcoat and shirt, and placed her hand on him, needing to understand him. It was cruel for her to be exposed and offered to him, yet not to know what he was, not even that he was present. She surrendered herself to the moment, but he couldn't, and he fumbled in trying to be with 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.
So he lived in tension, as if only part of his mind was engaged, until the wedding. She didn’t get it. But the uncertainty washed over her once more, and the days slipped away. He couldn't fully connect with her. For now, 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.
He felt a lot of anxiety about the idea of actually getting married, about the closeness and vulnerability that comes with it. He barely knew her. They were so different from each other, like complete strangers. They couldn’t communicate well. When she talked about Poland or her past, it all felt so distant; it was hard for him to connect with her. And when he looked at her, his overwhelming respect and fear of the unknown turned his attraction into something almost like worship, keeping him from fully expressing his physical desire and holding him back.
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.
She didn’t know this, she didn’t understand. They had looked at each other and accepted each other. It was like that, so there was nothing to hesitate about, it was all settled 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.
At the wedding, his face was rigid and blank. He wanted to drink, to escape his worries and regrets, to enjoy the moment. But he couldn't. The anxiety only grew heavier in his chest. The jokes, laughter, and playful hints from the guests only added to his discomfort. He couldn't focus. The looming situation consumed him, and he felt trapped.
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!
She sat silently, with an odd, calm smile. She wasn’t afraid. Having embraced him, she wanted to have him; she completely belonged to this moment. No future, no past, just this, her moment. She didn’t even notice him as she sat next to him at the head of the table. He was very close, their union was about to happen. 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.
As the time came for all the guests to leave, her dark face was softly lit, her head held high with pride, and her grey eyes bright and wide, to the point where the men couldn’t look at her, while the women were inspired by her and served her. She was truly remarkable as she said goodbye, her unattractive wide mouth smiling with pride and acknowledgment, her voice soft and rich with a foreign accent, her wide eyes disregarding all the departing guests. Her demeanor was charming and captivating, yet she overlooked the presence of the person to whom she offered 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.
And Brangwen stood next to her, shaking hands warmly with his friends, appreciating their attention and feeling grateful for it. Inside, he was tormented but didn’t attempt to smile. The moment of his struggle and acceptance, his personal Gethsemane and his Triumphal Entry all rolled into one, had arrived.
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?
Behind her, there was so much he didn’t know. As he got closer, he faced this awful, painful uncertainty. How could he accept it and understand it? How could he wrap his arms around all this darkness, hold it tight, and surrender himself to it? What could happen to him? If he pushed and strained forever, he’d never be able to fully grasp it and yield himself completely into this unknown power! How could a man be strong enough to take her, hold her in his arms, and feel confident that he could conquer this terrifying uncertainty next to his heart? What was she, really, that he had to surrender to and yet also hold close and 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.
He was meant to be her husband. That was set in stone. And he wanted it more than he wanted anything else in life. She stood next to him in her silk dress, looking at him in a way that filled him with a certain fear and dread, because she was unfamiliar and looming, and he felt trapped. He couldn’t stand meeting her gaze from beneath her thick, unusual brows.
“Is it late?” she said.
“Is it late?” she asked.
He looked at his watch.
He checked 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.
“No—it's half-past eleven,” he said. Then he found a reason to head into the kitchen, leaving her standing in the room surrounded by the mess and the drinking glasses.
Tilly was seated beside the fire in the kitchen, her head in her hands. She started up when he entered.
Tilly was sitting next to the fireplace in the kitchen, her head in her hands. She jumped up when he walked in.
“Why haven’t you gone to bed?” he said.
“Why haven’t you gone to sleep?” 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:
“I figured I should probably stop, lock up, and take care of things,” she said. Her distress calmed him down. He gave her a small instruction and then came back, feeling steadier now, almost embarrassed, to his wife. She watched him for a moment as he turned away. Then she said:
“You will be good to me, won’t you?”
“You will treat me well, right?”
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.
She was petite and youthful yet fierce, with a strange, wide look in her eyes. His heart raced in him, filled with the pain of love and longing; he moved toward her without thinking and wrapped 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.
“I want to,” he said as he pulled her closer and closer. She felt comforted by the warmth of his embrace and stayed completely still, relaxed against him, merging into him. He let himself forget the past and the future, existing purely in the moment with her. In that moment, he held her and they were together, lost in a deep connection that transcended their superficial differences. But when morning came, he felt uneasy again. She still felt foreign and unknown to him. Yet, amid his fear was a sense of pride, a belief in himself as a partner for her. And she, having forgotten everything in the excitement of her new beginning, radiated energy and joy, making him ache 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.
Marriage made a huge difference for him. Things felt distant and insignificant as he recognized the powerful source of his life. His eyes were opened to a new universe, and he reflected on how trivial he had been before. A new, peaceful connection revealed itself to him in what he saw, in the cattle he tended, and in the young wheat that swayed in the 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.
And every time he came home, he moved steadily and eagerly, like someone heading toward a deep, undiscovered happiness. At dinner time, he appeared in the doorway, hesitating for a moment before stepping inside, looking to see if she was there. He saw her setting the plates on the clean, white table. Her arms were slender, she had a slim figure and full skirts, and her dark, shapely head was topped with neatly styled hair. It was her head, so beautifully shaped and striking, that made her feel like his woman. As she moved around in her fitted clothes, full skirt, and little silk apron, with her dark hair smoothly parted, her head revealed to him all its subtle, inherent beauty, and he knew she was his woman, he understood her essence, that he was meant to possess it. He felt as if he were living in connection with her, in touch with the unknown, the mysterious, and the immeasurable.
They did not take much notice of each other, consciously.
They didn't pay much attention to each other, on purpose.
“I’m betimes,” he said.
“I’m early,” he said.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Yes,” she replied.
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.
He looked at the dogs or at the child if she was around. Little Anna played around the farm, constantly darting in to shout something to her mom, wrapping her arms around her mom’s skirts for a moment to get her attention, maybe to be hugged, and then, forgetting, to slip back outside 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.
Then Brangwen, chatting with the child or with the dog between his knees, would notice his wife, in her fitted dark bodice and lace shawl, reaching up to the corner cupboard. He felt a sharp pang realizing that she belonged to him, and he to her. He understood that he lived for her. Did he own her? Would she be here forever? Or could she leave? She wasn't really his; this marriage between them didn’t feel real. She could leave at any moment. He didn’t feel like a master, husband, or father of her children. She belonged somewhere else. At any moment, she could be gone. Yet, he was always pulled to her, drawn after her with an ever-burning, unfulfilled desire. He would always return home, no matter where his path took him, always to her, and he could never quite reach her, never fully satisfied, never at peace, because she might leave.
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.
In the evening, he felt happy. After finishing up in the yard, he came inside and cleaned himself up. Once the child was asleep, he could sit across the fire with his beer on the hob and his long white pipe in his fingers, aware of her sitting there with him, either working on her embroidery or chatting with him. He felt safe with her now, until morning. She was oddly self-sufficient and didn’t say much. Occasionally, she would look up, her gray eyes shining with a strange light that had nothing to do with him or their surroundings, and would share stories about herself. It felt like she was transported back in time, mostly to her childhood or young adulthood with her father. She rarely mentioned her first husband. But sometimes, with bright eyes, she would reminisce about her home, sharing wild stories, the trip to Paris with her father, and tales of the crazy actions of the peasants during a wave of religious fervor that had swept through the country.
She would lift her head and say:
She would raise 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——”
“When they brought the railway across the country, they later built smaller railways, narrower ones, to reach our town—a hundred miles away. When I was a girl, Gisla, my German governess, was very upset and wouldn’t tell me. But I overheard the servants talking. I remember it was Pierre, the coachman. And my father, along with some of his friends, who were landowners, they had rented a whole railway carriage—that you travel in—”
“A railway-carriage,” said Brangwen.
“A train car,” said Brangwen.
She laughed to herself.
She chuckled 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.’
“I know it was a huge scandal: yeah—a whole wagon, and they had girls, you know, filles, naked, all packed in there, and they came down to our village. They passed through the Jewish villages, and it was a big scandal. Can you believe it? All over the countryside! And my mother didn't approve. Gisla told me, ‘Madame, she must not find out that you’ve heard about this.’”
“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——”
“My mom used to cry, and she wanted to hit my dad, straight up hit him. He would say, when she cried because he sold the forest and the wood to line his pockets and go to Warsaw or Paris or Kiev, when she demanded that he take back his word and not sell the forest, he would just stand there and say, ‘I know, I know, I’ve heard it all before. Tell me something new. I know, I know, I know.’ Oh, but can you understand, I loved him when he stood there by the door, saying only, ‘I know, I know, I know it all already.’ She couldn’t change him, no, not even if she killed herself trying. And she could change everyone else, but him—she just couldn’t 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.
Brangwen couldn't understand. He had images of a cattle truck packed with naked girls traveling from nowhere to nowhere, of Lydia laughing because her father racked up huge 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 crazed peasants—she called them “cattle”—while she watched with interest and even amusement; of tutors and governesses, Paris, and a convent. It was too much for him. And there she sat, telling her stories to the open space, not to him, claiming a strange superiority, creating a distance between them, something odd and foreign to his life, talking, chattering, without sense or reason, laughing when he was shocked or stunned, condemning nothing, confusing his mind and turning the world into chaos, without any order or stability. Then, when they went to bed, he realized he had nothing to do with her. She was back in her childhood; he was a peasant, a serf, a servant, a lover, a secret partner, a shadow, a nobody. 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 if it was just a figment in the air. Gradually, he became filled with a raging fury against her. But because he was so amazed, and there was still such a distance between them, and she was such an incredible thing to him, with all the wonder opening up behind her, he did not retaliate. He just lay still, wide-eyed with rage, inarticulate, not understanding, but full of 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 he stayed angry and distant from her, appearing unchanged on the outside, but underneath was a strong opposition to her. She gradually started to notice this. It frustrated her to see him as a separate force. She fell into a kind of gloomy isolation, a strange connection with mysterious powers, a sort of dark, mystical state that drove him and the child nearly insane. He walked around for days, filled with resistance to her, set on destroying her as she was. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, they reconnected. It hit him while he was working in the fields. The tension, the bond, burst, and a wave of intense emotion surged forward, making him feel like he could break off the trees as he passed and recreate the world.
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.
And when he got home, there was no indication of what was between them. He waited and waited until she showed up. As he waited, he felt like his body was strong and impressive, his hands felt like eager servants, and he experienced an amazing sense of vitality and intense, powerful energy within himself.
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.
She was definitely going to come over at last and touch him. Then he ignited with passion for her and lost himself completely. They gazed at each other, a deep laugh sparkling in their eyes, and he went to embrace her fully, desperate to indulge in her endless richness, to immerse himself in the depths of her being in an unending quest, while she reveled in the fact that he was reveling in her, casting aside all her secrets and diving into what was unknown even to her, all while she trembled with fear and the final thrill of joy.
What did it matter who they were, whether they knew each other or not?
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.
The hour passed once more, leaving a gap between them filled with anger, sadness, and loss for her, while he dealt with hard work at the mill alongside others. But it didn’t matter. They had their hour, and if it came around again, they'd be ready, prepared to pick up the game right where they left off, at the brink of the unknown, when the woman’s secrets become the man’s quest, pursued relentlessly, when those secrets turn into the man’s adventure, and they both surrender to that journey.
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.
She was pregnant, and once again there was silence and distance between them. She didn't want him or his secrets or his games; he was dethroned, he was rejected. He simmered with rage at the small, unattractive woman who had nothing to do with him. Sometimes his anger erupted at her, but she didn't cry. She confronted him like a tiger, and they clashed.
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.
He had to learn to hold back again, and he really hated it. He hated her for not being there for him. So, he just went somewhere else.
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.
But a sense of gratitude and the understanding that she would take him back later kept him from going too far. He carefully didn't wander off too much. He realized she might forget about him, drift away completely, until she was lost to him. He had enough awareness and intuition to recognize this and adjust himself accordingly. He didn't want to lose her; he didn’t want her to fade 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.
Cold, he called her selfish, only caring about herself, a foreigner with a bad attitude, truly indifferent, lacking any real feelings, and no real kindness. He was furious and piled on accusations that had some truth to them. But a certain grace within him held him back from going too far. Deep down, he felt rage and hatred, knowing she was all those terrible things, everything disgusting and contemptible. Yet he had a grace inside that made it clear he didn't want to lose her; he wasn’t 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.
So he still thought about her and kept some connection. He started going out more often, back to the “Red Lion,” to escape the frustration of sitting beside her when she wasn’t really his, when she was as distant as any woman could be. He couldn’t stay home. So he went to the “Red Lion.” Sometimes he got drunk. But he made sure to keep his balance; there were some things between them he never let go of.
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.
A pained expression crossed his face, as if something was always chasing him. He looked around quickly, unable to sit still and do nothing. He needed to go out, to find people, to lose himself in their company. He had no other way to escape; he couldn't work to express himself because he didn't have the skills.
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.
As her pregnancy progressed, she increasingly left him alone, becoming more and more oblivious to him; his existence felt erased. He felt trapped, restricted, unable to move, starting to lose his mind, on the verge of a breakdown. She was calm and courteous, as if he were invisible, treating him like 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.
Nevertheless, she was wonderful with his child; it was his turn to give in. She sat across from him, sewing, her unfamiliar face unreadable and emotionless. He felt a strong urge to get her to recognize him, to make her aware of him. It was unbearable that she had erased him so completely. He wanted to force her to see him. He was consumed by a furious desire to do just that.
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.
But something deeper inside him held him back, kept him still. So he stepped out of the house for some relief. Or he turned to the little girl for her sympathy and love, pouring all his feelings into little Anna. Before long, 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.
For he was afraid of his wife. As she sat there with her head down, quiet, working or reading, but so completely silent that it felt like his heart was weighed down by it, she became like the top millstone pressing down on him, crushing him, just like a heavy sky sometimes rests 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.
Yet he knew he couldn’t pull her out of the deep darkness she was lost in. He couldn’t force her to see him or agree with him. That would be disastrous and wrong. So, no matter how angry he felt, he had to hold himself back. But his wrists shook and felt like they might break.
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.
When the leaves started pounding against the window shutters in November, making a loud noise, he jumped, and his eyes sparked with intensity. The dog glanced at him, and he lowered his head towards the fire. But his wife was taken aback. He could tell she was eavesdropping.
“They blow up with a rattle,” he said.
“They explode with a bang,” he said.
“What?” she asked.
“What?” she asked.
“The leaves.”
“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.
She sank away again. The strange leaves beating in the wind against the wood had come closer than she. The tension in the room was overwhelming; it was hard for him to move his head. He sat with every nerve, every vein, every muscle fiber in his body stretched tight with tension. He felt like a broken arch sickeningly thrust out from its support. Her response was gone, and he was reaching for nothing. Yet he remained himself, saving himself from falling into nothingness, from being shattered into fragments, by sheer tension, pure 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.
During the last months of her pregnancy, he walked around in an intense, heightened state that never seemed to fade. She was also feeling down, and at times, she would cry. It took so much energy to start over after she had experienced such significant losses. Sometimes she cried. In those moments, he felt rigid, as if his heart might explode. She didn’t want him around; she didn’t even want to be reminded of his presence. From the tightness in her face, he understood that he needed to give her space, to leave her whole and alone. It was the old grief resurfacing in her, the familiar loss, the pain from her former life, the deceased husband, the lost children. This was sacred to her, and he couldn’t intrude with his attempts at comfort. Whatever she needed, she would come to him for. He stood apart with a heavy 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.
He had to watch her tears fall down her almost expressionless face, which only occasionally twitched, landing on her still, barely moving chest. There was no sound, except now and then when, with an odd, sleepwalking sort of motion, she reached for her handkerchief to wipe her face and blow her nose, continuing her silent sobbing. He knew that any attempt to comfort her would only make things worse, irritating her and setting her on edge. She needed to cry. But it drove him crazy. His heart felt burned, his head throbbed; he left 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.
His main source of comfort was the child. At first, she had been distant and reserved with him. No matter how friendly she seemed one day, the next she would revert to her original indifference, cold and detached, keeping 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:
The first morning after his wedding, he realized it wouldn’t be so easy with the kid. At dawn, he woke up to the sound of a small voice outside the door saying sadly:
“Mother!”
“Mom!”
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.
He got up and opened the door. She was standing in the doorway in her nightgown, as if she had just gotten out of bed, her dark eyes wide and unfriendly, and her light hair sticking out in a messy tangle. The man and the child faced each other.
“I want my mother,” she said, jealously accenting the “my”.
“I want my mom,” she said, emphasizing the “my” with jealousy.
“Come on then,” he said gently.
“Come on then,” he said softly.
“Where’s my mother?”
“Where's my mom?”
“She’s here—come on.”
"She's here—let's go."
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.
The child's eyes, fixed on the man with messy hair and a beard, remained unchanged. The mother called softly. The little bare feet entered the room nervously.
“Mother!”
“Mom!”
“Come, my dear.”
“Come here, my dear.”
The small bare feet approached swiftly.
The small bare feet moved quickly.
“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.
“I was wondering where you were,” came the sad voice. The mother stretched out her arms. The child stood next to the high bed. Brangwen gently lifted the little girl, with an “up-a-daisy,” then took his own spot in the bed again.
“Mother!” cried the child, as in anguish.
“Mom!” cried the child, in distress.
“What, my pet?”
"What is it, 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.
Anna snuggled up close to her mother, holding on tightly, hiding from the reality of the man. Brangwen stayed still and waited. A long silence followed.
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.
Then suddenly, Anna turned around, as if expecting him to disappear. She saw the man’s face looking up at the ceiling. Her dark eyes glared from her beautiful face, her arms wrapped tightly around her mother, feeling scared. He didn't move for a while, unsure of what to say. His face was smooth and soft with affection, his eyes filled with gentle light. He glanced at her, barely moving his head, his eyes full of warmth.
“Have you just wakened up?” he said.
“Did you just wake up?” he said.
“Go away,” she retorted, with a little darting forward of the head, something like a viper.
“Go away,” she shot back, with a quick forward motion of her head, similar to a snake.
“Nay,” he answered, “I’m not going. You can go.”
“Nah,” he replied, “I’m not going. You can go.”
“Go away,” came the sharp little command.
"Go away," came the sharp command.
“There’s room for you,” he said.
“There’s space for you,” he said.
“You can’t send your father from his own bed, my little bird,” said her mother, pleasantly.
“You can’t send your dad away from his own bed, my little bird,” her mother said cheerfully.
The child glowered at him, miserable in her impotence.
The child glared at him, unhappy in her powerlessness.
“There’s room for you as well,” he said. “It’s a big bed enough.”
“There’s room for you too,” he said. “It’s a big enough bed.”
She glowered without answering, then turned and clung to her mother. She would not allow it.
She glared silently, then turned and hugged her mom tightly. She wouldn't let it happen.
During the day she asked her mother several times:
During the day, she asked her mom several times:
“When are we going home, mother?”
“When are we going home, Mom?”
“We are at home, darling, we live here now. This is our house, we live here with your father.”
“We're home, sweetheart, we live here now. This is our house, and we live here with your dad.”
The child was forced to accept it. But she remained against the man. As night came on, she asked:
The child had to accept it. But she stood her ground against the man. As night fell, she asked:
“Where are you going to sleep, mother?”
“Where are you going to sleep, Mom?”
“I sleep with the father now.”
“I stay with Dad now.”
And when Brangwen came in, the child asked fiercely:
And when Brangwen walked in, the child asked aggressively:
“Why do you sleep with my mother? My mother sleeps with me,” her voice quivering.
“Why do you sleep with my mom? My mom sleeps with me,” her voice shaking.
“You come as well, an’ sleep with both of us,” he coaxed.
“You should join us and sleep with both of us,” he encouraged.
“Mother!” she cried, turning, appealing against him.
“Mom!” she yelled, turning, pleading against him.
“But I must have a husband, darling. All women must have a husband.”
“But I need a husband, darling. All women need a husband.”
“And you like to have a father with your mother, don’t you?” said Brangwen.
“And you like having a dad with your mom, don’t you?” said Brangwen.
Anna glowered at him. She seemed to cogitate.
Anna glared at him. She appeared to be deep in thought.
“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.
“No,” she yelled fiercely after a moment, “no, I don’t want.” And slowly her face twisted up as she sobbed hard. He stood there watching her, feeling sorry. But there was no changing 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.
Which, when she found out, made her go silent. He was relaxed around her, chatting with her, taking her to see the living creatures, bringing her the first chickens in his cap, taking her to gather the eggs, and letting her toss crusts to the horse. She would easily follow him and accept everything he had to offer, but she still remained neutral.
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.
She felt an odd, unexplainable jealousy towards her mother, always anxiously worried about her. When Brangwen took his wife to Nottingham, Anna would run around happily or without a care for a while. But as the afternoon wore on, she would only cry out—“I want my mother, I want my mother——” followed by a heartbreaking sob that quickly made the kind-hearted Tilly cry too. The child's pain was that her mother was gone, gone.
Yet as a rule, Anna seemed cold, resenting her mother, critical of her. It was:
Yet generally, Anna appeared distant, harboring resentment towards her mother and being 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.
“I don’t want you to do that, Mom,” or, “I don’t want you to say that.” She was a constant source of trouble for Brangwen and everyone at the Marsh. Generally, though, she was energetic, lightly moving around the farmyard, only showing up every now and then to check on her mother. She never appeared truly happy, but she was quick, sharp, absorbed, full of imagination and unpredictability. Tilly said she was under a spell. But it didn’t really matter as long as she didn’t cry. There was something heartbreaking about Anna’s crying; her childish distress felt so profound and timeless, as if it were a part of all 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:
She made friends with the animals on the farm, chatting with them, sharing the stories her mother told her, giving them advice, and correcting them. Brangwen found her at the gate leading to the paddock and the duckpond. She was looking through the bars and calling out to the elegant white geese that stood in a neat line:
“You’re not to call at people when they want to come. You must not do it.”
“You're not supposed to visit someone when they want to come over. You really shouldn't do that.”
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.
The heavy, sturdy birds stared at the fierce little face and the tuft of sharp hair sticking through the bars. They lifted their heads and swayed away, making the long, honking, protesting sound of geese, moving 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.
“You're so naughty, you're so naughty,” Anna cried, tears of frustration and distress in her eyes. And she stamped her slipper.
“Why, what are they doing?” said Brangwen.
“Why, what are they up to?” said Brangwen.
“They won’t let me come in,” she said, turning her flushed little face to him.
“They won’t let me come in,” she said, turning her flushed little face toward him.
“Yi, they will. You can go in if you want to,” and he pushed open the gate for her.
“Yeah, they will. You can go in if you want,” and he opened the gate for her.
She stood irresolute, looking at the group of bluey-white geese standing monumental under the grey, cold day.
She stood uncertain, looking at the group of bluish-white geese standing tall under the grey, cold day.
“Go on,” he said.
"Go ahead," 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.
She marched bravely a few steps in. Her small body shook suddenly at the mocking honks of the geese. A sense of emptiness washed over her. The geese waddled away with their heads held high beneath the low gray sky.
“They don’t know you,” said Brangwen. “You should tell ’em what your name is.”
“They don’t know you,” Brangwen said. “You should tell them what your name is.”
“They’re naughty to shout at me,” she flashed.
“They’re rude to shout at me,” she said.
“They think you don’t live here,” he said.
“They think you don’t live here,” he said.
Later he found her at the gate calling shrilly and imperiously:
Later, he found her at the gate, calling out loudly and commanding:
“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.”
“My name is Anna, Anna Lensky, and I live here because Mr. Brangwen is 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.
This made Brangwen very happy. And gradually, without realizing it, she held onto him during her lost, childlike, lonely moments, when it felt nice to get close to something big and warm, and hide her little self in his vast, boundless presence. Instinctively, he was gentle with her, making sure to acknowledge her and to be available for her.
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.
She was hard to get close to. For Tilly, she felt a childish, fundamental contempt, almost dislike, because the poor woman was just a servant. The child wouldn't let the serving woman help her or do personal things for her, not for a long time. She treated her like someone from a lower class. Brangwen didn’t like it.
“Why aren’t you fond of Tilly?” he asked.
“Why don’t you like Tilly?” he asked.
“Because—because—because she looks at me with her eyes bent.”
“Because—because—because she looks at me with her eyes narrowed.”
Then gradually she accepted Tilly as belonging to the household, never as a person.
Then gradually she accepted Tilly as part of the household, but never as an individual.
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:
For the first few weeks, the child's dark eyes were always on the lookout. Brangwen, friendly yet restless, pampered by Tilly, was quick to make a fuss. If he disturbed the household with his loud impatience for even a few minutes, he would end up facing the child glaring at him with her intense dark eyes, and she would definitely lunge forward with her little head, like a snake, ready to bite.
“Go away.”
"Leave me alone."
“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.
“I’m not leaving,” he shouted, finally irritated. “Go on—hurry up—move yourself—get going.” And he pointed to the door. The child stepped back from him, pale with fear. Then she found her courage, noticing him calm down.
“We don’t live with you,” she said, thrusting forward her little head at him. “You—you’re—you’re a bomakle.”
“We don’t live with you,” she said, pushing her little head toward him. “You—you’re—you’re a bomakle.”
“A what?” he shouted.
"What's that?" he shouted.
Her voice wavered—but it came.
Her voice faltered—but it came.
“A bomakle.”
“A bombshell.”
“Ay, an’ you’re a comakle.”
“Yeah, and you’re a jerk.”
She meditated. Then she hissed forwards her head.
She meditated. Then she lunged forward with her head.
“I’m not.”
"I'm not."
“Not what?”
“Not what?”
“A comakle.”
“A comakle.”
“No more am I a bomakle.”
“No longer am I a bomakle.”
He was really cross.
He was really angry.
Other times she would say:
Sometimes she would say:
“My mother doesn’t live here.”
"My mom doesn't live here."
“Oh, ay?”
"Oh, really?"
“I want her to go away.”
"I want her to go."
“Then want’s your portion,” he replied laconically.
“Then what’s your share?” he replied bluntly.
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.
So they got closer together. He would take her with him when he went out in the carriage. With the horse ready at the gate, he entered the house noisily, which had seemed quiet and peaceful until he showed up and set everything in motion.
“Now then, Topsy, pop into thy bonnet.”
“Okay, Topsy, put on your hat.”
The child drew herself up, resenting the indignity of the address.
The child straightened up, feeling insulted by the way she was spoken to.
“I can’t fasten my bonnet myself,” she said haughtily.
“I can’t tie my bonnet myself,” she said arrogantly.
“Not man enough yet,” he said, tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers.
“Not man enough yet,” he said, tying the ribbons under her chin with awkward fingers.
She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin.
She tilted her face up to him. Her small, bright-red lips moved as he fumbled under her chin.
“You talk—nonsents,” she said, re-echoing one of his phrases.
"You talk—nonsense," she said, repeating 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.
That face is calling for the pump,” he said, and pulling out a big red handkerchief that smelled strongly of tobacco, he started to wipe around her mouth.
“Is Kitty waiting for me?” she asked.
"Is Kitty waiting for me?" she asked.
“Ay,” he said. “Let’s finish wiping your face—it’ll pass wi’ a cat-lick.”
“Ay,” he said. “Let’s finish cleaning your face—it’ll be fine with a quick lick.”
She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind her.
She submitted gracefully. Then, when he released her, she started to skip, with an interesting flick of one leg behind her.
“Now my young buck-rabbit,” he said. “Slippy!”
“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 arrived and quickly put on her coat, and the two of them headed out. She sat really close to him in the carriage, all snug, feeling his strong body sway against hers, which felt amazing. She loved the rhythm of the carriage, especially when his lively body moved against her. She laughed, a sweet little high-pitched laugh, and her dark eyes sparkled.
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.
She was strangely tough one moment and then deeply compassionate the next. When her mother was sick, the child quietly tiptoed around the bedroom for hours, taking care of her and doing it with thoughtfulness and care. On another day, when her mother was feeling down, Anna would stand with her legs apart, frowning, balancing on the edges of her slippers. She laughed nervously when the goslings squirmed in Tilly’s hand as food was forced down their throats with a skewer. She was harsh and commanding with the animals, showing no affection, running around among them like a harsh mistress.
Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more than she loved her.
Summer arrived, and during hay harvest, Anna was a small, whimsical figure dancing around. Tilly always admired 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:
But there was always some anxious connection between the child and her mother. As long as Mrs. Brangwen was fine, the little girl played around and hardly noticed her. But as the corn harvest passed and autumn approached, her mother, in the later months of her pregnancy, became distant and detached. Brangwen started to furrow his brows, and the old, unhealthy anxiety along with the raw sensitivity returned to the child. If she went to the fields with her father, instead of playing lightly, it was:
“I want to go home.”
"I want to go home."
“Home, why tha’s nobbut this minute come.”
“Home, why you've just arrived this minute.”
“I want to go home.”
"I want to go home."
“What for? What ails thee?”
"Why? What's wrong with you?"
“I want my mother.”
"I want my mom."
“Thy mother! Thy mother none wants thee.”
“Your mother! No one wants you.”
“I want to go home.”
"I want to go home."
There would be tears in a moment.
There will be tears soon.
“Can ter find t’road, then?”
"Can you find the 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.
And he watched her moving quickly, quiet and focused, along the edge of the field, at a steady, anxious pace, until she turned and disappeared through the gate. Then he saw her a couple of fields away, still pushing ahead, small and determined. His expression grew serious as he turned to till the leftover 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.
The year went on, the berries in the hedges glowed red and sparkled above bare twigs, robins were spotted, flocks of birds rushed like splashes from the uncultivated fields, rooks showed up, black and flapping down to the ground, the earth was cold as he pulled the turnips, and the roads were muddy and worn out. Then the turnips were harvested, and work slowed down.
Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive, startled cry:
Inside the house, it was dark and quiet. The child moved around restlessly, and every now and then, her sad, startled cry broke the silence:
“Mother!”
“Mom!”
Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed back. Brangwen went on working out of doors.
Mrs. Brangwen was slow and unresponsive, worn out, leaning back. Brangwen continued working outside.
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.
In the evening, when he came in to milk, the child would follow him. Then, in the cozy cow sheds, with the doors shut and the air feeling warm from the hanging lantern light, she would stand watching his hands rhythmically squeezing the teats of the calm cow, watching the froth and the quick spray of milk, and sometimes observing his hand gently rubbing the hanging udder. They kept each other company, but from 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 darkest days of the year arrived, and the child was restless, sighing as if something were weighing her down, running around without any sense of peace. Brangwen went about his work, feeling burdened, his heart as heavy as the damp ground.
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.
The winter nights arrived quickly, the lamp was turned on before dinner, the shutters were closed, and they were all confined to the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went to bed early, while Anna played on the floor beside her. Brangwen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking, barely aware of his own misery. And quite often, he stepped outside 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.
Christmas was over, and the wet, cold, dreary days of January dragged on, broken occasionally by a flash of blue sky. Brangwen would step outside into a morning that felt like crystal, where every sound echoed and birds were lively and abrupt in the hedges. Despite everything—whether his wife seemed distant or sad or whether he longed for her presence—it didn't matter. The air was filled with bright sounds, the sky was clear and bright, and the ground was hard. He would work and feel happy, with bright eyes and flushed cheeks. The excitement of life surged within 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.
The birds busily pecked around him, the horses were fresh and ready, the bare branches of the trees stretched up like a man yawning, filled with energy, and the twigs radiated into the clear light. He was alive and full of enthusiasm for everything. And if his wife was heavy, distant from him, gone, then so be it; he would stay true to himself. Things would be as they were meant to be. Meanwhile, he heard the distant crowing of a rooster, and he saw the pale outline of the moon fading against 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.
So he called out to the horses, feeling cheerful. If, while driving into Ilkeston, a vibrant young woman was heading in to do her shopping, he would call to her, pull in his horse, and offer her a ride. Then he felt happy to have her next to him, his eyes bright, his voice lighthearted and playful, making the way she held her head even more lovely, her heart raced. They were both energized, and the morning was beautiful.
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.
What did it matter that deep down he felt care and pain? It was deep down, so let it stay there. His wife, her suffering, her future pain—well, that was just how it was. She was suffering, but he was outside, fully alive, and it would be silly, inappropriate, to wear a long face and insist on being miserable. He was happy this morning, driving to town, with the horse's hooves pounding on the hard ground. He was happy, even if half the world was crying at the funeral of the other half. And there was a fun girl sitting next to him. And women were eternal, no matter what happened, no matter who faced death. Let the misery come when it could no longer be avoided.
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.
The evening came in beautifully, with a rosy glow above the sunset, fading into violet and lavender, and turquoise green in the north and south sky. In the east, a big, yellow moon hung low and bright. It was stunning to walk between the sunset and the moon on a path lined with little holly trees rising dark against the rose and lavender backdrop, while starlings flitted about in groups across the light. But what was the purpose of the journey? The pain came later when his heart and feet felt heavy, his mind was tired, and his life felt like it had come to a halt.
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.
One afternoon, the pains started. Mrs. Brangwen was put to bed, and the midwife arrived. Night fell, the shutters were closed, and Brangwen came in for tea, along with the loaf and the pewter teapot. The child, quiet and shaking, played with glass beads. The house felt empty, as if it were exposed to the winter night, almost like 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.
Sometimes, a long and distant sound echoed through the house, vibrating everything—a woman's moan in labor. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, felt torn. His deeper self was with her, connected, suffering with her. But the outer shell of his body recalled the sound of owls that used to circle the farm when he was a boy. He was pulled back to his youth, a boy haunted by the sounds of the owls, waking his brother to talk. His mind wandered to the birds, with their serious, dignified faces and soft, wide wings. Then it shifted to the birds his brother had shot—fluffy, dusty-colored, lifeless piles of softness with absurdly asleep faces. It was a strange 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 raised his cup to his lips, watching the child with the beads. But his mind was occupied with owls and the memories of his childhood with his brothers and sisters. Meanwhile, he was fundamentally with his wife in labor, as the child was being brought forth from their union. He and she were one flesh, from which life had to emerge. The pain wasn't in his body, but it was part of his body. The blows struck her, yet he felt the tremors deep within him, affecting him to his core. She had to be torn apart for life to come into the world, yet they were still one flesh. From even further back, the life flowed from him to her, and he remained whole, holding the fragmented rock in his arms. Their flesh was one solid mass from which life surged, from her who was wounded and torn, and from him who trembled and surrendered.
He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she spoke to him in Polish.
He went upstairs to her. When he reached the bedside, she spoke to him in Polish.
“Is it very bad?” he asked.
“Is it really 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.
She looked at him, and oh, the exhaustion she felt from trying to understand another language, the fatigue of listening to him, paying attention to him, figuring out who he was as he stood there with his light beard and foreign presence, looking at her. She understood a bit about him, about his eyes. But she couldn't really comprehend him. She shut her eyes.
He turned away, white to the gills.
He turned away, pale as a ghost.
“It’s not so very bad,” said the midwife.
“It’s not that bad,” said the midwife.
He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went downstairs.
He knew he was a burden to his wife. He went downstairs.
The child glanced up at him, frightened.
The child looked up at him, scared.
“I want my mother,” she quavered.
"I want my mom," she said, her voice shaking.
“Ay, but she’s badly,” he said mildly, unheeding.
“Yeah, but she’s in pretty bad shape,” he said lightly, not paying attention.
She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes.
She looked at him with scared, bewildered eyes.
“Has she got a headache?”
"Does she have a headache?"
“No—she’s going to have a baby.”
“No—she’s pregnant.”
The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She was alone again in terror.
The child looked around. He didn’t notice her. She was all alone again, filled with fear.
“I want my mother,” came the cry of panic.
“I want my mom,” came the panicked cry.
“Let Tilly undress you,” he said. “You’re tired.”
“Let Tilly help you get changed,” he said. “You’re exhausted.”
There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour.
There was another silence. Once more, the cry of work could be heard.
“I want my mother,” rang automatically from the wincing, panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of desolation.
“I want my mom,” came the automatic cry from the terrified, panicking child, who felt isolated and lost in a nightmare of despair.
Tilly came forward, her heart wrung.
Tilly stepped forward, her heart heavy.
“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.”
“Come and let me undress her then, sweet lamb,” she cooed. “You’ll have your mother in the morning, don’t worry, my little duck; don’t think about it, angel.”
But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall.
But Anna stood on 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.
“I want my mom,” she cried, her little face trembling, and the big tears of pure, heartbreaking distress streaming down.
“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.”
“She’s not feeling well, my dear, she’s not feeling well tonight, but she’ll be better by morning. Oh, don’t cry, don’t cry, love, she doesn’t want you to cry, sweet 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:
Tilly gently grabbed the child's skirts. Anna snatched back her dress and shouted, a bit hysterically:
“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.
“No, you can’t undress me—I want my mom,”—and her child's face was streaked with grief and tears, her body trembling.
“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.”
“Oh, but let Tilly take off your clothes. Let Tilly take off your clothes, who loves you, don’t be stubborn tonight. Mom isn’t feeling well, she doesn’t want you to cry.”
The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear.
The child cried tears of confusion; she couldn't hear.
“I want—my—mother,” she wept.
“I want my mom,” 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—”
“When you’re not dressed, you’ll go see your mom—when you’re not dressed, sweetheart, when you’ve let Tilly take your clothes off, when you’re a little gem in your nightie, darling. Oh, don’t cry, don’t—”
Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the maddening sobbing.
Brangwen sat rigid in his chair. He felt his mind tightening. He crossed the room, only aware of the irritating sobbing.
“Don’t make a noise,” he said.
“Don’t make any 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.
And a new fear jolted the child at the sound of his voice. She cried out automatically, her eyes wide and wary through her tears, terrified and ready for whatever might come next.
“I want—my—mother,” quavered the sobbing, blind voice.
“I want my mom,” the sobbing, blind voice trembled.
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.
A chill of annoyance ran through the man’s body. It was the complete, relentless nonsense, the frustrating ignorance of the voice and the crying.
“You must come and be undressed,” he said, in a quiet voice that was thin with anger.
“You need to come and get undressed,” he said, in a quiet voice that was strained 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:
And he reached out and grabbed her. He felt her body shudder with a deep sob. But he was also lost in his own thoughts, annoyed and moving on autopilot. He started to undo her little apron. She would have shrunk away from him, but couldn’t. So her small body stayed in his grip while he fumbled with the tiny buttons and ties, unfocused, preoccupied, only aware of her irritation. Her body was tense and resistant as he pushed off the little dress and the petticoats, exposing her white arms. She remained stiff, overpowered, violated, while he continued with his task. And through it all, she sobbed, choking:
“I want my mother.”
"I miss my mom."
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.
He was completely silent, his face rigid. The child could no longer understand; she had turned into a little, mechanical being with a fixed will. She cried, her body shaking, her voice echoing the same plea.
“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.
“Ah, dear me!” cried Tilly, getting distracted herself. Brangwen, slow, awkward, and focused, took off all the little clothes and stood the child naked in its shift on the sofa.
“Where’s her nightie?” he asked.
"Where's her pajamas?" 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.
Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna didn’t move her limbs as he wanted. He had to push them into position. She stood there, with a determined, unseeing will, resisting, a small, tense, unyielding figure crying and repeating the same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, taking off her slippers and socks. She was ready.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked.
“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:
She didn't change. Unaware and indifferent, she stood on the couch, pulled back, alone, her hands clenched and half raised, her tear-streaked face lifted and unseeing. And through the crying and gasping came the broken:
“I—want—my—mother.”
"I want my mom."
“Do you want a drink?” he said again.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked 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.
There was no answer. He lifted the rigid, unyielding body between his hands. Its cold, unseeing state sparked a wave of anger in him. He wanted to smash 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.
He placed the child on his lap and sat back in his chair next to the fire, the wet, sobbing, incoherent sounds continuing close to his ear, the child sitting rigid, not responding to him or anything, completely unaware.
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.
A new level of anger washed over him. What did it all matter? What did it matter if the mother spoke Polish and cried during labor, if this child was stiff with resistance and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry during labor, let the child cry from resistance since that was what they would do. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let it be if that’s how it was. 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.
And in a daze he sat, putting up no resistance. The child kept crying, the minutes passed, and he felt a kind of numbness settling in.
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.
It took him a little while to come to his senses and focus on the child. He was initially taken aback by her small, wet, tear-streaked face. Still a bit disoriented, he brushed the damp hair away. Her face, a poignant image of sorrow, continued to cry, unseeing.
“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.”
“No,” he said, “it’s not that bad. It’s not as bad as that, Anna, my child. Come on, why are you crying so much? Stop now, it’ll make you sick. I’ll dry your tears, don’t wet your face anymore. Don’t cry anymore, it’s better not to. Don’t cry—it’s really not that bad. Hush now, hush—it’s 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.
His voice was strange, faraway, and soothing. He looked at the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to calm down, he wanted everything to just stop and feel normal.
“Come,” he said, rising to turn away, “we’ll go an’ supper-up the beast.”
“Come on,” he said, getting up to turn away, “let's go take care of the beast.”
He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into the kitchen for a lantern.
He grabbed a large shawl, wrapped it around her, and went into the kitchen to get a lantern.
“You’re never taking the child out, of a night like this,” said Tilly.
“There's no way you're taking the kid out on a night like this,” said Tilly.
“Ay, it’ll quieten her,” he answered.
“Yeah, it’ll calm her down,” he replied.
It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness.
It was raining. The child stopped suddenly, shocked, feeling the rain on its face and the darkness around.
“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.
“We’ll just give the cows their food before they go to bed,” Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and securely.
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.
There was a trickle of water into the gutter, a burst of raindrops splattering onto her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on the wet pavement and the bottom of a damp wall. Otherwise, it was pitch black: one could practically breathe in the 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.
He opened the upper and lower doors, and they stepped into the tall, dry barn that smelled warm even if it wasn’t. He hung the lantern on a nail and shut the door. They had entered a different world now. The light gently illuminated the wooden barn, the whitewashed walls, and the large pile of hay; tools cast large shadows, and a ladder climbed up to the dark arch of the loft. Outside, the rain poured down, while inside, there was a softly lit stillness and peace in 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.
Holding the child in one arm, he started preparing food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay, brewer’s grains, and a bit of meal. The child, filled with curiosity, watched him closely. A new sense of awareness was forming in her for the new situation. Occasionally, a small tremor, leftover from her earlier crying, shook her tiny body. Her eyes were wide and full of wonder, looking pitiful. She was silent, completely 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.
In a sort of dream, his heart sank to the bottom, leaving him completely still. He rose with a panful of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm and the pan in the other. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed gently, and grains and hay spilled onto the floor. He walked along a dimly lit passage behind the mangers, where the cows' horns poked out of the shadows. The child shrank, and he held himself stiffly, resting the pan on the manger wall and tipping out the food—half for this cow, half for the next. There was the sound of chains rattling as the cows lifted or lowered their heads abruptly, followed by a contented, soothing noise, a long snuffling as the animals 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 journey had to be made several times. There was the steady sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned walking rigidly between the two weights, the child's face peeking out from the shawl. The next time, as he bent down, she slipped her arm around his neck, clinging softly and warmly, making everything easier.
The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to arrange the child.
The animals were fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box to get the child comfortable.
“Will the cows go to sleep now?” she said, catching her breath as she spoke.
“Are the cows going to sleep now?” she asked, catching her breath as she spoke.
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Will they eat all their stuff up first?”
“Will they finish all their food first?”
“Yes. Hark at them.”
“Yes. Listen to 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.
And the two sat quietly, listening to the snorting and breathing of cows eating in the sheds connected to this small barn. The lantern provided a soft, steady glow from one wall. Everything outside was calm in the rain. He glanced down at the silky folds of the paisley shawl. It brought back memories of his mother. She used to wear it to church. He felt a return to the old carefree and secure days, like a boy back 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.
The two sat in silence. His mind, almost in a trance, felt more and more hazy. He held the child close to him. A small shudder, echoing from her sobbing, ran through her limbs. He held her even tighter. Slowly, she relaxed, her eyelids starting to droop over her dark, observant eyes. As she drifted off to sleep, his mind went 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.
When he woke up, almost as if from a dream, he felt like he was sitting in a timeless stillness. What was he waiting to hear? It felt like he was waiting for a sound far away, from beyond life. He thought of his wife. He needed to go back to her. The child was asleep, her eyelids barely closed, revealing a hint of black pupil in between. Why didn't she close her eyes completely? Her mouth was also slightly open.
He rose quickly and went back to the house.
He quickly got up and went back to the house.
“Is she asleep?” whispered Tilly.
“Is she asleep?” Tilly whispered.
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.
He nodded. The servant came to check on the child who was sleeping in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and a paleness around the eyes.
“God-a-mercy!” whispered Tilly, shaking her head.
“Goodness!” 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 kicked off his boots and headed upstairs with the child. He felt a tight anxiety in his chest, worrying about his wife. But he stayed still. The house was quiet except for the wind outside and the loud trickling and splashing of water in the barrels. There was a strip 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.
He put the child to bed still wrapped in the shawl, since the sheets would be cold. Then he worried that she might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened it. Her dark eyes opened, stared at him blankly, and then closed again. He tucked her in. The last slight shudder from her sobbing rattled 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.
This was his room, the room he had before he got married. It felt familiar. He remembered what it was like to be a young man, innocent.
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 stayed up in the air. The child was asleep, pushing her tiny fists against the shawl. He could tell the woman that her child was sleeping. But he had to go to the other landing. He took off. There was the sound of owls—the woman's moaning. What a strange sound! It didn't sound human—at least not 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.
He quietly went into her room. She was lying still with her eyes closed, looking pale and exhausted. His heart raced, afraid she might be dead. But he knew she wasn’t. He noticed how her hair fell softly over her temples, and her mouth had a pained sort of smile. To him, she was beautiful—but in a way that felt inhuman. He felt a fear of her as she lay there. What did she have to do with him? She was different from him.
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.
Something compelled him to reach out and touch her fingers still holding onto the sheet. Her brown-gray eyes opened and met his gaze. She didn’t recognize him as an individual, but she recognized him as the man. She looked at him like a woman in labor looks at the man who fathered her child: with a detached gaze in that intense moment, female to male. Her eyes closed once more. A profound, searing peace washed over him, igniting his heart and insides before fading 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.
When her pain started up again, tearing at her, he looked away and couldn’t bear to watch. But even though his heart was in agony, he felt a sense of relief inside. He went downstairs, stepped outside, raised his face to the rain, and felt the darkness hitting him softly and steadily.
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.
The quick, invisible rhythm of the night pressed down on him, leaving him speechless and overwhelmed. He turned back inside, feeling small. There was the endless universe, everlasting and unchanging, alongside the realm 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.
Tom Brangwen never loved his own son as much as he loved his stepchild, Anna. When they told him it was a boy, he felt a rush of happiness. He enjoyed the validation of being a father. It satisfied him to know he had a son. But he didn’t feel a strong connection to the baby itself. Being its father was enough for him.
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.
He was happy that his wife was the mother of his child. She was calm, a bit distant, as if she were in a new place. With the birth of the child, she seemed to disconnect from who she used to be. She had truly become English, truly Mrs. Brangwen. However, her energy seemed to be diminished.
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 was still incredibly beautiful to Brangwen. She was still passionate, with a spark of life. But that spark wasn’t strong and vibrant. Her eyes shone, her face glowed for him, but like a flower blooming in the shade, it couldn't handle the full light. She loved the baby. But even this felt a bit dim, with a subtle absence around her, a shadowiness even in her motherly love. When Brangwen saw her nursing their child, happy and absorbed in it, a pain swept over him like a thin flame. He realized he had to hold back in his approach to her. He yearned for the vigorous, honest exchange of love and passion they once shared at their peak. This was the one experience that mattered to him now. And he wanted it, always, with relentless longing.
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.
She came to him again, with the same smile that had nearly driven him crazy with suppressed desire at first. She came to him again, and, his heart overwhelmed with joy and eagerness, he embraced her. And it was almost like before.
Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him know perfection, it established in him a constant eternal knowledge.
Perhaps it was just like before. In any case, it made him understand perfection; it gave him a lasting, eternal awareness.
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.
But it faded away before he wanted it to. She was done; she couldn't take any more. And he wasn't tired; he wanted to keep going. But it couldn't happen.
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.
So he had to start the difficult lesson of humbling himself, taking less than he wanted. To him, she was the embodiment of Woman; all other women were just shadows of her. She had satisfied him, and he wanted that to continue. But it couldn’t. No matter how much he raged, filled with a suppression that turned hot and bitter, he hated her deep down for not wanting him. Even with his mad outbursts, drinking, and creating ugly scenes, he knew he was just fighting a losing battle. He had to learn that it wasn't about her not wanting him enough; it was that she simply couldn’t. She could only want him in her own way and to her own measure. She had lived a lot of life before he found her as she was—the woman who could take him and give him fulfillment. She had taken him and given him that fulfillment. She still could, but it had to be on her terms and in her own time. He had to control himself and adjust 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.
He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his essential energy. But it couldn't happen. He needed to find other things besides her, other sources of life. She sat close and untouchable with the child. And he felt 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.
But he loved her, and it was time to find some direction for his chaotic life, so it wouldn’t overflow and cause pain. He focused some of his affection on her daughter, Anna. Slowly, a portion of his energy was redirected to the child, easing the burden on his wife. He also started hanging out with other guys and occasionally drank heavily.
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.
The child started to worry less about her mother after the baby arrived. Seeing her mother with the baby boy, happy, calm, and secure, Anna was initially confused, then slowly she became angry, and eventually, her little life found its own balance. She was no longer strained and twisted to support her mother. She became more like a typical child, less unusual, and free from worries she couldn't grasp. The responsibility for the mother’s happiness shifted away from her. Gradually, the child found freedom. She became an independent, carefree little soul, loving from her own place.
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.
Of her own choice, she loved Brangwen the most, or at least it was the most obvious. The two of them created a little life together and shared activities. In the evenings, he enjoyed teaching her how to count or to recite her letters. He remembered all the little nursery rhymes and childhood songs that were buried at the back of his mind for her.
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.
At first, she thought they were nonsense. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became a big joke to her. Old King Cole, she thought, was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, and her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, frantic delight for the child, this silly stuff, after her years with her mother, after the emotional folk tales she had heard from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her.
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.
She had a kind of reckless spirit like her dad, a total, deliberate carelessness that was filled with mocking laughter. He loved to make her voice rise, shouting and defiantly laughing. The baby had dark skin and dark hair, just like the mom, 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.”
“Hello,” Brangwen would shout, startled as he heard the wail of the child announcing it wanted to be taken out of the cradle, “there’s the blackbird warming up.”
“The blackbird’s singing,” Anna would shout with delight, “the blackbird’s singing.”
“The blackbird's singing,” Anna would shout with joy, “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.”
“When the pie was opened,” Brangwen shouted in his deep, booming voice, walking over to the cradle, “the bird started 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:
“Wasn’t it a lovely treat to serve to a king?” Anna exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with happiness as she spoke the mysterious words, glancing at Brangwen for affirmation. He settled down with the baby, saying loudly:
“Sing up, my lad, sing up.”
“Sing out, my boy, sing out.”
And the baby cried loudly, and Anna shouted lustily, dancing in wild bliss:
And the baby cried loudly, and Anna shouted joyfully, dancing in pure happiness:
“Sing a song of sixpence
Pocketful of posies,
Ascha! Ascha!——”
“Sing a song of sixpence
Pocketful of posies,
Ashes! Ashes!——”
Then she stopped suddenly in silence and looked at Brangwen again, her eyes flashing, as she shouted loudly and delightedly:
Then she suddenly stopped in silence and looked at Brangwen again, her eyes shining as she shouted excitedly:
“I’ve got it wrong, I’ve got it wrong.”
“I messed it up, I messed it up.”
“Oh, my sirs,” said Tilly entering, “what a racket!”
“Oh my gosh,” said Tilly as she walked in, “what a noise!”
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.
Brangwen quieted the child, and Anna kept flipping and dancing. She adored her wild moments of energy with her father. Tilly hated it, but Mrs. Brangwen was fine with it.
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.
Anna didn't really care for other kids. She bossed them around and treated them like they were really young and clueless; to her, they were just little kids, not her equals. So, she spent most of her time alone, zooming around the farm, keeping the farmhands, Tilly, and the servant girl entertained, always buzzing and never stopping.
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.”
She loved driving with Brangwen in the cart. Sitting high up and moving along, her desire for prominence and control was fulfilled. She was like a little wild child in her confidence. She thought her father was important since she was perched up next to him. They bounced along beside the lush, tall hedges, taking in the activities of the countryside. When people called out greetings to him from the road below, and Brangwen cheerfully replied, her little voice would soon echo his, followed by her happy laughter when she looked up at her father with bright eyes, and they shared a laugh. Before long, it became common for passersby to shout: “How are you, Tom? Well, my lady!” or “Morning, Tom, morning, my girl!” or “You’re out together then?” or “You two are looking great!”
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.
Anna would reply with her father, “Hey, John! Good morning, William! Yeah, heading to Derby,” shouting as loudly as she could. When someone would say, “You’re heading out for a bit then,” she would respond, “Yes, we are,” which made everyone really happy. She didn't like the people who greeted him but ignored 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.
She went into the pub with him whenever he had to stop by, and often sat next to him in the lounge as he enjoyed his beer or brandy. The landladies fawned over her in the typical way that landladies do.
“Well, little lady, an’ what’s your name?”
“Well, little lady, what’s your name?”
“Anna Brangwen,” came the immediate, haughty answer.
“Anna Brangwen,” was the quick, proud reply.
“Indeed it is! An’ do you like driving in a trap with your father?”
“Absolutely! Do you enjoy riding in a carriage with your dad?”
“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.
“Yes,” said Anna, feeling shy but bored by the pointless questions. She had a way of shutting down the silly inquiries of adults.
“My word, she’s a fawce little thing,” the landlady would say to Brangwen.
“My goodness, she’s a feisty 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.
“Ay,” he replied, not wanting to encourage any comments about the child. Then he offered a biscuit or a piece of cake, which Anna accepted as her right.
“What does she say, that I’m a fawce little thing?” the small girl asked afterwards.
“What does she say, that I’m a false little thing?” the small girl asked afterward.
“She means you’re a sharp-shins.”
“She means you’re a know-it-all.”
Anna hesitated. She did not understand. Then she laughed at some absurdity she found.
Anna hesitated. She didn't 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.
Soon he took her to the market with him every week. “I can come, right?” she asked every Saturday, or Thursday morning, when he dressed up like a gentleman farmer. His expression would darken at the thought of having to say no to 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.
So finally, he got over his shyness and pulled her close to him. They drove into Nottingham and stayed at the “Black Swan.” So far, so good. Then he thought about leaving her at the inn. But when he saw her expression, he realized that wasn't an option. So he gathered 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.
She stared in confusion, quietly standing beside him. But in the cattle market, she recoiled from the crowd of men, all of them wearing heavy, dirty boots and leather leggings. The ground was gross with cow dung. It scared her to see the cattle in the cramped pens, so many horns, so little space, and the chaos of men and shouting drovers. She also sensed that her father was embarrassed by her and uncomfortable.
He brought her a cake at the refreshment-booth, and set her on a seat. A man hailed him.
He brought her a cake from the refreshment booth and helped her onto a seat. A man called out to him.
“Good morning, Tom. That thine, then?”—and the bearded farmer jerked his head at Anna.
“Good morning, Tom. Is that yours then?”—and the bearded farmer nodded towards Anna.
“Ay,” said Brangwen, deprecating.
“Yeah,” said Brangwen, downplaying.
“I did-na know tha’d one that old.”
“I didn't know that one was that old.”
“No, it’s my missis’s.”
“No, it’s my wife’s.”
“Oh, that’s it!” And the man looked at Anna as if she were some odd little cattle. She glowered with black eyes.
“Oh, that’s it!” The man stared at Anna as if she were some strange little animal. She glared back with dark 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.
Brangwen left her there with the barman while he went to deal with selling some young cattle. Farmers, butchers, and rough, uncouth men, who made her uncomfortable, stared down at her as she sat on her seat, then went to get their drinks, talking loudly. Everything around her felt big and overwhelming.
“Whose child met that be?” they asked of the barman.
“Whose child is that?” they asked the bartender.
“It belongs to Tom Brangwen.”
"It's Tom Brangwen's."
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.
The child sat alone, waiting for her father by the door. He never showed up; many other men did, but not him, and she remained like a shadow. She understood that crying wasn’t allowed in a place like this. As each man looked at her with curiosity, she withdrew into herself.
A deep, gathering coldness of isolation took hold on her. He was never coming back. She sat on, frozen, unmoving.
A deep, growing sense of isolation gripped her. He wasn't coming back. She sat there, frozen, completely still.
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.
When she had become empty and timeless, he arrived, and she slid off her seat to him, like someone returning from the dead. He had sold his animal as quickly as possible. But the business wasn’t done yet. He took her again through the chaotic hustle 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:
Then finally they turned and walked out through the gate. He was constantly greeting one guy or another, always pausing to chat about land, cattle, horses, and whatever else she didn’t get, standing in the dirt and the stench, surrounded by the legs and big boots of men. And she always heard the questions:
“What lass is that, then? I didn’t know tha’d one o’ that age.”
"What girl is that, then? I didn’t know you had one of that age."
“It belongs to my missis.”
"It belongs to my wife."
Anna was very conscious of her derivation from her mother, in the end, and of her alienation.
Anna was very aware of her connection to her mother and her sense of being disconnected from her.
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.
But finally, they left, and Brangwen went with her into a small, dark, old-fashioned restaurant on Bridlesmith-Gate. They had cow’s-tail soup, along with meat, cabbage, and potatoes. Other men and people came into the dim, vaulted space to eat. Anna was wide-eyed and silent with amazement.
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.
Then they went into the big market, into the corn exchange, and then to the shops. He bought her a little book from a stall. He loved buying things, unusual things that he thought would be useful. Then they went to the “Black Swan,” where she drank milk and he had brandy, and they hitched up the horse and drove off, up 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 was exhausted from all the awe and amazement. But the next day, when she thought about it, she skipped along, doing her quirky dance, and talked non-stop about what had happened to her and what she had seen. It excited her for the whole week. And the following 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.
She became a familiar sight at the cattle market, sitting in the small booth and waiting. But she preferred going to Derby. Her father had more friends there. She appreciated the familiarity of the smaller town, the closeness of the river, and the strangeness that didn't scare her since it was so much smaller. She enjoyed the covered market and the old women. She liked the “George Inn,” where her father stayed. The landlord was an old friend of Brangwen, and Anna was well taken care of. She spent many days in the cozy parlor chatting with Mr. Wigginton, a chubby man with red hair, the landlord. When the farmers all gathered at noon for dinner, she felt like 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.
At first, she would just glare or hiss at these strange men with their rough accents. But they were in a good mood. She was a bit quirky, with her wild, fair hair that looked like spun glass creating a fiery halo around her apple-blossom face and dark eyes, and the men appreciated something different. She captured their interest.
She was very angry because Marriott, a gentleman-farmer from Ambergate, called her the little pole-cat.
She was really angry because Marriott, a gentleman farmer from Ambergate, called her the little polecat.
“Why, you’re a pole-cat,” he said to her.
"You're a skunk," he said to her.
“I’m not,” she flashed.
“Nope,” she retorted.
“You are. That’s just how a pole-cat goes.”
“You are. That’s just how a skunk behaves.”
She thought about it.
She considered it.
“Well, you’re—you’re——” she began.
"Well, you’re—you’re——" she started.
“I’m what?”
“What did you say?”
She looked him up and down.
She scanned him from head to toe.
“You’re a bow-leg man.”
“You're bow-legged.”
Which he was. There was a roar of laughter. They loved her that she was indomitable.
Which he was. There was a burst of laughter. They adored her for being so unstoppable.
“Ah,” said Marriott. “Only a pole-cat says that.”
“Ah,” said Marriott. “Only a skunk says that.”
“Well, I am a pole-cat,” she flamed.
“Well, I’m a skunk,” she snapped.
There was another roar of laughter from the men.
There was another burst of laughter from the guys.
They loved to tease her.
They loved to mess with her.
“Well, me little maid,” Braithwaite would say to her, “an’ how’s th’ lamb’s wool?”
“Well, my little girl,” Braithwaite would say to her, “and how’s the lamb’s wool?”
He gave a tug at a glistening, pale piece of her hair.
He tugged at a shiny, light-colored strand of her hair.
“It’s not lamb’s wool,” said Anna, indignantly putting back her offended lock.
“It’s not lamb’s wool,” Anna said, indignantly putting her offended hair back.
“Why, what’st ca’ it then?”
"Why, what's it called then?"
“It’s hair.”
“It’s hair.”
“Hair! Wheriver dun they rear that sort?”
“Hair! Where did they ever grow that stuff?”
“Wheriver dun they?” she asked, in dialect, her curiosity overcoming her.
“Where are they going?” she asked, in her dialect, her curiosity getting the better of her.
Instead of answering he shouted with joy. It was the triumph, to make her speak dialect.
Instead of answering, he shouted with joy. It was a victory to make her speak in 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.
She had one enemy, the man they called Nut-Nat, or Nat-Nut, a clueless guy with turned-in feet, who came shuffling along, his shoulders jerking up with every step. This poor soul sold nuts in the pubs where he was recognized. He had a speech impediment, and the men would make fun of the way he talked.
The first time he came into the “George” when Anna was there, she asked, after he had gone, her eyes very round:
The first time he came into the "George" when Anna was there, she asked, after he had left, her eyes wide open:
“Why does he do that when he walks?”
“Why does he walk like that?”
“’E canna ’elp ’isself, Duckie, it’s th’ make o’ th’ fellow.”
“ he can't help himself, Duckie, it’s just how he is.”
She thought about it, then she laughed nervously. And then she bethought herself, her cheeks flushed, and she cried:
She thought about it, then laughed nervously. Then she realized something, her cheeks flushed, and she cried:
“He’s a horrid man.”
“He’s a terrible man.”
“Nay, he’s non horrid; he canna help it if he wor struck that road.”
“Nah, he's not awful; he can't help it if he got stuck on that path.”
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.
But when poor Nat came stumbling in again, she slid away. And she wouldn't eat his nuts, even if the men bought them for her. And when the farmers gambled at dominoes for them, she got angry.
“They are dirty-man’s nuts,” she cried.
"They're dirty man's nuts," she exclaimed.
So a revulsion started against Nat, who had not long after to go to the workhouse.
So a strong dislike started to build against Nat, who soon had 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.
There was now a hidden desire in Brangwen’s heart to elevate her to the status of a lady. His brother Alfred, in Nottingham, had caused quite a scandal by becoming involved with an educated woman, a lady who was the widow of a doctor. Alfred Brangwen often visited her cottage in Derbyshire as a friend, leaving his wife and kids for a day or two before coming back to them. And no one dared to oppose him because he was a strong-willed, straightforward man, and he claimed to be a friend of this widow.
One day Brangwen met his brother on the station.
One day, Brangwen ran into his brother at the station.
“Where are you going to, then?” asked the younger brother.
“Where are you going?” asked the younger brother.
“I’m going down to Wirksworth.”
"I'm heading to Wirksworth."
“You’ve got friends down there, I’m told.”
“You have friends down there, I heard.”
“Yes.”
"Yeah."
“I s’ll have to be lookin’ in when I’m down that road.”
“I'll have to check it out when I'm down that road.”
“You please yourself.”
"Do what makes you happy."
Tom Brangwen was so curious about the woman that the next time he was in Wirksworth he asked for her house.
Tom Brangwen was so curious about the woman that the next time he was in Wirksworth, he asked for her address.
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.
He discovered a charming cottage on a steep hillside, overlooking the town that sat in the valley below, and in the distance, the old quarries on the other side. Mrs. Forbes was in the garden. She was a tall woman with white hair. She walked up the path, removing her thick gloves and setting down her shears. It was autumn, and she wore a wide-brimmed hat.
Brangwen blushed to the roots of his hair, and did not know what to say.
Brangwen blushed from the top of his head to his roots and didn't 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.”
“I thought I’d drop by,” he said, “since I knew you were friends of my brother’s. I had to come to Wirksworth.”
She saw at once that he was a Brangwen.
She immediately recognized that he was a Brangwen.
“Will you come in?” she said. “My father is lying down.”
“Will you come in?” she asked. “My dad 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.
She led him into a living room filled with books, a piano, and a violin stand. They chatted comfortably, and she spoke with such simplicity. She exuded dignity. The room was unlike anything Brangwen had ever experienced; it felt open and expansive, like being on a mountaintop.
“Does my brother like reading?” he asked.
“Does my brother enjoy reading?” he asked.
“Some things. He has been reading Herbert Spencer. And we read Browning sometimes.”
“Some things. He’s been reading Herbert Spencer. And we occasionally read Browning.”
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:
Brangwen was filled with admiration, deep and thrilling, almost reverential admiration. He gazed at her with bright eyes when she said, “we read.” Finally, he exclaimed, looking around the room:
“I didn’t know our Alfred was this way inclined.”
“I had no idea our Alfred was like this.”
“He is quite an unusual man.”
“He is a pretty unusual guy.”
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.
He stared at her in surprise. Clearly, she had a new perspective on his brother: she truly appreciated him. He looked at the woman again. She was around forty, tall, kind of tough, and an intriguing, distinct individual. As for him, he wasn’t in love with her; there was something off-putting about her. Yet, he felt an overwhelming 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 naïve manner that again was new and strange to Brangwen, so suave, so merry, so innocent.
At tea-time, he was introduced to her father, a sick man who needed assistance to move around. He was, however, healthy-looking and attractive, with white hair and watery blue eyes. His charming and naïve demeanor was unfamiliar yet intriguing to Brangwen; he was so smooth, cheerful, and 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.
His brother was this woman's lover! It was unbelievable. Brangwen went home hating himself for his own miserable life. He felt like a clumsy fool, dull and stuck in the past. More than ever, he wanted to escape to this ideal, refined 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.
He was doing quite well financially. He was as well off as Alfred, who couldn’t make more than six hundred a year, all together. He himself earned about four hundred and could earn more. His investments improved every day. Why didn’t he take action? His wife was also a lady.
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 when he arrived at the Marsh, he understood how set everything was, how the other way of life was beyond his reach, and for the first time, he regretted taking over the farm. He felt trapped, safe and comfortable yet unadventurous. He could have done more with his life if he had taken risks. He couldn't read Browning or Herbert Spencer, nor did he have access to a space like Mrs. Forbes’s. That way of life was completely outside of 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.
But then, he said he didn’t want it. The thrill of the visit started to fade. The next day, he was back to normal, and whenever he thought of the other woman, he felt there was something about her and her surroundings that he didn’t like—something cold, something foreign, as if she weren’t even a woman, but an unfeeling entity that drained human life for lifeless, unfeeling 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.
The night fell, he played with Anna, and then sat quietly with his wife. She was sewing. He sat still, smoking, feeling uneasy. He noticed his wife’s peaceful figure and her dark head bent over the needle. It was too quiet for him. It felt too serene. He wanted to break down the walls and let the night in, so she wouldn’t feel so safe and calm sitting there. He wished the air wasn’t so stuffy and constricting. His wife felt distant, lost in her own world, calm, secure, unnoticed, and unaware. She made him feel shut out.
He rose to go out. He could not sit still any longer. He must get out of this oppressive, shut-down, woman-haunt.
He got up to leave. He couldn’t stay still any longer. He had to get out of this stifling, closed-off, place filled with women.
His wife lifted her head and looked at him.
His wife raised her head and looked at him.
“Are you going out?” she asked.
“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.
He looked down and met her gaze. Her eyes were darker than night and held a deeper emptiness. He felt himself pulling back, on guard, while her eyes tracked his every move.
“I was just going up to Cossethay,” he said.
“I was just heading up to Cossethay,” he said.
She remained watching him.
She kept watching him.
“Why do you go?” she said.
“Why are you leaving?” she asked.
His heart beat fast, and he sat down, slowly.
His heart raced, and he sat down slowly.
“No reason particular,” he said, beginning to fill his pipe again, mechanically.
“No particular reason,” he said, automatically starting to fill his pipe again.
“Why do you go away so often?” she said.
“Why do you leave so often?” she said.
“But you don’t want me,” he replied.
"But you don't want me," he said.
She was silent for a while.
She was quiet for a bit.
“You do not want to be with me any more,” she said.
“You don’t want to be with me anymore,” she said.
It startled him. How did she know this truth? He thought it was his secret.
It surprised him. How did she know this? He thought it was his secret.
“Yi,” he said.
“Yeah,” he said.
“You want to find something else,” she said.
“You’re looking for something else,” she said.
He did not answer. “Did he?” he asked himself.
He didn’t answer. “Did he?” he asked himself.
“You should not want so much attention,” she said. “You are not a baby.”
"You shouldn't crave so much attention," she said. "You're not a baby."
“I’m not grumbling,” he said. Yet he knew he was.
“I’m not complaining,” he said. Yet he knew he was.
“You think you have not enough,” she said.
"You think you don't have enough," she said.
“How enough?”
“How much?”
“You think you have not enough in me. But how do you know me? What do you do to make me love you?”
“You think I’m not enough for you. But how do you even know me? What are you doing to make me love you?”
He was flabbergasted.
He was shocked.
“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?”
“I never said I didn’t have enough faith in you,” he replied. “I didn’t realize you wanted me to love you. 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.”
"You don't make things right between us anymore, you're just not into it. You don't make me want you."
“And you don’t make me want you, do you now?” There was a silence. They were such strangers.
“And you don’t make me want you, do you?” There was a silence. They felt like total strangers.
“Would you like to have another woman?” she asked.
“Do you want to be with 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.
His eyes widened as he realized he didn’t know where he was. How could his own wife say something like that? But there she was, small, distant, and separate. It hit him that she didn’t see herself as his wife, except for their mutual agreement. She didn’t feel like she had married him. In any case, she was okay with the idea that he might want another woman. A chasm, a void opened up before him.
“No,” he said slowly. “What other woman should I want?”
“No,” he said slowly. “What other woman would I want?”
“Like your brother,” she said.
"Just like your brother," she said.
He was silent for some time, ashamed also.
He was quiet for a while, feeling embarrassed too.
“What of her?” he said. “I didn’t like the woman.”
“What about her?” he said. “I didn't like her.”
“Yes, you liked her,” she answered persistently.
“Yes, you liked her,” she answered firmly.
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.
He gazed in disbelief at his own wife as she coldly revealed his true feelings. And he felt angry. What right did she have to sit there and say these things to him? She was his wife; what right did she have to talk to him like this, as if she were a stranger?
“I didn’t,” he said. “I want no woman.”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I don’t want any woman.”
“Yes, you would like to be like Alfred.”
“Yes, you want 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.
His silence was filled with angry frustration. He was shocked. He had mentioned his trip to Wirksworth to her, but only briefly and without much interest, he believed.
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.
As she sat with her unusual dark face turned towards him, her eyes were fixed on him, unreadable, assessing him. He started to push back against her. She was once again the enigmatic figure confronting him. Did he have to accept her? He found himself resisting without even thinking.
“Why should you want to find a woman who is more to you than me?” she said.
“Why would you want to find a woman who means more to you than I do?” she said.
The turbulence raged in his breast.
The turmoil raged in his chest.
“I don’t,” he said.
“I don’t,” he said.
“Why do you?” she repeated. “Why do you want to deny me?”
“Why do you?” she repeated. “Why do you want to reject 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?
Suddenly, in a flash, he realized she might be lonely, isolated, uncertain. She had seemed to him completely certain, satisfied, and all-encompassing, leaving him out. Could she need something?
“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.”
“Why aren’t you satisfied with me?—I’m not satisfied with you. Paul used to come to me and treat me like a man does. You either ignore me or treat me like your livestock, quickly, just to forget me again—so that you can forget me again.”
“What am I to remember about you?” said Brangwen.
“What should I remember about you?” said Brangwen.
“I want you to know there is somebody there besides yourself.”
“I want you to know there’s someone there besides you.”
“Well, don’t I know it?”
“Well, isn’t that the truth?”
“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 come to me as if it were for nothing, as if I were nothing to you. When Paul came to me, I meant something to him—I was a woman. To you, I am nothing—like cattle—or nothing at all—”
“You make me feel as if I was nothing,” he said.
“You make me feel like I am 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.
They were quiet. She sat there, watching him. He couldn't move; his mind was a swirl of chaos. She went back to her sewing. But the sight of her hunched over kept him captivated and wouldn’t let him go. She was an odd, intimidating presence, yet not entirely unfriendly. As he sat there, he felt his body was strong and solid; he sat with a sense of power.
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.
She was quiet for a long time, sewing. He felt acutely aware of the round shape of her head, so familiar and captivating. She looked up and sighed. The blood rushed through him; her voice hit him like fire.
“Come here,” she said, unsure.
"Come here," she said, uncertain.
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.
For a while, he didn't move. Then he slowly got up and walked across the room. It took an almost lifeless effort, either to submit or to go along with it. He stood in front of her and looked down at her. Her face was shining again, her eyes were glistening like sinister laughter. It was terrifying to him how she could be so transformed. He couldn't bear to look at her; it felt like it was burning his heart.
“My love!” she said.
"My love!" she exclaimed.
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.
And she wrapped her arms around him as he stood in front of her, pressing him against her chest. Her hands on him seemed to show him the shape of his own nakedness; he found himself passionately attractive. He couldn't stand 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.
“My dear!” she said. He knew she spoke a different language. The fear felt like bliss in his heart. He looked down. Her face was radiant, her eyes were full of light; she was overwhelming. He was compelled by her. She was the terrifying unknown. He leaned down to her, suffering, unable to let go, unable to free himself, yet drawn in, driven. She was now transformed; she was incredible, beyond his reach. He wanted to leave. But he still couldn’t kiss her. He felt separate from himself. The easiest thing would be to kiss her feet. But he was too ashamed to actually do that; it felt like an insult. She waited for him to meet her, not to bow and serve her. She wanted him to actively participate, not just submit. She touched him, and it was torture for him because he had to actively give himself to her, engage with her, embrace and understand her, who was different from him. There was something in him that recoiled from yielding to her, resisted relaxing with her, opposed merging with her, even while he desperately wanted to. He was afraid; he wanted to protect 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.
There were a few moments of silence. Then slowly, the tension and restraint faded away in him, and he began to move toward her. She was out of reach, the unattainable one. But he released his grip on himself, let go of his reservations, and recognized the deep force of his desire to get to her, to be with her, to connect with her, losing himself to find her, to discover himself in her. He started to approach her, to get closer.
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.
His blood surged with waves of desire. He wanted to go to her, to be with her. She was right there, just out of reach. The reality of her presence just beyond him consumed him. Blind and shattered, he moved forward, closer and closer, to embrace the culmination of his being, finding himself in the darkness that should engulf him and reveal him to himself. If he could truly enter the intense core of darkness, if he could really be destroyed, burned away until he ignited with her in one unity, that would be ultimate, ultimate.
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.
Their coming together now, after two years of marriage, felt much more amazing to them than it had before. It was like stepping into a new phase of existence, a rite of passage into a different life, a complete affirmation. They were walking on unfamiliar ground filled with knowledge, and their steps were illuminated with discovery. Wherever they went, it felt right; the world echoed around them with new insights. They ventured forth joyfully and without a care. Everything was left behind, and everything was rediscovered. The new world was now revealed, just waiting 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.
They had stepped through the doorway into a wider space, where movement was so vast that it included connections, limitations, and efforts, yet still felt like total freedom. She was the doorway for him, and he was the doorway for her. Finally, they had thrown open the doors to each other and stood in the doorways facing one another, while the light poured out from behind them onto their faces. It was a moment of transformation, celebration, and acceptance.
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.
And the light of the transformation always shone in their hearts. He continued on his path, just like before, and she followed her own way; to the rest of the world, it seemed like nothing had changed. But for the two of them, there was always the ongoing amazement of the transformation.
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.
He didn't know her any better or any more precisely now that he knew her completely. Poland, her husband, the war—he understood none of this about her. He didn't get her foreign background, half German, half Polish, nor did he understand her foreign speech. But he knew her, he understood her meaning, even without truly comprehending. What she said and how she spoke were like a blind gesture from her. In herself, she stood strong and clear; he recognized her, he respected her, he was with her. What was memory, after all, but a record of all the possibilities that never came to be? What was Paul Lensky to her except an unrealized possibility, while he, Brangwen, represented reality and fulfillment? What did it matter that Anna Lensky was born of Lydia and Paul? God was her father and mother. He had passed through the married couple without fully revealing Himself 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.
Now He was revealed to Brangwen and Lydia Brangwen as they stood together. When they finally joined hands, the house was complete, and the Lord took up residence. And they were happy.
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.
The days went on as usual; Brangwen went out to work, while his wife took care of their child and managed the farm to some extent. They didn’t think about each other—why would they? But whenever she touched him, he immediately recognized her presence, realizing she was there with him, that she was the passage and the escape, that she was beyond, and that he was journeying with her through that beyond. Where to?—Does it really matter? He was always responsive. When she called, he replied; when he asked, she answered right away, or after a moment.
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.
Anna felt a sense of peace surrounding her. She looked at both of them and realized they were there to protect her, and she felt free. She moved confidently between the pillar of fire and the pillar of cloud, secure with support on both sides. She no longer had to struggle with her small strength to hold up the broken end of the arch. Her father and mother now spanned the heavens, and she, the child, was free to play in the space beneath them.
Chapter IV.
GIRLHOOD OF ANNA 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.
When Anna was nine, Brangwen sent her to the girls' school in Cossethay. There she went, skipping and twirling in her carefree way, doing pretty much whatever she wanted, baffling old Miss Coates with her disregard for propriety and her lack of respect. Anna just laughed at Miss Coates, liked her, and treated her condescendingly in a wonderfully childish way.
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.
The girl was both shy and wild. She had a curious disdain for ordinary people, a sense of being better than them. She was very shy and felt miserable when others didn't like her. However, she cared very little for anyone except her mother, whom she still somewhat resentfully adored, and her father, whom she loved and looked down upon but depended on. Her mother and father still had a hold on her. But she felt free from everyone else, towards whom she generally had a kind disposition. She deeply hated anything ugly, intrusive, or arrogant. As a child, she was as proud and elusive as a tiger, keeping her distance. She could grant favors, but other than from her parents, she felt she could not accept any. She disliked people who got too close to her. Like a wild creature, she wanted her space. She was suspicious of 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.
In Cossethay and Ilkeston, she always felt like an outsider. She had plenty of acquaintances, but no real friends. Very few of the people she met mattered to her. They seemed like part of a crowd, all blending together. She didn’t 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.
She had two brothers: Tom, dark-haired, short, and quick-tempered, with whom she was close but never really interacted, and Fred, light-haired and easygoing, whom she loved deeply but didn’t see as a distinct individual. She was too much the center of her own world, too unaware of anything beyond it.
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.
The first person she met, who impacted her as a genuine, living person, whom she saw as truly existing, was Baron Skrebensky, a friend of her mother’s. He was also a Polish exile, who had become a clergyman, and had received a small church position in Yorkshire from Mr. Gladstone.
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.
When Anna was about ten, she went with her mom to spend a few days with Baron Skrebensky. He was very unhappy in his red-brick vicarage. He was the vicar of a country church, making just over two hundred pounds a year, but he had a large parish that included several collieries, with a new, raw, uncivilized population. He moved to the north of England expecting respect from the common people because he was an aristocrat. However, he was met with a rough, even cruel reception. He never understood why. He remained a passionate aristocrat, but he had to learn to keep his distance from 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 was really impressed by him. He was a short man with a rugged, somewhat wrinkled face and deep, glowing blue eyes. His wife was a tall, thin woman from a noble Polish family, filled with pride. He still spoke broken English because he stayed close to his wife; both of them felt lonely in this strange, unwelcoming country, and they always spoke in Polish together. He was let down by Mrs. Brangwen’s soft, natural English and very disappointed that her child didn’t speak any 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.
Anna loved watching him. She liked the big, new, sprawling vicarage, desolate and stark on its hill. It was so exposed, so bleak and bold compared to the Marsh. The Baron talked nonstop in Polish to Mrs. Brangwen; he made furious gestures with his hands, his blue eyes were full of fire. To Anna, there was something significant about his sharp, energetic movements. Something in her responded to his extravagance and lively manner. She thought he was a truly amazing person. She felt shy around him but enjoyed when he spoke 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 never quite understood how she knew it, but she knew he was a knight of Malta. She could never recall if she had seen the star or cross of his order, but it appeared in her mind like a symbol. To the child, he represented the real world, where kings, lords, and princes lived their impressive lives, while queens, 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.
She recognized Baron Skrebensky as a genuine person who actually cared for her. But when she stopped seeing him, he faded away and became just a memory. However, 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.
Anna grew into a tall, awkward girl. Her eyes remained very dark and sharp, but they had become careless, losing their once watchful, hostile look. Her wild, curly hair turned brown, became heavier, and was pulled back. She was enrolled in 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.
And during this time, she was focused on becoming a young lady. She was smart, but not really interested in studying. At first, she thought all the girls at school were very feminine and amazing, and she wanted to be like them. She quickly became disillusioned: they irritated and frustrated her; they were small-minded and cruel. After the open, generous environment of her home, where minor issues didn’t matter, she always felt uneasy in a world that would react harshly to every little thing.
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.
A sudden shift happened within her. She doubted herself, she doubted the outside world. She didn't want to continue, she didn't want to step 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.”
“What do I care about those girls?” she would say to her father, looking down on them; “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.
The problem was that the girls wouldn't accept Anna for who she was. They wanted her to fit into their mold, or they didn't want her at all. This left her confused and drawn in; she tried to become like them for a while, but then, in disgust, she came to hate them intensely.
“Why don’t you ask some of your girls here?” her father would say.
“Why don’t you ask some of your friends here?” her father would say.
“They’re not coming here,” she cried.
“They’re not coming here,” she shouted.
“And why not?”
"Why not?"
“They’re bagatelle,” she said, using one of her mother’s rare phrases.
“They’re trivial,” she said, using one of her mother’s rare phrases.
“Bagatelles or billiards, it makes no matter, they’re nice young lasses enough.”
"Bagatelles or billiards, it doesn't really matter; they’re nice young ladies."
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.
But Anna wasn’t going to be persuaded. She felt a strange aversion to ordinary people, especially to the young women of her time. She avoided social gatherings because of the discomfort other people made her feel. She could never quite tell if it was her fault or theirs. She partly respected these other people, but the ongoing disappointment drove her crazy. She wanted to admire them. Still, she believed that those she didn’t know were amazing. The people she did know always seemed to restrict her, trapping her in small lies that frustrated her to no end. She would rather stay home and steer clear of the rest of the world, keeping it an illusion.
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.
For at the Marsh, life had a certain freedom and expansiveness. There were no worries about money, no petty social hierarchies, and no concern for what others thought, because neither Mrs. Brangwen nor Brangwen cared about external judgments. Their lives were too independent.
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.
So Anna felt comfortable only at home, where her parents’ sense of reason and strong relationship created a more relaxed way of living than she could find anywhere else. Outside the Marsh, where could she find the acceptance and respect she grew up with? Her parents remained proud and oblivious to any judgments. The people she encountered outside seemed to resent her very presence. They also seemed intent on putting her down. She was very hesitant to be around them. She relied on her mom and dad. Yet, she still 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.
At school, or in the world, she usually felt at fault and thought she should be sneaking around in shame. She could never quite figure out if she was wrong or if everyone else was. She hadn’t done her homework, but she didn’t see any reason to do it if she didn’t want to. Was there some hidden reason she should? Were these people, the teachers, representatives of some mystical authority or higher purpose? They seemed to think so. But she couldn’t understand why a woman would bully and insult her just because she didn’t know thirty lines of *As You Like It*. In the end, what did it matter if she knew them or not? Nothing could convince her it was of any importance. She actually looked down on the harsh nature of the teacher. That’s why she was always at odds with authority. From being told so often, she almost started to believe in her own badness, her own inherent inferiority. She felt she should always feel ashamed if she met expectations. Yet she rebelled. She never truly believed in her own badness. Deep down, she looked down on others who nitpicked and made a big deal out of little things. She despised them and wanted revenge. She hated them as long as 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.
Still, she held onto an ideal: a free, proud woman free from trivial ties, living beyond petty thoughts. She would see such women in pictures: Alexandra, Princess of Wales, was one of her role models. This woman was proud and regal, stepping indifferently over all small, petty desires: Anna believed this in her heart. The girl styled her hair high under a little tilted hat, her skirts were fashionably gathered, and she wore an elegant, form-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.
Her father was thrilled. Anna carried herself with pride, too naturally aloof to meet Ilkeston's expectations, which wanted to put her in her place. But Brangwen wasn't going to let that happen. If she wanted to act like royalty, then she would be treated like royalty. 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.
Following the tradition of his family, he became strong and good-looking. His blue eyes were bright, sparkling, and expressive; his demeanor was intentional yet friendly and warm. His ability to live his life independently, without needing validation from his neighbors, earned their respect. They would rush to help him with anything he needed. He didn’t focus on them but was generous towards them, which allowed them to benefit from their eagerness. He enjoyed people, as long as they stayed 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.
Mrs. Brangwen went about her life in her own way, relying on her own methods. She had her husband, her two sons, and Anna. These were her focus and defined her world. Everyone else was an outsider. In her own reality, her life drifted by like a dream; it moved on, and she lived within its flow, engaged and always content. She hardly noticed anything outside of her immediate world. What lay beyond was irrelevant, non-existent. She didn’t care if the boys fought as long as it was away from her. But if they fought in front of her, she got angry, and they feared her. She wasn’t concerned if they broke a window in a train car or sold their watches to have fun at the Goose Fair. Brangwen might have been upset about those things, but to her, they were unimportant. It was the little things that truly annoyed her. She was furious if the boys lingered around the slaughterhouse, and she was displeased when their school reports were poor. It didn’t matter how many wrongdoings her boys were accused of, as long as they weren’t stupid or lacking. If they appeared to accept an insult, she despised them. And it was only a certain awkwardness in Anna that irritated her about the girl. Specific forms of clumsiness or coarseness made the mother’s eyes spark with a strange kind of anger. Otherwise, she was content, 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.
Pursuing her ideal of a perfect lady, Anna became a proud sixteen-year-old, troubled by her family's issues. She was very sensitive to her father's behavior. She could tell if he had been drinking, even a little, and she couldn’t stand it. He would flush when he drank, the veins on his temples would bulge, and there was a flashy, carefree mischief in his eye; he acted jovially overbearing and mocking. This angered her. When she heard his loud, roaring mockery, she felt a wave of resentment. She was quick to confront him as soon as he walked in.
“You look a sight, you do, red in the face,” she cried.
"You look a mess, really red in the face," she exclaimed.
“I might look worse if I was green,” he answered.
“I might look worse if I were green,” he replied.
“Boozing in Ilkeston.”
“Drinking in Ilkeston.”
“And what’s wrong wi’ Il’son?”
"And what's wrong with Il'son?"
She flounced away. He watched her with amused, twinkling eyes, yet in spite of himself said that she flouted him.
She stormed off. He watched her with a playful glint in his eyes, but despite himself, he thought that she had disrespected 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.
They were an interesting family, living by their own rules, cut off from the outside world, a small republic with invisible borders. The mother was completely indifferent to Ilkeston and Cossethay, or any demands from outside; she was very shy around outsiders, overly polite, and even charming at times. But the moment the visitor left, she would laugh and brush them off; they simply ceased to exist in her mind. It had all been a show for her. She still felt like an outsider, unsure of herself. But when she was with her children and husband at the Marsh, she was in charge of a little world that had everything they needed.
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.
She held some beliefs that were never clearly defined. She was raised Roman Catholic but sought solace in the Church of England. The outward practices didn't matter much to her. Still, she had a core sense of spirituality. It was like she saw God as a mystery, never trying to pinpoint what He really 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.
And inside her, the deep awareness of the Great Absolute that defined her existence was very strong. The English beliefs never connected with her: the language was too foreign. Throughout it all, she sensed the great Divider who held life in His hands, shining, present, intense, the Great Mystery, just beyond all description.
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.
She radiated and sparkled with the Mystery, whom she understood through all her senses. She looked with unusual, mystical superstitions that were never expressed in English, never formed a thought in English. But that’s how she lived, surrounded by a powerful, sensory belief that encompassed her family and shaped her fate.
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.
To this, she had reduced her husband. He lived with her completely indifferent to the common values of the world. Her mannerisms, even the shape of her eyebrows, were symbols and signals to him. There, on the farm with her, he experienced a mystery of life and death and creation, strange, deep ecstasies and unshareable satisfactions that the rest of the world knew nothing about; this set them apart and earned them respect in the English village, as they were also well-off.
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.”
But Anna was only partially safe within her mother’s unaware understanding. She had a mother-of-pearl rosary that had belonged to her father. What it meant to her, she could never express. But the string of moonlight and silver, when she held it between her fingers, filled her with a strange passion. She learned a little Latin at school, she learned an Ave Maria and a Pater Noster, she learned how to say her rosary. But that didn’t help. “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.
It just didn’t feel right. What these words meant in translation wasn’t the same as what the pale rosary represented. There was a disconnect, a false note. Saying “Dominus tecum” or “benedicta tu in mulieribus” annoyed her. She loved the mystic phrases “Ave Maria, Sancta Maria;” she was touched by “benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus,” and “nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.” But none of it felt entirely genuine. It just wasn’t satisfying 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 steered clear of her rosary because, despite stirring her with a strange intensity, it only represented things that didn’t really matter. She put it aside. It was her instinct to put away all these things. It was her instinct to avoid thinking, to dodge it, to protect 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 was seventeen, sensitive, lively, and very moody: quick to get upset and always anxious, uncertain. For some reason, she leaned more towards her dad and felt almost bursts of resentment toward her mom. Her mom’s dark demeanor and oddly sneaky ways, her mom’s complete confidence and assurance, her strange satisfaction, even her triumph, her mom’s way of laughing at things and her mom’s quiet dismissal of annoying proposals, and above all, her mom’s overpowering strength drove the girl crazy.
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.
She became unpredictable and enormous. Often, she stood by the window, staring outside, as if she wanted to leave. Sometimes she did go out and mingled with people. But she always returned home angry, as if she were lessened, belittled, almost humiliated.
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.
There was a kind of dark silence and intensity in the house, where passion reached its inevitable conclusions. Inside, there was a richness, a deep, unspoken connection that made other places feel empty and unfulfilling. Brangwen could sit quietly, smoking in his chair, while the mother moved around in her subtle, almost secretive way, and the sense of their two presences was strong and comforting. The whole interaction was unspoken, intense, and intimate.
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.
But Anna felt restless. She wanted to escape. Yet no matter where she went, she was hit by that feeling of being diminished, as if she were shrinking, belittled. She hurried 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.
There she vented her frustration and disrupted the strong, established conversation. Sometimes her mother confronted her with a fierce, destructive anger, showing no pity or understanding. Anna recoiled, feeling scared. 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.
He would still listen to the conversation, which seemed meaningless to the oblivious mother. Sometimes Anna talked to her father. She tried to discuss people; she wanted to understand what was meant. But her father grew uneasy. He didn't want to bring things to light. Only out of respect for her did he listen. There was a kind of tense energy in the room. The cat got up and, stretching itself, uneasily moved to the door. Mrs. Brangwen was quiet; she felt threatening. Anna couldn't continue with her complaints, her criticism, her expressions of dissatisfaction. She even felt her father against her. He had a strong, dark connection with her mother, an intense intimacy that was unspoken and wild, following its own path, and fierce if disrupted or exposed.
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.
Nevertheless, Brangwen felt uneasy about the girl; the whole house remained unsettled. She had a sad, confused look about her. She was antagonistic toward her parents, even while living completely with them, under their influence.
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.
She tried many ways to escape. She became a dedicated churchgoer. But the language meant nothing to her; it felt insincere. She hated hearing things expressed, put into words. While the religious feelings were inside her, they were deeply moving. In the clergyman's mouth, they felt false and inappropriate. She attempted to read, but once again, the boredom and the sense of the spoken word's insincerity turned her off. She went to stay with girlfriends. At first, she thought it was great. But then the inner boredom returned; it all felt like nothingness. She always felt diminished, as if she could never truly express herself or walk at her own pace.
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.
Her mind often went back to the torture cell of a certain Bishop of France, where the victim could neither stand nor lie down fully, ever. Not that she thought of herself in any way related to this. But frequently, she wondered how the cell was constructed, and she could really feel the horror of the confinement 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.
She was just eighteen when a letter arrived from Mrs. Alfred Brangwen in Nottingham, saying that her son William was coming to Ilkeston to start as a junior draughtsman, barely more than an apprentice, in a lace factory. He was twenty years old, and she asked if the Marsh Brangwens would 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.
Tom Brangwen immediately wrote to offer the young man a place to stay at the Marsh. This offer was declined, but the Nottingham Brangwens expressed their 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.
There had never been much affection between the Nottingham Brangwens and the Marsh family. In fact, Mrs. Alfred, who inherited three thousand pounds and was unhappy with her husband, kept her distance from all the Brangwens. However, she pretended to have some respect for Mrs. Tom, as she referred to the Polish woman, saying that at least 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.
Anna Brangwen felt a slight thrill at the news that her Cousin Will was coming to Ilkeston. She knew many young men, but none of them had ever felt real to her. She had noticed in one guy a nose she liked, in another a nice mustache, in yet another a good sense of style, one had a silly haircut, and another had a funny way of speaking. To her, these young men were more like sources of amusement and mild curiosity than actual people.
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.
The only man she knew was her father; and since he was a big presence, almost like a deity, he represented all of manhood for her, while other men were just minor figures.
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.
She remembered her cousin Will. He wore city clothes and was skinny, with a really intriguing head, as black as jet, and hair that felt like smooth, thin fur. It was an odd head; it reminded her of something she couldn't quite place—some strange creature that lived in the shadows under the leaves and never came out, yet had a vibrant, quick, and intense life. She always thought of him with that black, sharp, blind head. And she found him strange.
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.
He showed up at the Marsh one Sunday morning: a tall, slender young guy with a fresh face and an interesting mix of confidence and shyness, completely unaware of how others might be, just because 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.
When Anna came downstairs in her Sunday clothes, ready for church, he stood up and greeted her politely, shaking her hand. His manners were more refined than hers. She felt herself blush. She noticed that he now had a thick mustache on his upper lip, a dark, well-defined line outlining his wide mouth. It somewhat disgusted her. It reminded her of the fine, thin hair on his head. She sensed something unusual about 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.
His voice had pretty high upper notes and very resonant middle ones. It was strange. She wondered why he sounded that way. But he seemed completely comfortable in the Marsh living room. He had a certain awkwardness, a natural confidence like the Brangwens, that made him feel 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.
Anna was quite disturbed by the oddly close, affectionate way her father treated this young man. He appeared gentle with him, putting his own feelings aside to support the young man. This annoyed Anna.
“Father,” she said abruptly, “give me some collection.”
“Dad,” she said suddenly, “give me some money.”
“What collection?” asked Brangwen.
“What collection?” Brangwen asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she cried, flushing.
“Don't be ridiculous,” she shouted, blushing.
“Nay,” he said, “what collection’s this?”
“Nah,” he said, “what collection is this?”
“You know it’s the first Sunday of the month.”
“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?
Anna stood there, confused. Why was he doing this? Why was he making her stand out in front of this stranger?
“I want some collection,” she reasserted.
“I want a collection,” she repeated.
“So tha says,” he replied indifferently, looking at her, then turning again to this nephew.
“So that’s what you say,” he replied casually, looking at her before turning back to his 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.
She stepped forward and reached into his pants pocket. He kept smoking, not resisting, while talking to his nephew. Her hand felt around in his pocket and then pulled out his leather wallet. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled. Brangwen's eyes were twinkling. The nephew sat awkwardly. Anna, looking stylish, sat down and poured all the money into her lap. There was silver and gold. The young man couldn't help but watch her. She leaned over the pile of money, sorting through 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’m seriously considering taking half a sovereign,” she said, looking up with sparkling dark eyes. She locked eyes with her cousin, who was watching her closely. She felt taken aback. She laughed briefly and turned to her father.
“I’ve a good mind to take half a sovereign, our Dad,” she said.
“I’m seriously considering taking half a sovereign, Dad,” she said.
“Yes, nimble fingers,” said her father. “You take what’s your own.”
“Yes, quick fingers,” said her father. “You take what’s yours.”
“Are you coming, our Anna?” asked her brother from the door.
“Are you coming, Anna?” her brother asked from the doorway.
She suddenly chilled to normal, forgetting both her father and her cousin.
She suddenly cooled down to normal, forgetting both her dad 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.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” she said, taking sixpence from the pile of money and sliding the rest back into the purse, which she set on the table.
“Give it here,” said her father.
“Give it to me,” her father said.
Hastily she thrust the purse into his pocket and was going out.
Hastily, she shoved the purse into his pocket and headed out.
“You’d better go wi’ ’em, lad, hadn’t you?” said the father to the nephew.
“You should go with them, kid, right?” 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.
Will Brangwen stood up tentatively. He had golden-brown, sharp, steady eyes, like a bird's, like a hawk's, that couldn't show fear.
“Your Cousin Will ’ll come with you,” said the father.
“Your Cousin Will will 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.
Anna glanced at the unusual young man again. She sensed him waiting for her to notice him. He was lingering at the edge of her awareness, ready to step in. She didn't want to look at him. She felt hostile towards 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.
She waited quietly. Her cousin grabbed his hat and walked over to her. It was summer outside. Her brother Fred was picking a sprig of flowering currant to put in his coat from the bush at the corner of the house. She didn’t pay any attention. Her cousin walked closely 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.
They were on the main road. She felt a weirdness inside her. It made her feel unsure. She noticed the flowering currant in her brother’s buttonhole.
“Oh, our Fred,” she cried. “Don’t wear that stuff to go to church.”
“Oh, Fred,” she exclaimed. “Don’t wear that to church.”
Fred looked down protectively at the pink adornment on his breast.
Fred looked down protectively at the pink decoration on his chest.
“Why, I like it,” he said.
“Sure, I like it,” he said.
“Then you’re the only one who does, I’m sure,” she said.
“Then you’re the only one who does, I’m sure,” she said.
And she turned to her cousin.
And she confronted her cousin.
“Do you like the smell of it?” she asked.
“Do you like the smell of it?” she asked.
He was there beside her, tall and uncouth and yet self-possessed. It excited her.
He was there next to her, tall and awkward but also confident. It thrilled her.
“I can’t say whether I do or not,” he replied.
“I can’t say if 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.
“Give it here, Fred, don’t bring that smell into 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.
Her little brother handed her the flower obediently. She sniffed it and then silently passed it to her cousin for his opinion. He examined the hanging flower with curiosity.
“It’s a funny smell,” he said.
“It’s a weird 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.
And suddenly she laughed, and a bright light appeared on all their faces; the little boy's walk had a cheerful bounce to it.
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.
The bells were ringing as they walked up the sunny hill in their Sunday best. Anna looked stunning in a brown and white striped silk dress, fitting snugly at the arms and waist, elegantly gathered at the back of the skirt. Will Brangwen had a bit of a dashing quality about him, 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.
He walked with a sprig of currant blossom hanging between his fingers, and none of them said anything. The sun was shining brightly on little patches of buttercups along the bank, and in the fields, the fool's parsley stood tall and proud above a bunch of flowers that danced in the greenish twilight of the cut 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.
They arrived at the church. Fred walked ahead to the pew, followed by the cousin, then Anna. She felt very noticeable and special. Somehow, this young man made her stand out to others. He stepped aside and let her go to her seat, then sat down next to her. It was a strange feeling to be sitting 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.
The light poured in from the stained glass window above her. It illuminated the dark wood of the pew, the worn stone aisle, the pillar behind her cousin, and his hands resting on his knees. She sat surrounded by light, both bright and shadowy, her spirit feeling vibrant. She was unaware but aware of her cousin's hands and his still knees. Something unusual had entered her life, something totally foreign and different from anything she had experienced before.
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 felt oddly happy. She was sitting in a bright, surreal world that was quite delightful. A thoughtful light, like laughter, sparkled in her eyes. She sensed a strange feeling flowing into her, which she found enjoyable. It was a deep, enriching sensation she had never experienced before. She didn't think about her cousin. But she was taken aback 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 wished he wouldn't say things so directly. It distracted her from her vague enjoyment. Why did he have to draw attention to himself? It was in bad taste. But she managed to keep it together until the hymn started. He stood up next to her to sing, and that made her happy. Then suddenly, at the very first word, his voice came out strong and dominating, filling the church. He was singing tenor. Her soul opened in surprise. His voice filled the church! It rang out like a trumpet, and then again. She started to giggle over her hymn book. But he continued, perfectly steady. Up and down, his voice resonated, going its own way. She couldn't help but laugh. In between moments of silence within herself, she shook with laughter. The laughter took hold of her and shook her until tears filled her eyes. She was amazed and somewhat enjoyed it. And still the hymn rolled on, and she kept laughing. She leaned over her hymn book, embarrassed, but her sides still shook with laughter. She pretended to cough, pretending she had something stuck in her throat. Fred was looking up at her with clear blue eyes. She was regaining her composure. And then a slip in the strong, blind voice at her side sent her into another fit 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 bent down to pray, feeling a cold sense of shame. And yet, as she knelt, waves of giggles washed over her. Just seeing him on his knees at the prayer cushion made her feel a little jolt of laughter.
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.
She composed herself and sat with a neat, innocent look, pale pink and cold like a Christmas rose, her hands in silk gloves folded on her lap, her dark eyes distant and lost in a sort of daydream, unaware of everything around her.
The sermon rolled on vaguely, in a tide of pregnant peace.
The sermon continued on, somewhat aimlessly, in a wave of heavy tranquility.
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 took out his handkerchief. He seemed completely caught up in the sermon. He held the handkerchief to his face. Then something fell onto his knee. It was the piece of flowering currant! He stared at it in genuine surprise. A burst of laughter erupted from Anna. Everyone heard it; it was awkward. He squeezed the crumpled flower in his hand and looked up again, still focused on the sermon. Another laugh escaped Anna. Fred nudged her, reminding her to be quiet.
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.
Her cousin sat completely still. He somehow knew his face was red. She could sense him. His hand, closed around the flower, stayed perfectly still, trying to act normal. Another wild struggle was building in Anna’s chest, followed by a snort of laughter. She leaned forward, shaking with laughter. This wasn’t a joke anymore. Fred kept nudging her. She nudged him back hard. Then another wave of laughter overtook her. She tried to hold it back with a little cough. The cough turned into a stifled whoop. She wanted to disappear. Meanwhile, his closed hand crept towards his pocket. As she sat there in tense anticipation, the laughter crashed back at her, knowing he was rummaging in his pocket to stuff 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.
In the end, she felt weak, exhausted, and completely down. A wave of painful sadness washed over her. She couldn’t stand being around other people. Her expression turned quite proud. She no longer noticed her cousin.
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.
When the collection plate came around with the last hymn, her cousin was singing loudly again. And it still made her laugh. Despite how embarrassed she had felt, it amused her. She listened to it with a sense of fun. Then the bag was pushed in front of her, and her sixpence got tangled in the folds of her glove. In her rush to grab it, it slipped away and rolled into the next pew. She stood up and giggled. She couldn’t help it: she burst out laughing, feeling completely embarrassed.
“What were you laughing about, our Anna?” asked Fred, the moment they were out of the church.
“What were you laughing about, our Anna?” Fred asked as soon as they were outside 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.”
“Oh, I couldn’t help it,” she said, in her carefree, slightly teasing way. “I don’t know why Cousin Will’s singing triggered me.”
“What was there in my singing to make you laugh?” he asked.
“What was it in my singing that made you laugh?” he asked.
“It was so loud,” she said.
“It was really loud,” she said.
They did not look at each other, but they both laughed again, both reddening.
They didn’t look at each other, but they both laughed again, both blushing.
“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.
“What were you snorting and laughing about, Anna?” asked Tom, the older brother, at the dinner table, his hazel eyes shining with happiness. “Everyone 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.
She could feel Will’s eyes focused on her, waiting for her to say something.
“It was Cousin Will’s singing,” she said.
“It was Cousin Will 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.
At that, her cousin let out a quiet, chuckling laugh, revealing all his small, even, somewhat sharp teeth, and just as quickly closed his mouth again.
“Has he got such a remarkable voice on him then?” asked Brangwen.
“Does he really have such an amazing voice?” asked Brangwen.
“No, it’s not that,” said Anna. “Only it tickled me—I couldn’t tell you why.”
“No, it’s not that,” Anna said. “It just tickled me—I can’t explain why.”
And again a ripple of laughter went down the table.
And once more, a wave of laughter spread across the table.
Will Brangwen thrust forward his dark face, his eyes dancing, and said:
Will Brangwen leaned forward, his dark face brightened, his eyes sparkling, and said:
“I’m in the choir of St. Nicholas.”
“I’m in the St. Nicholas choir.”
“Oh, you go to church then!” said Brangwen.
“Oh, you go to church then!” Brangwen said.
“Mother does—father doesn’t,” replied the youth.
“Mom does—dad doesn’t,” replied the young man.
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.
It was the little things—his movements, the quirky tones in his voice—that stood out to Anna. The straightforward things he said seemed absurd by comparison. Her father's words felt empty 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.
In the afternoon, they sat in the parlor, which smelled of geraniums, eating cherries and chatting. Will Brangwen was encouraged to share his thoughts. Before long, he opened up.
He was interested in churches, in church architecture. The influence of Ruskin had stimulated him to a pleasure in the mediæval 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.
He was fascinated by churches and church architecture. The influence of Ruskin had sparked his enjoyment of medieval designs. His conversation was disjointed, and he was only partly coherent. But as she listened to him talk about one church after another—the nave, chancel, and transept, the rood-screen and font, the intricate carvings, moldings, and tracery—each word filled with intense emotion for specific elements and places, a deep silence filled her heart, rich with the essence of churches. There was a mystery and a heavy significance in the stooped stone and the soft, muted light where something quietly unfolded, fading into darkness: a high, joyful structure of the mystic screen, and beyond that, in the far distance, the altar. It was a very real experience. She was completely captivated. The land felt like it was enveloped in a vast, mystical church, shrouded in shadows, alive 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?
Almost it hurt her to look out of the window and see the lilacs standing tall in the bright sunshine. Or was this the jeweled glass?
He talked of Gothic and Renaissance and Perpendicular, and Early English and Norman. The words thrilled her.
He talked about Gothic, Renaissance, Perpendicular, Early English, and Norman styles. The words excited 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.
“Have you been to Southwell?” he asked. “I was there at twelve o’clock noon, having 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.
“Yeah, it’s a pretty impressive Minster, Southwell, robust. It has big, round arches, quite low, supported by thick pillars. It’s magnificent, the way those arches extend forward.
“There’s a sedilia as well—pretty. But I like the main body of the church—and that north porch—”
“There’s a nice sedilia too. But I really like the main part 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.
He was really excited and full of himself that afternoon. A fire sparked around him, making his experience intense and vibrant, intensely 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.
His uncle listened with sparkling eyes, somewhat touched. His aunt leaned in, her dark face, also somewhat moved, but restrained by different 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.
He returned to his place at night, walking quickly, his eyes sparkling and his face glowing darkly as if he had just come from some intense, passionate meeting.
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.
The glow stayed with him, the fire burned, his heart was intense like the sun. He cherished his mysterious life and his true self. And he was ready to return 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.
Without realizing it, Anna wanted him to come. In him, she had found an escape. In him, the limits of her experience were pushed: he was the gap in the wall, beyond which the sunshine flooded 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.
He showed up. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, as he spoke again, that strange, distant reality returned, affecting everything around it. Occasionally, he talked about his father, whom he hated with a passion that felt dangerously close to love, and about his mother, whom he loved with a feeling that was unsettlingly close to hatred, or perhaps rebellion. His sentences were awkward, and he was only half articulate. But he had a captivating voice that could resonate deep within the girl’s soul, immersing her in his emotions. Sometimes his voice was intense and dramatic, other times it had a peculiar, almost feline twang, and sometimes it stumbled, confused. Occasionally, there was a hint of laughter. Anna was drawn to him. She adored the fiery sensation that flowed through her as she listened to him. And to her, his mother and father became two distinct figures 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.
For several weeks, the young man came around often and was welcomed by everyone. He sat with them, his dark face lit up with enthusiasm and a hint of mockery on his wide mouth, something smirking and contorted, his eyes always sparkling like a bird's, completely lacking in depth. Brangwen irritably thought that there was no getting a grip on the guy. He was like a grinning young tomcat, coming and going as he pleased, without regard for anyone else.
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.
At first, the young man looked at Tom Brangwen while he spoke; then he glanced at his aunt for her approval, which he valued more than his uncle’s; and finally, he turned to Anna, because she provided him with what he wanted, something he couldn’t get from the older 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?
So, the two young people, always around the older one, started to drift apart and create their own little world. Sometimes, Tom Brangwen got annoyed. His nephew bothered him. The kid seemed too unique, too self-reliant. He had a fierce nature, but was too disconnected, like something separate, like a cat's nature. A cat could lie completely still on the rug while its owner suffered just a foot away. It didn’t get involved in other people's problems. What did the kid really care about, except for his own instinctive matters?
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.
Brangwen was annoyed. Still, he liked and respected his nephew. Mrs. Brangwen was frustrated with Anna, who had suddenly changed because of the young man. The mother liked the boy; he wasn't entirely an outsider. But she didn't like her daughter being so captivated by him.
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.
So gradually the two young people drifted apart, finding a way to escape the elders and create something on their own. He tended to the garden to win over his uncle. He talked about churches to please his aunt. He followed Anna like a shadow; a long, persistent, unwavering black shadow trailing after the girl. This annoyed Brangwen immensely. It frustrated him to the point of breaking, seeing the bright grin, the cat grin as he referred to 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.
And Anna had a new sense of self, a new independence. Suddenly, she started to make her own decisions, living life on her own terms. Her mother occasionally felt bursts 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.
But the dating continued. Anna would find reasons to go shopping in Ilkeston in the evening. She always came back with her cousin; he would walk with his head resting over her shoulder, slightly behind her, like the Devil looking over Lincoln, as Brangwen observed, both annoyed and satisfied.
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.
To his surprise, Will Brangwen found himself in a charged state of passion. To his surprise, he had stopped her at the gate as they came home from Ilkeston one night and kissed her, blocking her path while he felt as if he had been punched in the dark. And when they went inside, he was intensely irritated that her parents were watching him and her so closely. What right did they have to be there? Why should they look? They should just move away or look somewhere else.
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.
And the young man went home with the stars in the sky spinning wildly around the darkness in his mind, and his heart pounding strongly, but with a fierce urgency that felt like something was holding him back. He wanted to break 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.
A spell was cast over her. And how uneasy her parents were as she wandered around the house, not noticing them, moving like she was invisible to them. She was invisible to them. It made them angry. Yet they had to accept it. She moved around, absorbed and hidden 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.
Over him too, the darkness of obscurity fell. He seemed to be shrouded in a tense, electric darkness, where his soul and life were highly active, but without his involvement or awareness. His mind was clouded. He worked quickly and automatically, and he created 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.
His favorite hobby was wood carving. The first thing he made for her was a butter stamp. In it, he carved a mythical bird, a phoenix, similar to an eagle, rising on symmetrical wings from a circle of beautiful flickering flames that spiraled upward 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.
Anna didn’t think much of the gift when he gave it to her that evening. But in the morning, after the butter was made, she grabbed his seal instead of the old wooden stamper with oak leaves and acorns. She was excited to see how it would turn out. It was odd, the awkward bird shaped in the cup-like hollow, with thick, wavy lines running inward from a smooth edge. She pressed another mold. It was strange to lift the stamp and see that eagle-beaked bird raising its chest to her. She loved creating it over and over again. And each time she looked, it seemed like a new thing coming to life. Every piece of butter became this strange, lively emblem.
She showed it to her mother and father.
She showed it to her mom and dad.
“That is beautiful,” said her mother, a little light coming on to her face.
“That's beautiful,” her mother said, a little light coming on in her face.
“Beautiful!” exclaimed the father, puzzled, fretted. “Why, what sort of a bird does he call it?”
“Beautiful!” exclaimed the father, confused and anxious. “What kind of bird does he call it?”
And this was the question put by the customers during the next weeks.
And this was the question raised by the customers in the following weeks.
“What sort of a bird do you call that, as you’ve got on th’ butter?”
“What kind of bird do you call that, the one that's on the butter?”
When he came in the evening, she took him into the dairy to show him.
When he arrived in the evening, she brought him into the dairy to show him around.
“Do you like it?” he asked, in his loud, vibrating voice that always sounded strange, re-echoing in the dark places of her being.
“Do you like it?” he asked, in his loud, vibrating voice that always felt odd, echoing in the dark corners of her soul.
They very rarely touched each other. They liked to be alone together, near to each other, but there was still a distance between them.
They barely ever touched each other. They enjoyed being alone together, close to each other, but there was still a gap 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.
In the cool dairy, the candlelight reflected off the large, white surfaces of the cream pans. He turned his head sharply. It was so cool and distant in there, so distant. His mouth was open in a small, strained laugh. She stood with her head down, turned away. He wanted to get closer to her. He had kissed her once. Again, his gaze landed on the round blocks of butter, where the symbolic bird lifted its breast from the shadow of the candle flame. What was holding him back? Her body was close to him; his head lifted like an eagle's. She didn’t move. Suddenly, with a lightning-fast, gentle motion, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. It was quick and smooth, like a bird that swoops down and settles near, 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.
He was kissing her neck. She turned to face him. Her eyes were deep and burning with intensity. His eyes were sharp and shining with determination and joy, like a hawk's. She felt him diving into the dark depths of her flames, like a brand, like a brilliant 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 looked at each other, finding each other strange, yet close, very close, like a hawk diving, swooping, dropping into a flame of darkness. So she grabbed the candle and they headed 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.
They continued like this for a while, always coming together but rarely touching, and they seldom kissed. When they did, it was often just a brush of the lips, a signal. But her eyes started to light up with a steady intensity; she frequently paused in the middle of her movements, as if to remember something or to find something new.
And his face became sombre, intent, he did not really hear what was said to him.
And his face turned serious and focused; he wasn't really listening to what was being 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.
One evening in August, he arrived while it was raining. He walked in with his jacket collar turned up, his jacket buttoned tight, and his face wet. He looked so slim and defined emerging from the cold rain that she was suddenly overwhelmed with love for him. Yet he sat and chatted with her parents, seemingly without purpose, while her heart raced in torment. All she wanted was to touch him, just to be close to 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.
There was a strange, abstract expression on her shining silver face that drove her father crazy; her dark eyes were concealed. But she lifted them to the young man. They were dark with a intensity that made him hesitate for a moment.
She went into the second kitchen and took a lantern. Her father watched her as she returned.
She walked into the second kitchen and grabbed a lantern. Her dad watched her as she came back.
“Come with me, Will,” she said to her cousin. “I want to see if I put the brick over where that rat comes in.”
“Come with me, Will,” she said to her cousin. “I want to check 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.
“You don’t have to do that,” her father shot back. She ignored him. The young man was caught between the two of them. Anger flushed the father’s face as his blue eyes widened. The girl stood by the door, her head tilted slightly back, signaling that the young man needed to come with her. He got up, silently focused, and left with her. Blood surged 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.
It was raining. The lantern's light flickered on the cobbled path and the bottom of the wall. She came to a small ladder and climbed up. He handed her the lantern and followed. Up in the loft, the birds were huddled together on the perches, their red combs shining like fire. Bright, sharp eyes opened. One of the hens squawked in protest as it shifted. The rooster sat watching, his yellow neck feathers bright as glass. Anna walked across the dirty floor. Brangwen crouched in the loft, observing. The light was soft under the red, bare tiles. The girl crouched in a corner. There was another loud rustle as a hen jumped 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.
Anna came back, bending under the perches. He was waiting for her by the door. Suddenly, she had her arms around him, clinging tightly, pressing her body against his, and crying in a soft, whimpering sound.
“Will, I love you, I love you, Will, I love you.” It sounded as if it were tearing her.
“Will, I love you, I love you, Will, I love you.” It felt like it was ripping her apart.
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.
He wasn't really surprised. He held her in his arms, and he felt weak all over. He leaned back against the wall. The loft door was open. Outside, the rain fell in a fine, sharp rush, coming out of the deep darkness. He held her close, and together they seemed to be swaying in large, sweeping motions, both of them wrapped up in the darkness. Outside the open door of the loft where they stood, beyond and below them, was a thick darkness, with rain pouring down like a curtain.
“I love you, Will, I love you,” she moaned, “I love you, Will.”
“I love you, Will, I love you,” she moaned, “I love you, Will.”
He held her as though they were one, and was silent.
He held her as if they were one, and stayed quiet.
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.
In the house, Tom Brangwen waited for a moment. Then he got up and went outside. He walked down the yard. He noticed the strange, misty beam coming from the loft door. He barely recognized it as the light shining through the rain. He continued until the light fell dimly on him. Then, looking up through the blur, he saw the young man and the girl together, the young man leaning against the wall, his head bowed over the girl. The older man saw them, blurred by the rain but illuminated. They thought they were hidden in the night. He could even see the warm, dry light of the loft behind them, along with shadows and groups of roosting chickens, creating strange shapes cast by 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?
And a dark heaviness of anger mixed with a feeling of self-doubt battled in his heart. She didn’t realize what she was doing. She was betraying herself. She was just a child, a mere child. She didn’t understand how much of herself she was wasting. And he was deeply and furiously miserable. Was he really so old that he should be giving her away in marriage? Was he old? He wasn’t old. He was younger than that careless young guy she was with. Who knew her better—him or that clueless boy? To whom did she truly belong, if not to him?
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.
He thought again about the child he had carried out to the barn at night while his wife was in labor with their son, Tom. He remembered the soft, warm weight of the little girl in his arms, around his neck. Now she would say he was done. She was leaving him, denying him, creating an unbearable emptiness inside him, a void he couldn’t stand. He almost hated her. How could she say he was old? He walked on in the rain, sweating from pain, from the dread of getting old, from the agony of having to give up what meant 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.
Will Brangwen went home without seeing his uncle. He pressed his hot face into the rain and walked on in a daze. “I love you, Will, I love you.” The words echoed endlessly in his mind. The veils had torn away, leaving him exposed in the vastness, and he shuddered. The walls had pushed him out, giving him a huge space to roam. Where, in this darkness of infinite space, was he wandering blindly? Where, at the end of all this darkness, was God the Almighty still shadowy, pushing him forward? “I love you, Will, I love you.” He trembled with fear as the words thudded in his heart once more. And he couldn’t dare to think of her face, of her shining eyes, and her strange, transformed features. The hand of the Hidden Almighty, burning bright, had reached out from the darkness and gripped him. He continued on, overwhelmed and afraid, his heart clutching and burning from the contact.
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.
The days passed quietly, like shadows moving on soft feet. He went to see Anna, but once again there was a distance between them. Tom Brangwen was downcast, his blue eyes heavy with sadness. Anna seemed distant and resigned. Her face, with its delicate coloring, was speechless, carrying a deep and painful expression. The mother lowered her head and drifted in her own dark world, filled once more with a sense of impending fulfillment.
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.
Will Brangwen was focused on his wood carving. It was his passion, and he loved having the chisel in his hand. Truly, his heartfelt passion enhanced the sharpness of the steel. He was carving something he had always wanted to create, the Creation of Eve. It was a low-relief panel for a church. Adam lay asleep, appearing almost in pain, while God, a large, shadowy figure, bent over him, reaching forward with His bare hand; and Eve, a small, vibrant, naked figure, was emerging like a flame from Adam's wounded side, stretching toward God's hand.
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.
Now, Will Brangwen was working on the Eve. She was thin, a lively, unripe thing. With trembling passion, delicate as a breath of air, he ran the chisel over her belly, her hard, unripe, small belly. She was a stiff little figure, with sharp lines, caught in the pain and ecstasy of her creation. But he trembled as he touched her. He hadn’t finished any of his figures. There was a bird on a branch above, lifting its wings to fly, and a serpent winding up to it. It wasn’t done yet. He trembled with passion, finally 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.
At the sides, at the far ends, were two Angels hiding their faces with their wings. They resembled trees. As he headed to the Marsh at twilight, he sensed that the Angels, with their faces covered, were stepping back as he passed by. The darkness was from their shadows and their covered faces. When he crossed the Canal bridge, the evening shimmered in its last deep colors; the sky was dark blue, and the stars sparkled from a distance, very far away and approaching above the darkening cluster of the farm, above the crystal paths 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.
She waited for him like a soft light, as if his face were hidden. And he didn’t dare lift his gaze 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.
Corn harvest had begun. One evening, they walked out through the farm buildings at dusk. A large golden moon hung heavily over the grey horizon, and tall trees loomed in the fading light, standing back and waiting. Anna and the young man moved silently by the hedge, along the dark ruts in the grass made by the farm carts. They came through a gate into a wide open field where a lot of light seemed to wash over their faces. In the shadows, the sheaves lay on the ground where the reapers had left them, many sheaves like bodies sprawled out in dark bulk; others were hazily stacked in shocks, like ships drifting in the moonlight and dusk, further away.
They did not want to turn back, yet whither were they to go, towards the moon? For they were separate, single.
They didn’t want to go back, but where were they supposed to go, toward the moon? Because they were alone, individual.
“We will put up some sheaves,” said Anna. So they could remain there in the broad, open place.
“We will set up some sheaves,” said Anna. So they could stay there in the wide, open space.
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.
They walked across the stubble to where the long rows of upright shocks ended. That part of the field looked surprisingly busy, with the shocks standing tall; the rest was open and flat.
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.
The air was all frosty silver. She looked around her. Trees stood hazily in the distance, as if waiting like messengers for the signal to come closer. In this space of vague clarity, her heart felt like a bell ringing. She was afraid the sound might 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 nearby. 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.
“You take this row,” she said to the young man, and moving on, she bent down in the next row of lying sheaves, grabbing her hands in the strands of oats, lifting the heavy stalks in each hand, carrying them as they pressed heavily against her, to the cleared area, where she set the two sheaves down with a sharp, quiet clash. Her two bundles leaned against each other. He was coming, moving silently with the fading dusk, carrying his two sheaves. She waited close by. He placed his sheaves next to hers with a soft, sharp clash. They teetered unsteadily. He got the strands of corn tangled. 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.
Then she turned away towards the moon, which seemed to brightly reveal her chest every time she looked at it. He made his way to the vague emptiness of the field across from her, 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.
They bent down, grabbed the wet, soft ears of corn, lifted the heavy bundles, and came back. She was always the first. She placed her sheaves down, creating a shelter with the others. He was coming through the stubble, carrying his bundles in a vague silhouette. She turned away, only hearing the sharp hiss of his corn mixing with hers. 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.
She picked up her two new bundles and walked toward him as he stood up from bending over the ground. He was coming from nearby. She put down her bundles to make a new stack. They both felt uncertain. Her hands trembled. Still, she broke free and turned to the moon, which illuminated her chest, making her feel like her heart was racing with the moonlight. He had to pick up her two bundles that had fallen over. He worked quietly. The steady motion of the work swept him away again as she approached.
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.
They worked together, coming and going in a rhythm that synced their movements. She bent down to pick up the bundles, then turned her face towards the dimness where he was and moved forward with her load over the stubble. She paused, put down her bundles, and could hear the rustling and hissing of the mingling oats as he approached, so she had to turn back. And there was the bright moon shining down, revealing her form again, making her move 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.
He worked steadily, completely focused, moving back and forth like a shuttle across the area of cleared stubble, creating the long line of riding shocks, closer and closer to the shadowy trees, interweaving 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 always, she left before he arrived. As he got closer, she moved away; as he pulled back, she came closer. Would they ever meet? Gradually, a strong, deep desire in him resonated with her, attempting to connect them, trying to draw her gradually toward him, so they could be together, so they could meet like the sheaves that brushed against each other.
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.
And the work continued. The moon shone brighter and clearer, the corn sparkled. He leaned over the fallen bundles; there was a hiss as the sheaves lifted from the ground, a weight of heavy bodies brushing against him, a flash of moonlight in his eyes. Then he was arranging the corn into stooks. And she was getting closer.
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.
He waited for her, awkwardly handling the stook. She arrived, but stayed back until he stepped aside. He saw her in the shadows, a dark figure, and spoke to her, and she replied. She noticed the moonlight reflecting curiosity on his face. But there was a distance between them, and he walked away, the work guiding them, in a steady rhythm.
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.
Why was there always a distance between them, why were they separated? Why, as she emerged from the moonlight, would she stop and keep her distance from him? Why was he kept away from her? His will beat consistently, darkly; it overwhelmed 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.
Into the rhythm of his work, a pulse and a steady purpose emerged. He bent down, lifted the weight, and tossed it toward her, placing it in her space beneath the moonlight. Then he went back for more. With increasing closeness, he lifted the bundles and strode to the center with them, always driving her closer to the meeting, consistently doing his part, and moving toward her, catching up to her. There was just the back and forth in the moonlight, absorbed in the task, swinging in the silence, marked only by the splash of the bundles, and silence, and a splash of the bundles. And ever the splash of his bundles quickened, racing to hers, while her splash remained dull and unchanged, and always the splash of his bundles drew 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.
Till finally, they met at the shock, facing each other, their sheaves in hand. He was glowing with moonlight, his face shadowy and illuminated in a way that scared her. She waited for him.
“Put yours down,” she said.
“Put yours down,” she said.
“No, it’s your turn.” His voice was twanging and insistent.
“No, it’s your turn.” His voice was sharp and demanding.
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.
She leaned her bundles against the shock. He noticed her hands shining among the grains. He dropped his bundles and felt a tremor as he wrapped his arms around her. He had caught up with her, and it was his moment to kiss her. She was sweet and fresh from the night air, and fragrant with the scent of grain. The rhythm of his heartbeat flowed into his kisses, and he kept pursuing her with them, yet she still wasn’t completely won over. He marveled at the moonlight on her nose! All the moonlight shining on her, all the darkness within her! All the night in his arms, both dark and bright, he held it all! All the night was his now, to explore, to delve into, all the mystery to be unraveled, all the discoveries to be found.
Trembling with keen triumph, his heart was white as a star as he drove his kisses nearer.
Trembling with pure joy, his heart was as bright as a star as he moved in closer for kisses.
“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!” she called softly from a distance. The quiet sound seemed to reach out to him from far away, beneath the moon, to someone who didn’t notice. He stopped, shivered, and listened.
“My love,” came again the low, plaintive call, like a bird unseen in the night.
“My love,” came the soft, sorrowful call again, like a bird hidden in the night.
He was afraid. His heart quivered and broke. He was stopped.
He was scared. His heart raced and shattered. He was frozen.
“Anna,” he said, as if he answered her from a distance, unsure.
“Anna,” he said, as if he were answering her from far away, uncertain.
“My love.”
“My love.”
And he drew near, and she drew near.
And he stepped closer, and she stepped closer.
“Anna,” he said, in wonder and the birthpain of love.
“Anna,” he said, in awe and the pain of newfound 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.
“My love,” she said, her voice full of excitement. And they kissed on the lips, in a mix of joy and surprise, long, genuine kisses. The kiss continued, there in the moonlight. He kissed her again, and she kissed him back. And once more they were kissing together. Until something changed in him; it felt different. He wanted her. He wanted her so much. She was something new. They stood there intertwined, suspended in the night. His whole being tingled with surprise, like a shock. He wanted her, and he wanted to tell her that. But the intensity was too overwhelming for him. He had never realized this before. He shook with confusion and unfamiliarity, unsure of what to do. He held her more gently, softly, much more softly. The conflict was gone. And he felt happy, breathless, and almost on the verge of tears. But he knew he wanted her. Something shifted in him forever. He was hers. And he felt both joyful and scared. He didn’t know what to do as they stood there in the open, moonlit field. He looked through her hair at the moon, which seemed to glow like liquid light.
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.
She sighed, seemed to come to, and then kissed him again. After that, she pulled away from him and took his hand. It hurt when she moved away from his chest. It stung with disappointment. Why did she pull away? But she held his hand.
“I want to go home,” she said, looking at him in a way he could not understand.
“I want to go home,” she said, looking at him in a way he couldn't 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 held her hand tightly. He was confused and couldn't move; he didn't know how to. She pulled 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:
He walked alongside her, holding her hand, feeling helpless. She walked with her head down. Suddenly, he spoke up as the simple solution came to him:
“We’ll get married, Anna.”
“Let’s get married, Anna.”
She was silent.
She didn't say anything.
“We’ll get married, Anna, shall we?”
“Let’s get married, Anna, okay?”
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.
She paused in the field again and kissed him, holding onto him passionately in a way he couldn't grasp. He just couldn't understand. But he focused on marriage now. That was the answer, set before him. He wanted her, he wanted to marry her, he wanted to have her completely, as his own forever. And he waited, focused, for it to happen. But there was always a slight feeling of irritation.
He spoke to his uncle and aunt that night.
He talked to his uncle and aunt that night.
“Uncle,” he said, “Anna and me think of getting married.”
“Uncle,” he said, “Anna and I are thinking about getting married.”
“Oh ay!” said Brangwen.
“Oh yeah!” said Brangwen.
“But how, you have no money?” said the mother.
“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.
The young man went pale. He despised these words. But he was like a shining, bright stone, something radiant and unchangeable. He didn't think. He sat there in his hard brightness and stayed silent.
“Have you mentioned it to your own mother?” asked Brangwen.
“Have you told your mom about it?” Brangwen asked.
“No—I’ll tell her on Saturday.”
"No—I’ll tell her Saturday."
“You’ll go and see her?”
"You're going to see her?"
“Yes.”
“Yeah.”
There was a long pause.
There was a long silence.
“And what are you going to marry on—your pound a week?”
“And what are you going to get married on—your pound a week?”
Again the youth went pale, as if the spirit were being injured in him.
Again, the young man went pale, as if a part of his spirit was being hurt.
“I don’t know,” he said, looking at his uncle with his bright inhuman eyes, like a hawk’s.
“I don’t know,” he said, looking at his uncle with his bright, unnatural eyes, like a hawk’s.
Brangwen stirred in hatred.
Brangwen stirred with anger.
“It needs knowing,” he said.
“It needs to be known,” he said.
“I shall have the money later on,” said the nephew. “I will raise some now, and pay it back then.”
“I'll have the money later,” said the nephew. “I'll get 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.”
“Oh come on! And why this crazy rush? She’s just eighteen, and you’re a twenty-year-old guy. Neither of you is old enough to do whatever you want yet.”
Will Brangwen ducked his head and looked at his uncle with swift, mistrustful eyes, like a caged hawk.
Will Brangwen ducked his head and glanced at his uncle with quick, suspicious eyes, like a trapped 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?”
“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.”
"Let's hope for a big difference."
“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.
“But you have no experience—you have no experience and no money. Why do you want to get married without experience or money?” the aunt asked.
“What experience do I want, Aunt?” asked the boy.
“What kind of 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.
And if Brangwen’s heart hadn’t been tough and unyielding with anger, like a precious gem, 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.
Will Brangwen went home feeling odd and unchanged. He knew he couldn't shift from what he was focused on; his mind was made up. To change it, he would have to be destroyed. And he refused to be destroyed. He had no money, but he would find some, it didn’t matter how. He lay awake for many hours, tense and clear-headed, his resolve becoming even more unshakeable. Then he fell 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.
It felt like his soul had become a solid crystal. He could shake and shiver and be in pain, but it didn’t change.
The next morning Tom Brangwen, inhuman with anger spoke to Anna.
The next morning, Tom Brangwen, filled with rage, spoke to Anna.
“What’s this about wanting to get married?” he said.
“What’s this about wanting to get married?” he asked.
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.
She stood there, turning a bit pale, her dark eyes showing the hostile, surprised look of a wild creature ready to defend itself, yet trembling with sensitivity.
“I do,” she said, out of her unconsciousness.
“I do,” she said, coming out of her daze.
His anger rose, and he would have liked to break her.
His anger flared, and he wanted nothing more than to hurt 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.
“You do—you do—and what for?” he mocked with disdain. The familiar old pain, the inability to see anyone clearly, the intense conflict like that of a vulnerable, defenseless creature returned to 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.”
“I do because I do,” she cried, in the high-pitched, frantic 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.
She was still a stranger. She didn't recognize him. The cold blade sliced down, deep into Brangwen’s soul. It separated him from her.
“And what if I’m not?” he said.
“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.”
But he couldn’t handle it. It had meant so much 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.
He walked around for a few days like he was in a daze. His wife was confused. She didn’t get it. She just believed their marriage was held back because they lacked money and status.
There was a horrible silence in the house. Anna kept out of sight as much as possible. She could be for hours alone.
There was a terrible silence in the house. Anna stayed out of sight as much as she could. She could be alone for hours.
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.
Will Brangwen came back after some embarrassing scenes in Nottingham. He looked pale and expressionless, but stayed the same. His uncle couldn’t stand him. He despised this young man, who seemed so unfeeling and stubborn. Still, it was to Will Brangwen that his uncle, one evening, handed over the shares he had transferred to Anna Lensky. They were worth two thousand five hundred pounds. Will Brangwen looked at his uncle. This was a significant portion of the Marsh capital being given away. However, the young man became even more distant and resolute. He was completely focused, just a determined 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.
After that, she cried for a whole day, sobbing her eyes out. At night, when she heard her mother go to bed, she slipped down and hung in the doorway. Her father sat in his heavy silence, like a statue. 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.”
“Dad,” she cried from the doorway, and she ran to him sobbing as if her heart would shatter. “Dad—dad—dad.”
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.
She knelt on the rug by the fire, her arms wrapped around him and her face pressed against him. His body felt large and comforting, but something was causing a sharp pain in her head. She sobbed nearly 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.
He was quiet, with his hand on her shoulder. His heart felt empty. He wasn’t her father. That cherished image had been shattered. So who was he? A man set apart, like those whose lives have stopped progressing. He felt distant from her. There was a generation between them; he was older, dulled by life’s intensity. His fire had a lot of ash, cold ash. He sensed the inevitable chill and bitterly forgot the warmth. He sat in the cold grip of age and isolation. He had his own wife. And he blamed himself, he mocked himself, for this attachment to the young, for wanting the young to be his.
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.
The child who held on to him wanted her child-husband. That was only natural. And from him, Brangwen, she wanted support so that her life could be arranged properly. But she didn’t want love. Why should there be love between them, between the stout, middle-aged man and this child? How could there be anything between them except a simple human willingness to help one another? He was her guardian, nothing more. His heart was like ice, his face cold and expressionless. She couldn’t reach 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.
She quietly got into bed and cried. But she was going to marry Will Brangwen, so she wouldn’t have to worry anymore. Brangwen went to bed feeling cold and hard-hearted, cursing himself. He looked at his wife. She was still his wife. Her dark hair was mixed with gray, and her face was beautiful as it aged gracefully. She was just fifty. He saw her so clearly! And he wanted to rip out some of his own heart, which was restless and still craved the fast-paced life of youth. He hated himself.
His wife was so poignant and timely. She was still young and naïve, 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.
His wife was so touching and present. She was still young and innocent, with a certain girl’s freshness. But she no longer wanted the struggle, the confrontation, the control, which he, in his restlessness, still craved. She was so genuine, and he seemed ugly, unnatural, in his inability to let go. How awful, this greedy middle age, which obstructs life, like a huge 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.
What was missing in his life that left his restless soul unsatisfied? He had that friend from school, his mother, his wife, and Anna. What had he done? He had let down his friend and been a bad son; but he had found some satisfaction with his wife—wasn’t that enough? He hated himself for how he felt about Anna. Still, he wasn't satisfied. It was torture to realize 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.
Was his life worth nothing? Did he have nothing to show for it, no accomplishments? He didn't consider his work valuable; anyone could have done it. What did he really know, except for the long, loving embrace with his wife? It's strange that this is what his life added up to! Still, it was something, it was everlasting. He would tell anyone and take pride in it. He lay with his wife in his arms, and she was still his fulfillment, just like always. And that was everything that mattered. 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.
But beneath it all, there was still an unsatisfied Tom Brangwen, who felt pain because a girl didn’t care for him. He loved his sons—he had them too. But he also wanted the deeper, creative life with the girl. Oh, and he felt ashamed. He suppressed himself to erase his own identity.
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.
What exhaustion! There was no peace, no matter how old one got! One was never right, never proper, never in control of oneself. It felt like 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.
Anna quickly fell back into her love for the young man. Will Brangwen had arranged his wedding for the Saturday before Christmas. He waited for her, in his bright, trusting way, until then. He wanted her; she was his, and he held off his life until that day arrived. The wedding day, December twenty-third, had become a definite reality for him. He lived in that moment.
He did not count the days. But like a man who journeys in a ship, he was suspended till the coming to port.
He didn't keep track of the days. But like a man traveling on a ship, he was in limbo until reaching the destination.
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.
He worked on his carving, he worked in his office, he came to see her; everything was just a way of waiting, without thinking or questioning.
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.
She felt so much more alive. She wanted to enjoy dating. He seemed to appear and disappear like the wind, without asking why or where. But she wanted to savor his presence. To her, he was the core of life; just touching him was pure joy. For him, she was the very essence of existence. She was just as real to him when he was busy carving in his place in Ilkeston as when she was sitting there watching him in the Marsh kitchen. Inside, he understood her completely. But his outward senses seemed to be on hold. He didn't see her with his eyes or hear her with his ears.
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.
And yet he shivered, sometimes almost fainting, holding her in his arms. They would occasionally stand together in the barn, in silence. Then, as she felt his young, tense body with her hands, the happiness was overwhelming, unbearable the feeling that she owned him. His body was so intense and amazing, it was the only real thing in her life. In her world, there was this one tense, vibrant man, and then many other vague men, all unreal. In him, she touched the core of reality. And they were together, he and she, at the center of the secret. How she held him close, his body the essence of all existence. From the strength of his form, the very source 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.
But to him, she was a fire that consumed him. The fire spread up his limbs, flowed through him, until he was completely consumed, until he existed only as an unconscious, dark passage of flame, coming 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, in the dark, a cow coughed. There was, in the dark, a slow sound of chewing cud. And it all felt like it was surrounding them and enveloping them, just like warm blood flows through the womb, nourishing the unborn.
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.
Sometimes, when it was cold, they stood to be lovers in the stables, where the air was warm and sharp with ammonia. During these quiet moments, he got to know her, her body pressed against his, and they moved closer and closer together, their kisses becoming more intimate and fitting. So when, in the thick darkness, a horse suddenly scrambled to its feet with a dull, thunderous noise, they listened as if they were one person, aware of the horse as one.
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.
Tom Brangwen had rented a cottage in Cossethay, with a lease lasting twenty-one years. Will Brangwen’s eyes lit up when he saw it. It was the cottage next to the church, surrounded by dark yew trees, very old and black, along the side of the house and the grassy front garden; a red, square cottage with a low slate roof and low windows. It had a long dairy-scullery, a spacious flagged kitchen, and a cozy parlor that was just one step up from the kitchen. The ceilings had whitewashed beams, and there were quirky corners with cupboards. Looking out the windows, you could see the grassy garden, the line of black yew trees on one side, and on the other sides, a red wall covered in ivy that separated the place from the main road and the churchyard. The little old church, with its small spire on a square tower, seemed to be peering 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.
“There’s no need for a clock,” said Will Brangwen, glancing at the white clock face on the tower, his neighbor.
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.
At the back of the house was a garden next to the paddock, a cowshed with space for two cows, pig pens, and chicken coops. Will Brangwen was really happy. Anna felt good about the idea of being in charge 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 was now the fairy godfather. He was never happy unless he was buying something. Will Brangwen, who was interested in all things wood, was getting the furniture. He was in charge of buying tables, rounded chairs, and dressers—pretty standard items—but they were the kind that matched his cottage perfectly.
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.
Tom Brangwen, thinking carefully, searched for what he called useful little things for her. He showed up with a set of modern cookware, a unique hanging lamp, even though the rooms had low ceilings, and clever little gadgets for grinding meat, 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.
Anna was really interested in what he bought, even though she didn't always like it. Some of the little gadgets he found clever made her skeptical. Still, she always felt a rush of excitement; on market days, there was always a long build-up of anticipation. He would show up with the first hint of darkness, the copper lamps on his cart glowing. She would run to the gate as he, a big, dark figure in the cart, leaned over his packages.
“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.
“It’s selfish love that makes you come out so quickly,” he said, his voice echoing in the cold darkness. Still, he felt a thrill. And she, grabbing one of the cart lamps, poked and looked through the mess of things he had brought, pushing aside the oil and tools he had gotten 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.
She pulled out a pair of small, sturdy bellows, noted them mentally, and then hesitated as she grabbed something else. It had a long handle, with a piece of brown paper wrapped around the middle, like a waistcoat.
“What’s this?” she said, poking.
“What’s this?” she asked, 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.
He paused to look at her. She walked over to the lamp light by the horse and stood there, leaning over the new item, her hair shining like bronze and her apron bright and cheerful. Her fingers busily picked at the paper. She pulled out a small wringer with clean rubber rollers. She examined it closely, unsure of how it operated.
She looked up at him. He stood a shadowy presence beyond the light.
She looked up at him. He was a dark figure standing in the shadows beyond the light.
“How does it go?” she asked.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Why, it’s for pulpin’ turnips,” he replied.
“Why, it’s for making turnip pulp,” he replied.
She looked at him. His voice disturbed her.
She looked at him. His voice unsettled her.
“Don’t be silly. It’s a little mangle,” she said. “How do you stand it, though?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a small mess,” she said. “How do you deal with it, though?”
“You screw it on th’ side o’ your wash-tub.” He came and held it out to her.
“You screw it on the side of your wash tub.” He came over and handed it to her.
“Oh, yes!” she cried, with one of her little skipping movements, which still came when she was suddenly glad.
“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, doing one of her little skipping moves that still came out whenever she felt suddenly happy.
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:
And without another thought, she dashed into the house, leaving him to deal with the horse. When he entered the scullery, he found her there, happily turning the handle of the little wringer attached to the dolly-tub, with 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.”
“My goodness, that’s a stylish little thing! That’ll save you from carrying your stuff around everywhere. That’s the latest gadget, for sure.”
And Anna turned away at the handle, with great gusto of possession. Then she let Tilly have a turn.
And Anna turned the handle with a lot of excitement like it was hers. 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.”
“It pretty much runs on its own,” said Tilly, spinning around. “Your clothes are going to poke out onto the 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.
It was a beautiful sunny day for the wedding, muddy ground but a clear sky. They had three cabs and two large vehicles. Everyone gathered in the living room, buzzing with excitement. Anna was still upstairs. Her father kept taking sips of brandy. He looked handsome in his black coat and gray pants. His voice was warm but troubled. His wife came down in dark gray silk with lace, accented with a hint of peacock blue in her hat. Her small figure was very confident and assertive. Brangwen was grateful she was there to support 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!
The carriages! The Nottingham Mrs. Brangwen, in silk brocade, stands in the doorway deciding who goes with whom. There's a lot of commotion. The front door swings open, and the wedding guests are making their way down the garden path, while those still waiting peek through the window, and the small crowd at the gate jostles and stretches. It's amusing how ridiculous all these 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.
They’re gone—another group! There’s starting to be more space. Anna comes down, blushing and really shy, to be seen in her white silk dress and veil. Her mother-in-law looks at her critically, tugs at the white train, adjusts the folds of the veil, and takes charge.
Loud exclamations from the window that the bridegroom’s carriage has just passed.
Loud shouts from the window that the groom’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:
“Where’s your hat, Dad, and your gloves?” the bride shouts, stamping her white slipper, her eyes sparkling behind her veil. He searches around—his hair is all messy. Everyone has left except for the bride and her father. He’s all set—his face flushed and nervous. Tilly fidgets in the small porch, ready to open the door. A woman waiting nearby circles around Anna, who asks:
“Am I all right?”
"Am I okay?"
She is ready. She bridles herself and looks queenly. She waves her hand sharply to her father:
She is ready. She composes herself and looks regal. She gestures sharply to her father:
“Come here!”
“Come over 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.
He walks away. She lightly places her hand on his arm, holding her bouquet like a shower. As she steps gracefully, she shows a hint of impatience with her father for being so red-faced. She glides slowly past the fluttering Tilly and down the path. There are loud shouts at the gate, and all her flowing whiteness gradually slips 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 notices her slim ankle and foot as she steps up: a child’s foot. His heart feels tightly wrapped in tenderness. But she is all about the joy of how beautiful she looks. All the way, she sits dramatically happy because everything is so lovely. She gazes down attentively at her bouquet: white roses, lilies of the valley, tuberoses, and maidenhair fern—so lush and cascading.
Her father sat bewildered with all this strangeness, his heart was so full it felt hard, and he couldn’t think of anything.
Her father sat confused by all this weirdness, his heart was so full it felt heavy, 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.
The church was decorated for Christmas, dark with evergreens, cold and snowy with white flowers. He wandered vaguely down to the altar. How long had it been since he had gotten married himself? He wasn't sure if he was getting married now, or what he had come for. He had a nagging feeling that he needed to do something. 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.
They stood in front of the altar. He was looking up at the east window, which glowed brightly in a sort of blue-purple: it was a deep blue shining with some crimson, and little yellow flowers nestled in shadowy veins, caught in a thick web of darkness. It burned with life in its radiance amidst the 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.
“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” He felt someone touch him. He jumped. The words were still echoing in his memory, but were fading away.
“Me,” he said hastily.
"Me," he said quickly.
Anna bent her head and smiled in her veil. How absurd he was.
Anna lowered her head and smiled behind her veil. He was so ridiculous.
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!
Brangwen was staring at the glowing blue window behind the altar, wondering with a sense of pain if he would ever grow old, if he would ever feel settled and secure. He was at Anna's wedding. What right did he have to feel responsible, almost like a father? He still felt just as uncertain and unstable as he did when he first got married. His wife and he! With a sharp ache, he realized how uncertain they both were. He was a man of forty-five years. Forty-five! In just five more years, he'd be fifty. Then sixty—then seventy—then it would be all over. My God—and he still felt so unsettled!
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.
How does one grow old—how can one become confident? He wished he felt older. What difference was there, regarding his sense of maturity or completeness, between him now and him on his wedding day? It felt like he was getting married all over again—he and his wife. He saw himself as a small, upright figure on a plain surrounded by the vast, roaring sky: he and his wife, two little, upright figures walking across this plain while the heavens shimmered and roared around them. When does one reach an end? In which direction does it stop? There was no end, no finish, just this roaring expanse. Does one never get old, never die? That was the key. He felt a strange mix of joy and pain. He would continue with his wife, like two children camping in this open space. What was certain but the endless sky? But that was so certain, so limitless.
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!
Still, the royal blue color burned and blazed and showed off in the web of darkness before him, endlessly rich and beautiful. How rich and beautiful his own life was, red and burning and blazing and showing off in the dark networks of his body: and his wife, how she glowed and burned dark within her networks! It was always 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:
There was a loud sound from the organ. Everyone was heading to the vestry. There was a messy, scrawled book—and that young woman pulling back her veil in her vanity, placing her hand with the wedding ring clearly visible, and signing her name proudly because of the show she was putting on:
“Anna Theresa Lensky.”
“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:
“Anna Theresa Lensky”—what a vain, independent little flirt she was! The groom, slim in his black tailcoat and gray trousers, looked serious like a young, serious cat as he wrote intently:
“William Brangwen.”
“William Brangwen.”
That looked more like it.
That looks more like it.
“Come and sign, father,” cried the imperious young hussy.
“Come and sign, Dad,” cried the demanding young flirt.
“Thomas Brangwen—clumsy-fist,” he said to himself as he signed.
“Thomas Brangwen—clumsy-fist,” he said to himself as he signed.
Then his brother, a big, sallow fellow with black side-whiskers wrote:
Then his brother, a big, pale guy with black sideburns wrote:
“Alfred Brangwen.”
“Alfred Brangwen.”
“How many more Brangwens?” said Tom Brangwen, ashamed of the too-frequent recurrence of his family name.
“How many more Brangwens?” Tom Brangwen asked, feeling embarrassed by how often his family name came up.
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.
When they stepped back out into the sunshine, and he noticed the frost glistening blue among the long grass under the gravestones, the holly berries above sparkling in bright red as the bells rang, and the yew trees with their dark, still, jagged branches, everything felt like a dream.
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.
The wedding party crossed the graveyard to the wall, climbed up the little steps, and came down. Oh, a vain white peacock of a bride sitting on top of the wall and reaching out her hand to the groom on the other side to be helped down! The arrogance of her white, slim, dainty feet, and her elegantly arched neck. And the bold confidence with which she seemed to brush everyone else aside—her parents and the wedding guests—as she walked off 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.
In the cottage, big fires were roaring, there were dozens of glasses on the table, and holly and mistletoe were hanging up. The wedding party packed in, and Tom Brangwen, getting rowdy, poured out drinks. Everyone had to drink. The bells were ringing 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.”
“Raise your glasses,” shouted Tom Brangwen from the living room, “raise your glasses and toast to the hearth and home—hearth and home, and may they enjoy it.”
“Night an’ day, an’ may they enjoy it,” shouted Frank Brangwen, in addition.
“Night and day, and may they enjoy it,” shouted Frank Brangwen, additionally.
“Hammer an’ tongs, and may they enjoy it,” shouted Alfred Brangwen, the saturnine.
“Hammer and tongs, and may they enjoy it,” shouted Alfred Brangwen, the gloomy one.
“Fill your glasses up, an’ let’s have it all over again,” shouted Tom Brangwen.
“Fill your glasses up, and let’s do it all over again,” shouted Tom Brangwen.
“Hearth an’ home, an’ may ye enjoy it.”
“Hearth and home, and may you enjoy it.”
There was a ragged shout of the company in response.
There was a rough shout from the group in response.
“Bed an’ blessin’, an’ may ye enjoy it,” shouted Frank Brangwen.
“Bed and blessing, and may you enjoy it,” shouted Frank Brangwen.
There was a swelling chorus in answer.
There was a rising chorus in response.
“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!”
“Coming and going, and may you enjoy it,” shouted the serious Alfred Brangwen, and the men roared loudly now, while the women said, “Just listen now!”
There was a touch of scandal in the air.
There was an air of scandal.
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.
Then the group sped off in the carriages, full throttle back to the Marsh, for a big tea-time meal that lasted an hour and a half. The bride and groom sat at the head of the table, both looking very proper and polished, silent, while the guests chatted animatedly 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.
The Brangwen men were adding brandy to their tea and were getting out of control. The brooding Alfred had bright, unseeing eyes and a strange, fierce laugh that revealed his teeth. His wife glared at him and jerked her head like a snake. He didn’t notice. Frank Brangwen, the butcher, looked flushed, healthy, and handsome, laughing loudly with his two brothers. Tom Brangwen, in his usual sturdy way, was finally letting loose.
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.
These three brothers controlled the entire company. Tom Brangwen wanted to give a speech. For the first time in his life, he needed to express himself in words.
“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——”
“Marriage,” he began, his eyes sparkling yet quite serious, for he was both deeply thoughtful and greatly amused at the same time, “Marriage,” he said, speaking in the slow, deliberate manner of the Brangwens, “is what we’re meant for——”
“Let him talk,” said Alfred Brangwen, slowly and inscrutably, “let him talk.” Mrs. Alfred darted indignant eyes at her husband.
“Let him talk,” said Alfred Brangwen, slowly and with a mysterious expression, “let him talk.” Mrs. Alfred shot an angry glance 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?”
“A man,” continued Tom Brangwen, “takes pleasure in being a man: why else was he made a man, if not to enjoy it?”
“That a true word,” said Frank, floridly.
"That's a true statement," said Frank, enthusiastically.
“And likewise,” continued Tom Brangwen, “a woman enjoys being a woman: at least we surmise she does——”
“And likewise,” continued Tom Brangwen, “a woman enjoys being a woman: at least we think she does——”
“Oh, don’t you bother——” called a farmer’s wife.
“Oh, don’t you worry——” called a farmer’s wife.
“You may back your life they’d be summisin’.” said Frank’s wife.
“You can bet your life they’d be doing something,” said Frank’s wife.
“Now,” continued Tom Brangwen, “for a man to be a man, it takes a woman——”
“Now,” continued Tom Brangwen, “for a man to be a man, he needs a woman——”
“It does that,” said a woman grimly.
“It does that,” a woman said with a serious expression.
“And for a woman to be a woman, it takes a man——” continued Tom Brangwen.
“And for a woman to be a woman, it takes a man——” continued Tom Brangwen.
“All speak up, men,” chimed in a feminine voice.
"Everyone, speak up, guys," chimed in a woman's voice.
“Therefore we have marriage,” continued Tom Brangwen.
“That's why we have marriage,” continued Tom Brangwen.
“Hold, hold,” said Alfred Brangwen. “Don’t run us off our legs.”
“Wait, wait,” said Alfred Brangwen. “Don’t wear us out.”
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.
And in complete silence, the glasses were filled. The bride and groom, two young kids, sat with focused, glowing faces at the head of the table, lost in thought.
“There’s no marriage in heaven,” went on Tom Brangwen; “but on earth there is marriage.”
“There’s no marriage in heaven,” Tom Brangwen continued; “but on earth, there is marriage.”
“That’s the difference between ’em,” said Alfred Brangwen, mocking.
"That’s the difference between them," 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.”
“Alfred,” Tom Brangwen said, “hold your comments until later, and then we’ll appreciate them.—There’s really very little in life besides marriage. You can discuss making money or saving souls. You could save your own soul a hundred times and have a fortune, but your soul keeps gnawing, gnawing, gnawing, insisting there's something it needs. In heaven, there's no marriage. But on earth, there is marriage; without it, heaven loses its meaning, and there’s no foundation to it.”
“Just hark you now,” said Frank’s wife.
“Just listen to me now,” said Frank’s wife.
“Go on, Thomas,” said Alfred sardonically.
“Go ahead, Thomas,” Alfred said sarcastically.
“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.”
If we have to be Angels,” continued Tom Brangwen, addressing everyone in the room, “and if there’s no such thing as a man or a woman among them, then it seems to me that a married couple counts as one Angel.”
“It’s the brandy,” said Alfred Brangwen wearily.
"It's the brandy," Alfred Brangwen said tiredly.
“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.”
“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 were just the soul of a man without the man, then it would be less than a human being.”
“Decidedly,” said Alfred.
“Definitely,” said Alfred.
And a laugh went round the table. But Tom Brangwen was inspired.
And everyone at the table laughed. But Tom Brangwen felt 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——”
“An Angel has to be more than just a human,” he continued. “So I say, an Angel is the soul of both man and woman combined: they rise together at Judgment Day, as one Angel——”
“Praising the Lord,” said Frank.
“Praising the Lord,” Frank said.
“Praising the Lord,” repeated Tom.
“Praising the Lord,” Tom repeated.
“And what about the women left over?” asked Alfred, jeering. The company was getting uneasy.
“And what about the leftover women?” Alfred asked, mocking. The group was growing uncomfortable.
“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——”
“That I can’t say. How do I know if there’s anyone left on Judgment Day? Let that go. What I’m saying is, when a man’s soul and a woman’s soul come together—that creates an Angel——”
“I dunno about souls. I know as one plus one makes three, sometimes,” said Frank. But he had the laugh to himself.
“I don’t know about souls. I know that sometimes one plus one makes three,” said Frank. But he found it funny all on his own.
“Bodies and souls, it’s the same,” said Tom.
“Bodies and souls, it’s all the same,” Tom said.
“And what about your missis, who was married afore you knew her?” asked Alfred, set on edge by this discourse.
“And what about your wife, who was married before you knew her?” asked Alfred, feeling uneasy about this conversation.
“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.”
“That I can’t tell you. If I am to become an Angel, it’ll be my married soul, not my single soul. It won’t be the soul of me when I was a kid; I didn’t have a soul that could make an Angel back 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 always remember,” said Frank’s wife, “when our Harold was acting up, all he did was see an angel in the mirror. ‘Look, Mom,’ he said, ‘there’s an angel!’ ‘There’s no angel, sweetheart,’ I replied, but he wouldn’t believe me. I took the mirror off the dresser, but it didn’t change anything. He kept insisting it was there. I swear, it really freaked me out. I thought for sure 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.”
“I remember,” said another man, Tom’s sister’s husband, “my mom once gave me a good hiding for saying I had an angel stuck up my nose. She saw me poking, and she said, ‘What are you poking at your nose for—stop it.’ ‘There’s an angel up there,’ I said, and she gave me such a smack. But there was. We used to call those thistle things ‘angels’ that float around. And I had pushed one of those up my nose, for some reason or another.”
“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....”
“It’s amazing what kids will stick up their noses,” said Frank’s wife. “I can remember our Hemmie; she shoved one of those bluebell things, what they call ‘candles,’ right up her nose, and oh, we had a lot to deal with! I’d seen her putting them on the end of her nose, but I never thought she’d be silly enough to shove it all the way up. She was about eight years old. Oh, my goodness, we got a crochet hook and I don’t know what else....”
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.
Tom Brangwen's feeling of inspiration started to fade. He forgot about it and soon joined in the loud laughter and shouts with everyone else. Outside, the carolers arrived, singing their songs. They were welcomed into the packed house. They had two fiddles and a piccolo. In the living room, they played carols, and everyone sang along loudly. Only the bride and groom sat there with glowing eyes and unusual, bright expressions, barely singing, or only moving their lips slightly.
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.
The wake ended, and the guysers arrived. There was loud applause, shouting, and excitement as the old mystery play of St. George unfolded, in which every man there had performed as a boy, complete with banging and thumping of clubs and dripping pans.
“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.”
“Wow, I got hit once while I was playing Beelzebub,” said Tom Brangwen, his eyes full of tears from laughing. “It knocked all the sense out of me like you’d crack an egg. But I tell you, when I came to, I played Old Johnny Roger with St. George, I really did.”
He was shaking with laughter. Another knock came at the door. There was a hush.
He was shaking with laughter. Another knock sounded at the door. There was silence.
“It’s th’ cab,” said somebody from the door.
“It’s the cab,” said someone from the door.
“Walk in,” shouted Tom Brangwen, and a red-faced grinning man entered.
“Come 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.”
“Now, you two, get ready and head to the blanket fair,” shouted Tom Brangwen. “You better hurry up, because if you’re not off like a flash, you won’t go, and you'll sleep apart.”
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.
Anna got up quietly and went to change her dress. Will Brangwen would have stepped out, but Tilly brought his hat and coat. The young man was assisted.
“Well, here’s luck, my boy,” shouted his father.
“Well, here’s some luck, my boy,” shouted his father.
“When th’ fat’s in th’ fire, let it frizzle,” admonished his uncle Frank.
“When the fat’s in the fire, let it sizzle,” advised his uncle Frank.
“Fair and softly does it, fair an’ softly does it,” cried his aunt, Frank’s wife, contrary.
“Take it easy and be gentle,” shouted his aunt, Frank’s wife, in a different way.
“You don’t want to fall over yourself,” said his uncle by marriage. “You’re not a bull at a gate.”
“You don’t want to rush headlong into things,” said his uncle by marriage. “You’re not a bull charging through 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.”
“Let a guy have his own way,” said Tom Brangwen irritably. “Stop giving out 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.”
“'He doesn’t want too many signposts,” said his father. “There are some roads a person has to be guided on, and there are some roads a cross-eyed person can only follow with one eye closed. But this road can’t be lost by a blind person, a cross-eyed person, or someone with a disability—and he’s none of those, 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.”
“Don’t be so confident in your walking abilities,” shouted Frank’s wife. “There are plenty of men who can’t go any further than halfway, no matter what, even if they lived forever.”
“Why, how do you know?” said Alfred.
“Why, how do you know?” Alfred asked.
“It’s plain enough in th’ looks o’ some,” retorted Lizzie, his sister-in-law.
“It’s pretty obvious in the looks of 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.
The young man stood with a slight, distant smile on his face. He felt tense and lost in thought. These things, or anything at all, barely affected 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.
Anna came downstairs in her day dress, looking quite elusive. She kissed everyone, both men and women, while Will Brangwen shook hands with everyone and kissed his mother, who started to cry, and then the whole group surged out to the cab.
The young couple were shut up, last injunctions shouted at them.
The young couple were locked away, with the last warnings yelled at them.
“Drive on,” shouted Tom Brangwen.
"Keep going," shouted Tom Brangwen.
The cab rolled off. They saw the light diminish under the ash trees. Then the whole party, quietened, went indoors.
The cab pulled away. They watched the light fade under the ash trees. Then the whole group, silent, went inside.
“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.”
“They’ll have three nice fires going,” said Tom Brangwen, checking his watch. “I told Emma to get them started at nine and then leave the door unlatched. It’s only half-past. They’ll have three fires going, and the lamps will be on, and Emma will have warmed the bed with the warming pan. So I think they’ll be fine.”
The party was much quieter. They talked of the young couple.
The party was a lot quieter. They discussed 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.”
“She said she didn’t want a servant in,” said Tom Brangwen. “The house isn’t big enough; she’d always have the person right there. Emma will do what’s needed, and they’ll keep to themselves.”
“It’s best,” said Lizzie, “you’re more free.”
“It’s better,” said Lizzie, “you’re more free.”
The party talked on slowly. Brangwen looked at his watch.
The party chatted slowly. Brangwen checked his watch.
“Let’s go an’ give ’em a carol,” he said. “We s’ll find th’ fiddles at the ‘Cock an’ Robin’.”
“Let’s go and sing them a carol,” he said. “We’ll find the fiddles at the ‘Cock and Robin.’”
“Ay, come on,” said Frank.
“Come on,” said Frank.
Alfred rose in silence. The brother-in-law and one of Will’s brothers rose also.
Alfred stood up quietly. His brother-in-law and one of Will's brothers stood up too.
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.
The five men stepped outside. The night was filled with flashing stars. Sirius shone brightly like a beacon on the hillside, while the majestic Orion was gliding across the sky.
Tom walked with his brother, Alfred. The men’s heels rang on the ground.
Tom walked with his brother, Alfred. The men's heels echoed on the ground.
“It’s a fine night,” said Tom.
“It’s a nice night,” said Tom.
“Ay,” said Alfred.
“Yeah,” said Alfred.
“Nice to get out.”
"Great to get outside."
“Ay.”
"Yeah."
The brothers walked close together, the bond of blood strong between them. Tom always felt very much the junior to Alfred.
The brothers walked closely together, their blood bond strong. Tom always felt like the younger one compared to Alfred.
“It’s a long while since you left home,” he said.
“It’s been a long time 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.”
“Ay,” said Alfred. “I thought I was getting a bit old—but I’m not. It’s the things you have that wear out, it’s not you.”
“Why, what’s worn out?”
“Why, what’s broken?”
“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.”
“Most people I associate with—who have anything to do with me—they all fall apart. You’ve got to keep going on your own, even if it leads to ruin. There’s no one alongside you, not even there.”
Tom Brangwen meditated this.
Tom Brangwen thought about this.
“Maybe you was never broken in,” he said.
“Maybe you were never broken in,” he said.
“No, I never was,” said Alfred proudly.
“No, I never was,” Alfred said proudly.
And Tom felt his elder brother despised him a little. He winced under it.
And Tom felt like his older brother looked down on him a bit. It stung.
“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.”
“Everyone has their own way,” he said, stubbornly. “Only a dog doesn’t. And those who can’t handle what they dish out and give what they take, they have to go alone, or get a dog that will follow them.”
“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 can manage without the dog,” said his brother. And again, Tom Brangwen felt small, believing his brother was superior to him. But if he was, he was. And if it was better to go alone, then it was; he didn't want to go anyway.
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.
They walked across the field, where a light, sharp wind swept around the hilltop in the starlight. They reached the stile and the side of Anna’s house. The lights were off, except for the glow from the blinds of the rooms downstairs and a bedroom upstairs, where firelight flickered.
“We’d better leave ’em alone,” said Alfred Brangwen.
“We should just leave them alone,” said Alfred Brangwen.
“Nay, nay,” said Tom. “We’ll carol ’em, for th’ last time.”
“Nah, nah,” said Tom. “We’ll sing to them, for the 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.
And in about fifteen minutes, eleven quiet, somewhat drunk men climbed over the wall and into the garden by the yew trees, just outside the windows where dim firelight glowed on the blinds. A piercing sound erupted, with two violins and a piccolo piercing through the chilly air.
“In the fields with their flocks abiding.” A commotion of men’s voices broke out singing in ragged unison.
“In the fields with their flocks staying put.” A loud mix of men’s voices erupted, singing together off-key.
Anna Brangwen had started up, listening, when the music began. She was afraid.
Anna Brangwen perked up, listening, when the music started. She felt scared.
“It’s the wake,” he whispered.
“It’s the wake,” he said.
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.
She stayed tense, her heart pounding, filled with an odd, intense fear. Then came the burst of men's singing, a bit unsteady. She kept straining, listening.
“It’s Dad,” she said, in a low voice. They were silent, listening.
“It’s Dad,” she said quietly. They were silent, listening.
“And my father,” he said.
"And my dad," 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.
She kept listening. But she was certain. She settled back into bed, into his arms. He held her tight, kissing her. The hymn continued outside, all the men singing their hearts out, having forgotten everything else under the charm of the fiddles and the melody. The firelight cast a warm glow against the dark in the room. Anna could hear her father singing enthusiastically.
“Aren’t they silly,” she whispered.
"Are they being 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.
And they inched closer, closer together, their hearts beating in sync. And even as the hymn continued, they stopped hearing 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.
Will Brangwen had a few weeks off after his wedding, so the two of them fully embraced their honeymoon, enjoying time 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?
And for him, as the days passed, it felt like the sky had fallen, and he was sitting with her in the aftermath, in a new world where everyone else was buried, just the two of them, happy survivors with everything to spend as they wished. At first, he couldn’t shake off a guilty feeling about enjoying this freedom. Wasn’t there some responsibility out there, calling him, and he wasn’t responding?
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.
It was all great at night when the doors were locked and darkness surrounded the two of them. In that moment, they were the only ones on the visible earth; everyone else was beneath the flood. Being alone in the world made them a law unto themselves; they could enjoy, waste, and spend like heartless 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.
But in the morning, as the carts rattled by and kids yelled down the lane; as the vendors came calling out their goods, and the church clock struck eleven, and he and she still hadn’t gotten up, not even for breakfast, he couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt, as if he were breaking some kind of law—ashamed that he wasn't up and active.
“Doing what?” she asked. “What is there to do? You will only lounge about.”
“Doing what?” she asked. “What is there to do? You’ll just be hanging around.”
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.
Still, even just hanging out was respectable. At least you were connected to the world. But now, lying so still and peacefully while the daylight came softly through the closed blind felt like being cut off from everything, like choosing to shut yourself away in quiet denial of the world. And he felt uneasy.
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 it was so sweet and satisfying lying there chatting casually with her. It felt sweeter than sunshine, and not so fleeting. It was even a bit annoying how the church clock kept chiming: there seemed to be no gap between the hours, just a moment, golden and still, while she traced his features with her fingertips, completely carefree and happy, and he loved that she did 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.
But he felt different and unfamiliar. Suddenly, everything from before was stripped away and gone. One day, he was a single guy, living in the world. The next day, he was with her, as far away from the world as if they were buried like a seed in darkness. Suddenly, like a chestnut dropping from its prickly shell, he was exposed and shiny on soft, fertile ground, leaving behind the tough exterior of worldly knowledge and experience. He heard it in the vendor’s shouts, the noise of carts, the laughter of children. And it all felt like the tough, discarded shell. Inside, in the softness and stillness of the room, was the bare core, pulsing with quiet energy, fully immersed 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.
Inside the room was a deep calm, a core of living eternity. Only far away, at the edges, the noise and destruction continued. Here at the center, the great wheel was still, centered on itself. Here was a balanced, perfect stillness that transcended time because it remained the same, endless, unchanging, and untired.
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.
As they lay close together, complete and untouched by time or change, it felt like they were at the very center of the slow rotation of space and the fast pace of life, deep within them all, at the core where there is pure light, eternal existence, and silence filled with praise: the steady center of all movement, the unawakened slumber of all awareness. They found themselves there, lying still in each other’s arms; for that moment, they were at the heart of eternity, while time roared far away, always far away, towards the edge.
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.
Then gradually they moved away from the central source, through the circles of praise, joy, and happiness, further and further out, toward the noise and chaos. But their hearts had burned and were shaped by the inner truth; they were unchangeably happy.
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.
Gradually, they started to wake up; the sounds outside became more vivid. They acknowledged and responded to the call from the outside. They counted the bell's chimes. And when they counted to noon, they realized that it was noon, both in the world and for themselves as well.
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.
It struck her that she was hungry. She had been getting hungrier for ages. But even then, it didn’t feel real enough to wake her up. In the distance, she could hear the phrase, “I am dying of hunger.” Still, she remained quiet, separate, at peace, and those words went unspoken. There was another pause.
And then, quite calmly, even a little surprised, she was in the present, and was saying:
And then, surprisingly calm, she found herself in the present and said:
“I am dying with hunger.”
"I'm starving."
“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.
“So am I,” he said calmly, as if it didn't matter at all. They fell back into the warm, golden quiet. The minutes passed unnoticed outside the window.
Then suddenly she stirred against him.
Then suddenly she moved against him.
“My dear, I am dying of hunger,” she said.
“My dear, I'm starving,” she said.
It was a slight pain to him to be brought to.
It was a bit of a hassle for him to be brought to.
“We’ll get up,” he said, unmoving.
“We’ll get up,” he said, still not moving.
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.
And she rested her head on him again, and they lay still, drifting in and out. Half aware, he heard the clock strike the hour. She didn't hear it.
“Do get up,” she murmured at length, “and give me something to eat.”
“Please get up,” she finally said, “and get 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.
“Yes,” he said, wrapping his arms around her as she rested her face against him. They were slightly surprised that they stayed still. The minutes ticked more loudly at the window.
“Let me go then,” he said.
“Then let me go,” 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.
She lifted her head from him, letting go. With some reluctance, he got out of bed and started getting dressed. She reached out her hand to him.
“You are so nice,” she said, and he went back for a moment or two.
“You're really nice,” she said, and he paused 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.
Then he really did put on some clothes, and, glancing at her quickly, left the room. She lay transformed once more into a pale, clearer peace. As if she were a spirit, she listened to the sounds of him downstairs, feeling as if she was no longer part 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.
It was 1:30. He glanced at the quiet kitchen, still untouched from the night before, dim with the pulled-down blind. He quickly raised the blind so people would know they weren't still in bed. Well, it was his own house, so it didn’t matter. He hurriedly put wood in the fireplace and lit a fire. He felt proud of himself, like an explorer on a new island. The fire roared to life, and he set the kettle on. How happy he felt! How calm and private the house was! It was just the two of them 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?
But when he unlatched the door and, half-dressed, peeked outside, he felt sneaky and guilty. The world was right there, after all. He had felt so safe, like this house was the Ark in the flood, while everything else was submerged. The world was outside: it was afternoon. The morning had disappeared, and the day was getting late. Where was the bright, fresh morning? He felt blamed. Had the morning passed while he stayed inside with the blinds drawn, not even noticing?
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.
He looked around the chilly, gray afternoon again. And there he was, so soft, warm, and glowing! There were two sprigs of yellow jasmine in the saucer covering the milk jug. He wondered who had come by and left the reminder. Grabbing the jug, he quickly shut the door. Let the day and the daylight fade away, let it pass unnoticed. He didn’t care. What did one more day matter to him? It could slip into oblivion unspent if it wanted to; this single stretch 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.
“Someone went and found the door locked,” he said as he went upstairs with the tray. He handed her the two sprigs of jasmine. She laughed as she sat up in bed, playfully threading the flowers into the front of her nightdress. Her brown hair stuck out like a halo, wild, around 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.
“How great!” she said, taking in the cold air. “I’m so glad you did so much.” She reached out her hands eagerly for her plate—“Come back to bed, hurry—it’s freezing.” She rubbed her hands together briskly.
He [put off what little clothing he had on, and] sat beside her in the bed.
He took off the little clothing he had on and sat beside her on the bed.
“You look like a lion, with your mane sticking out, and your nose pushed over your food,” he said.
“You look like a lion, with your hair sticking out, and your face shoved into your food,” he said.
She tinkled with laughter, and gladly ate her breakfast.
She laughed lightly and happily 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.
The morning had slipped away without him noticing, and the afternoon was passing by too, and he was just letting it happen. Another bright stretch of daylight had gone by unnoticed! There was something unmanly and defiant about it. He couldn't fully come to terms with it. He felt he should get up, head outside into the sunlight, and either work or energetically spend his time in the open air of the afternoon, making the most of what little time he had left in 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.
But he didn't go. Well, you might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. If he lost this day of his life, so be it. He accepted it. He wasn’t going to dwell on his losses. She didn’t care. She didn’t care at all. So why should he? Should he be behind her in recklessness and independence? She was amazing 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.
She didn't take her responsibilities seriously. When she spilled her tea on the pillow, she just carelessly wiped it with a handkerchief and flipped the pillow over. He would have felt guilty. She didn’t. And that made him happy. It made him very happy to see that these things didn’t bother 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.
When the meal was finished, she quickly wiped her mouth with her napkin, feeling satisfied and happy, and settled back onto 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.
The evening started to settle in, the light was dim and pale. He buried his face against her.
“I don’t like the twilight,” he said.
“I don’t like the twilight,” he said.
“I love it,” she answered.
“I love it,” she replied.
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.
He buried his face against her, warm and sunny. It felt like she had sunlight inside her. The rhythm of her heartbeat felt like sunlight on him. Being with her was more real than anything the day could offer: so warm, steady, and restorative. He pressed his face against her as twilight descended, while she lay there, staring off with her unseeing dark eyes, as if she was wandering freely in the shadows. The uncertainty allowed her to explore 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.
To him, facing her heartbeat, everything was really calm and warm and intimate, like midday. He felt thankful to experience this warm, full midday. It made him feel more complete and eased some of his burdens and guilt.
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.
They got up when it was still pretty dark. She quickly tied her hair into a bun and got dressed in no time. Then they went downstairs, gathered around the fire, and sat in silence, speaking a few words here and there.
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.
Her father was on his way. She quickly put away the dishes, rushed around to tidy the room, stepped into a different role, and took her seat again. He sat there, lost in thought about his carving of Eve. He loved to replay the details of his carving in his mind, savoring every stroke and every line. How much he cherished it now! When he returned to his Creation-panel, he would finish his Eve, delicate and shining. It wasn't quite right yet. The Lord should toil over her with a quiet passion of Creation, and Adam should be tense, as if caught in a dream of immortality, while Eve should take shape in a shimmering, shadowy way, as if the Lord had to wrestle with His own soul for her, yet she radiated light.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
He found it difficult to say. His soul became shy when he tried to communicate it.
He found it hard to express. His spirit felt shy whenever he tried to communicate it.
“I was thinking my Eve was too hard and lively.”
“I was thinking my Eve was too tough and energetic.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. She should be more——,” he made a gesture of infinite tenderness.
“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.
There was a quiet moment mixed with a bit of happiness. He couldn't share anything more with her. Why couldn't he share anything more? She felt a sharp twinge of deep sadness. But it didn't matter. She walked over 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.
Her father arrived and saw them both radiating like a blooming flower. He enjoyed spending time with them. Wherever there was a scent of love, anyone who entered would take it in. They were both lively and vibrant, illuminated from another realm, making it a remarkable experience for them that anyone else could be there.
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.
But it still bothered Will Brangwen a bit, in his orderly, conventional mind, that the usual ways of doing things had fallen apart completely. People should get up in the morning, wash themselves, and be decent members of society. Instead, the two of them stayed in bed until nightfall, and then got up. She never washed her face but sat there chatting with her father, as bright and carefree as a daisy blooming in the morning dew. Or she would get up at ten o'clock, then happily go back to bed again at three, or even half-past four, leaving him exposed in the daylight, all with such joy and ease, completely unaware of his discomfort. He let her do what she wanted with him, and he felt a strange pleasure. She was free to use him as she wished. He was filled with happiness to be in her hands. And down went his worries, his principles, his rules, and his lesser beliefs; she scattered them like an expert bowler. He was both surprised and delighted to see them fly everywhere.
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 stood and looked in amazement as his Tablets of Stone bounced and crashed down the hill, lost forever. It really was true what they said: a man wasn’t born until he was married. What a change it was!
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.
He looked over the surface of the world: houses, factories, trams, the discarded stuff; people rushing around, work happening, all on the discarded surface. An earthquake had forced everything out from within. It felt like the surface of the world had completely broken away: Ilkeston, streets, church, people, work, the customs of the day, all intact; yet peeled away into something unreal, leaving behind the core, the truth: one’s own existence, strange feelings, passions, yearnings, beliefs, and aspirations, suddenly made clear, revealed, the unchanging foundation, intertwined one stone with the woman he loved. It was overwhelming. Things are not what they seem! As a child, he thought a woman was defined simply by her skirts and petticoats. And now, look, the whole world could shed its covering, the covering could lie there, completely removed, and one could stand in a brand new world, a new earth, exposed in a fresh, unclothed universe. It was too amazing 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.
This was what marriage was like! The old things didn’t seem to matter anymore. One would wake up at four in the morning, have broth at tea time, and make toffee in the middle of the night. Sometimes one would get dressed, and sometimes one wouldn’t. He still wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t wrong. But it was a revelation to realize that one could feel so completely free. All that mattered was that he loved her, she loved him, and they were connected to each other, like the Lord in two burning bushes that weren’t consumed. And so they lived for the time being.
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.
She was less held back than he was, so she reached her fullness faster and was ready to enjoy the outside world again sooner. She was planning a tea party. His heart sank. He wanted things to continue as they were. He wanted to escape the outside world completely, to declare it over forever. He was filled with a strong desire and anxiety that she would stay with him in their timeless space of free, perfect bodies and eternal intimacy, affirming that the old outside order was done. The new order was meant to last forever, alive, pulsing from the shining core, moving freely without any facade or deception. But no, he couldn’t keep her. She wanted the old world back—she wanted to step outside again. She was going to host a tea party. The thought made him afraid, angry, and miserable. He feared losing everything he had just discovered: like the youth in the fairy tale who was a king for just one day each year and a beaten servant the rest of the time; like Cinderella at the ball. He was sulking. But she cheerfully started making plans for her tea party. His fear was overwhelming; he was troubled and despised her trivial excitement and happiness. Was she really sacrificing reality, the only true reality, for something shallow and meaningless? Wasn't she carelessly removing her crown to become an artificial figure hosting other artificial women for tea when she could have been perfect with him, and kept him perfect, in their intimate world? Now he would be cast aside, his happiness shattered, forced to wear the false, shallow mask of an outside 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.
He was consumed by unease and fear. But she jumped into a flurry of housework, pushing him aside as she moved furniture around to sweep. He stood there, feeling miserable. He wanted her back. The dread of losing her, the desire for her to stay, and the shame of his own reliance on her all fueled his anger. He started to lose control. The magic was about to fade away again. All the love and that amazing new harmony would be lost; she would sacrifice it all for the outside world. She would let the outside back in and throw away the living fruit for the superficial shell. He began to resent that about her. Overwhelmed by the fear of her leaving, he stumbled around the house in a daze, almost feeling helpless.
And she, with her skirts kilted up, flew round at her work, absorbed.
And she, with her skirts gathered up, rushed around at her work, fully focused.
“Shake the rug then, if you must hang round,” she said.
“Go ahead and shake the rug if you’re going to stick around,” 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.
And feeling resentful, he went to shake out the rug. She was completely unaware of him. He returned, standing close to her.
“Can’t you do anything?” she said, as if to a child, impatiently. “Can’t you do your wood-work?”
“Can’t you do anything?” she said, sounding impatient, like she was talking to a kid. “Can’t you work on your wood projects?”
“Where shall I do it?” he asked, harsh with pain.
“Where should I do it?” he asked, strained with pain.
“Anywhere.”
"Anywhere."
How furious that made him.
How angry 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.”
“Or go for a walk,” she said. “Head down to the Marsh. Don’t just linger around like you’re only half present.”
He winced and hated it. He went away to read. Never had his soul felt so flayed and uncreated.
He winced and despised it. He left to read. Never had his soul felt so exposed and destroyed.
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.
And soon he had to come back down to her. His lingering near her, wanting her with him, his futility, the way his hands hung, annoyed her to no end. She turned on him recklessly and destructively; he became a wild creature, dark and charged with rage. The dark storms surged within him, his eyes shone black and wicked, he was monstrous in his frustrated spirit.
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.
There were two dark and terrible days when she was in pain because of him, and he felt like he was in a dark, violent underworld, with his wrists trembling with anger. And she fought against him. He seemed like a dark, almost sinister presence, chasing her, clinging to her, weighing her down. She would do anything to get rid of him.
“You need some work to do,” she said. “You ought to be at work. Can’t you do something?”
“You need something to keep you busy,” she said. “You should be working. Can’t you do anything?”
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.
His soul only grew darker. His state now became absolute; the darkness of his soul was total. Everything was gone: he was fully immersed in his own intense, dark will. He was no longer aware of her. She didn't exist. His dark, passionate soul had turned inward, and now, tightly coiled around a center of hatred, existed in its own power. There was a strangely ugly pallor, an emptiness in his face. She recoiled from him. She was scared of him. His will seemed to grip 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.
She stepped back from him. She went down to the Marsh, returning to the safety of her parents' love for her. He stayed at Yew Cottage, feeling dark and closed off, his mind empty. He couldn’t focus on his wood-carving. He continued to work in the garden, mindlessly, 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.
As she made her way home, up the hill, glancing at the town that looked dim and blue in the distance, her heart eased and filled with longing. She didn’t want to argue with him anymore. She wanted love—oh, love. Her feet started to pick up speed. She needed to get back to him. Her heart tightened with desire 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.
He had been tidying up the garden, trimming the grass edges and paving the path with stones. He was a skilled and capable worker.
“How nice you’ve made it,” she said, approaching tentatively down the path.
“How nice you’ve made it,” she said, walking carefully down the path.
But he did not heed, he did not hear. His brain was solid and dead.
But he didn't pay attention, he didn't hear. His mind was numb and lifeless.
“Haven’t you made it nice?” she repeated, rather plaintively.
“Haven’t you made it nice?” she said again, a bit sadly.
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.
He looked up at her with that blank, emotionless face and unseeing eyes that stunned her, leaving her feeling dazed and blind. Then he turned away. She watched his thin, hunched figure stumble around. A wave of disgust washed over her. She went inside.
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.
As she took off her hat in the bedroom, she started crying uncontrollably, feeling some of the old, painful, childish sadness. She sat there, crying silently. She didn’t want him to find out. She was scared of his harsh, cruel moods, the way he would slump down a bit, rigidly, in a threatening way. She was afraid of him. He seemed to tear into her sensitive femininity. He seemed to hurt her deeply, almost taking 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.
He walked into the house. The sound of his footsteps in his heavy boots filled her with dread: a harsh, cruel, wicked sound. She was scared he would come upstairs. But he didn’t. She waited nervously. He left.
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?
Where she was most vulnerable, he hurt her. Oh, where she was handed over to him, in her gentle femininity, he seemed to wound her and violate her. She pressed her hands over her womb in anguish, while 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.
Suddenly, she wiped away her tears. She needed to get the tea ready. She went downstairs and set the table. When the meal was ready, she called for him.
“I’ve mashed the tea, Will, are you coming?”
“I’ve brewed 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 could hear the tears in her voice, and she started to cry again. He didn’t respond but continued with his work. She waited a few minutes, in agony. Fear washed over her, and she was overwhelmed with terror, like a child; she couldn’t go back home to her father; she was captivated by the power of 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.
She went inside so he wouldn't see her crying. She sat down at the table. Soon, he walked into the kitchen. The sound of his movements annoyed her as she listened. It was awful how he pumped, so harsh and cruel! She hated hearing him! He hated her! His hatred felt like attacks on her! The tears started to come 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.
He walked in, his face expressionless and dull, steady, unyielding. He sat down for tea, his head hanging over his cup, unattractively. His hands were red from the cold water, and there were dirt rims in his nails. He continued 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.
It was his cold insensitivity towards her that she couldn’t stand, something heavy and unpleasant. His intelligence was all about himself. It felt so unnatural to be with such a self-centered person, like being opposite something negative. Nothing could reach him—he could only take things in and make them part of himself.
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.
The tears were flowing down her face. Something startled him, and he was looking up at her with his angry, cold, shining eyes, hard and unyielding like a bird of prey.
“What are you crying for?” came the grating voice.
“What are you crying for?” came the harsh voice.
She winced through her womb. She could not stop crying.
She winced in pain. She couldn't 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.
“What are you crying for?” the question came again, in the same tone. And still there was silence, with only the sound of her sniffing back 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.
His eyes sparkled with a dark desire. She recoiled and felt paralyzed. She resembled a bird being struck down. A wave of helplessness washed over her. She was different from him; she had no way to protect herself. In the face of such power, she was completely exposed, utterly defeated.
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.
He got up and left the house, consumed by a dark force. It tormented him and fought within him. As he worked in the fading twilight, it suddenly released its grip on him. That's when he noticed that she was hurt. Until then, he had only seen her victorious. In an instant, his heart was overwhelmed with compassion for her. He felt alive again, but it was filled with agony. He couldn't stand the thought of her crying—he just couldn't take it. He wanted to go to her and share everything inside him. He wanted to give her everything—his blood, his life, every last drop, to be completely open with her. He longed with intense desire to offer himself to her, completely.
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.
The evening star appeared, and then night fell. She hadn't turned on the lamp. His heart ached with pain and sorrow. He hesitated to approach 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.
And finally, he left, hesitating, weighed down by a heavy gift. The stiffness had faded away, and his body felt sensitive, a little shaky. His hand was unexpectedly delicate, pulling back as he closed the door. He secured the latch with a kind of tenderness.
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.
In the kitchen, there was only the glow of the fire; he couldn't see her. He shook with fear that she had left—he had no idea where. In growing anxiety, he walked into the parlor, to the bottom of the stairs.
“Anna,” he called.
"Anna," he called out.
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.
There was no answer. He went up the stairs, filled with fear of the empty house—the dreadful emptiness that made his heart pound with madness. He opened the bedroom door, and his heart sank with the certainty that she had left, that he was all 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.
But he saw her on the bed, lying very still and barely noticeable, with her back to him. He approached and gently placed his hand on her shoulder, hesitating, overwhelmed by fear and self-doubt. She didn’t move.
He waited. The hand that touched her shoulder hurt him, as if she were sending it away. He stood dim with pain.
He waited. The hand that touched her shoulder hurt him, as if she were pushing it away. He felt overwhelmed by pain.
“Anna,” he said.
“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.
But still she was motionless, like a curled-up, oblivious creature. His heart beat with strange waves of pain. Then, by a slight movement under his hand, he realized she was crying, holding herself tightly so her tears wouldn’t show. He waited. The tension lingered—maybe she wasn’t crying—then suddenly she let out a sharp sob. His heart burned with love and suffering for her. Kneeling carefully on the bed, so his dirty boots wouldn’t touch it, he pulled her into his arms to comfort her. The sobs built up inside her; she was crying bitterly. But not to him. She was still shut off from him.
He held her against his breast, whilst she sobbed, withheld from him, and all his body vibrated against her.
He held her against his chest as she cried, pushing him away, and his whole body trembled against hers.
“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.
“Don’t cry—don’t cry,” he said, with an odd simplicity. His heart felt calm and numb, wrapped in a kind of innocent love now.
She still sobbed, ignoring him, ignoring that he held her. His lips were dry.
She continued to cry, disregarding him and the fact that he was holding 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.
“Don’t cry, my love,” he said, in the same distant way. Inside, his heart burned like a torch, filled with pain. He couldn’t stand the emptiness of her tears. He would have comforted her with his very heart. He heard the church clock chime, as if it connected with him, and he waited in suspense for it to pass. 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.
“My love,” he said to her, leaning down to touch her wet face with his lips. He was scared to touch her. Her face was so wet! His body shook as he held her. He loved her so much he felt like his heart and all his veins would burst, flooding her with his warm, 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.
She was getting quieter. He thanked the merciful God that she was finally getting quieter. His head felt so weird and on fire. Still, he held her close, with shaking arms. His blood felt very powerful, surrounding 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.
And finally, she started to move closer to him, snuggling against him. His limbs, his body, ignited and flared up like flames. She held onto him tightly, clinging to his body. The flames enveloped him, and he wrapped her in a fiery embrace. If only she would kiss him! He leaned down, and her soft, warm mouth welcomed him. He felt like his veins would burst from overwhelming gratitude, his heart raced with thankfulness, and he could lose himself in her forever.
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.
When they regained their senses, the night was completely dark. Two hours had passed. They lay there, still and warm and weak, like newborns, together. And there was a silence almost like that of the unborn. Only his heart was happily weeping, after the pain. He didn’t understand; he had surrendered, given in. There was no understanding. There could only be acceptance and submission, and a trembling awe of fulfillment.
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.
The next morning, when they woke up, it had snowed. He wondered what the strange color in the air was, and the unusual scent. Snow covered the grass and the window sill, weighed down the black, jagged branches of the yews, and softened 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.
Soon, it started snowing again, and they were trapped inside. He felt relieved because in that quiet darkness, they were cut off from the world and 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.
The snow lasted for a few days. On Sunday, they went to church. They left a line of footprints across the garden; he left a flat snowprint of his hand on the wall as he jumped over it, and they followed the snow across the churchyard. For three days, they had been wrapped up 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.
There were hardly any people in church, and she was happy about that. She didn’t really care much for church. She had never questioned her beliefs, and out of habit and tradition, she regularly attended the morning service. But she had stopped coming with any excitement. Today, though, with the unusual snowfall and after such an amazing experience of love, she felt hopeful again and joyful. She was still connected to that timeless 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.
She started, after she went to high school, wanting to be a lady, wanting to pursue some mysterious ideal, always listening to the sermons and trying to gather advice. That worked for a while. The vicar told her to be good in this way and that way. She left feeling that her greatest goal was to follow these instructions.
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.
But that got boring fast. After a little while, she wasn't very interested in being good anymore. Her soul was searching for something that wasn't just about being good and doing her best. No, she wanted something different: something that wasn’t just a pre-set obligation. Everything felt like just a social responsibility and not about who she really was. They talked about her soul, but somehow never managed to awaken or involve it. So far, her soul hadn’t been engaged 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.
So, even though she cared for Mr. Loverseed, the vicar, and felt a protective instinct for Cossethay church, always wanting to help and defend it, it played a very minor role 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.
Not that she didn’t feel a sense of dissatisfaction. When her husband was stirred by thoughts of the churches, she grew resentful of the church itself, angry that it didn’t provide anything meaningful for her. The Church instructed her to be good: fine, she wasn’t inclined to argue with that. The Church spoke of her soul and the well-being of humanity, suggesting that saving her soul depended on her doing certain things for the benefit of others. Alright then—it was true, so be it.
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.
Nevertheless, as she sat in church, her face showed deep emotion and sadness. Was this really what she had come to hear: that by doing this and not doing that, she could save her soul? She didn't argue with it. But the expression on her face told a different story. There was something else she wanted to hear; it was something else she was seeking 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.
But who was she to say that? And what was she doing with unfulfilled desires? She felt ashamed. She tried to ignore them and left them out of her thoughts as much as possible, those hidden longings. They frustrated her. She wanted to be like everyone else, reasonably content.
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 frustrated her more than ever. Church held an undeniable pull for him. He paid no more attention to that part of the service that was meaningful to her than if he were an angel or some mythical creature sitting there. He simply ignored the sermon and the significance of the service. There was something thick, dark, and powerful about him that irritated her so deeply she couldn't even talk about it. The teachings of the Church meant nothing to him. “And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us”—it simply didn’t resonate with him. It might as well have been just sounds, and it would have affected him the same way. He didn’t want things to make sense. He didn't care about his own sins or those of his neighbor while he was in church. He left that concern for the weekdays. When he was in church, he paid no attention to his everyday life. That was weekday stuff. As for the welfare of humanity—he simply didn't see it as a real thing, except on weekdays when he was in a good mood. In church, he craved a dark, unnamed feeling, the kind of emotion tied to 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.
He didn't care about the idea of himself or her: oh, how much that frustrated her! He ignored the lecture, he dismissed the significance of humanity, and he didn't see the immediate importance of people. He didn't care about himself as a person. He didn't see any real importance in his life at the drafting office or his life among others. That was just the background to the main story. The truth was his connection with Anna and with the Church; his true existence lay in his deep emotional experiences of the Infinite, of the Absolute. And the grand, mysterious, capital letters that highlighted the main story were his feelings for 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.
It frustrated her to no end. She couldn't shake off the satisfaction he derived from being in the Church. The idea of her soul was deeply intertwined with how she saw herself. In her mind, her soul and her identity were the same. In contrast, he seemed to completely disregard his own identity, almost denying it. He had a soul—a dark, inhuman entity that didn't care about humanity at all. That was how she viewed it. And in the shadows and mystery of the Church, his soul existed and thrived, like some bizarre, underground creature, 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.
He felt really weird to her, and in this spiritual church atmosphere, as he saw himself as a soul, he seemed to evade her grasp. In some way, she envied him for this dark freedom and joy of the soul, this strange part of him. It intrigued her. Then she hated it again. And once more, she looked down on him, wanting to eliminate it within 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.
This snowy morning, he sat beside her with a face that was both dark and bright, unaware of her presence, and somehow, she felt he was sending his love for her to strange, secret places. He had a half-delighted, darkly absorbed look as he stared at a small stained window. She observed the ruby-colored glass, with snow from outside creating shadows at the bottom, and the familiar yellow figure of the lamb holding a banner, now slightly darkened, but strangely luminous and vibrant in the murky interior.
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.
She had always liked the little red and yellow window. The lamb, looking quite silly and self-conscious, was holding up a forepaw, in which was precariously balanced a small flag with a red cross. The lamb was a very pale yellow, with greenish shadows. Since she was a child, she had felt a fondness for this creature, similar to the affection she had for the little woolly lambs on green legs that kids brought home from the fair every year. She had always enjoyed these toys, and she felt the same amused, childlike affection for this church lamb. Yet, she had always felt uneasy about it. She was never certain that this lamb with a flag didn’t want to be more than it seemed. So, she half-mistrusted it; there was a mix of dislike in her feelings toward 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?
Now, with a strange mix of focus in his eyes and the slightest hint of ecstasy on his face, he made her feel uneasy, as if he was somehow connected to the creature, the lamb in the window. A chilling sense of wonder filled her—she felt confused. There he sat, still and timeless, with that subtle, bright tension on his face. What was he doing? What link 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.
Suddenly, this lamb with the flag struck her as significant. Out of nowhere, she had a profound mystical experience; the strength of the tradition took hold of her, and she felt transported to another realm. And she hated it, fought against 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?
Instantly, it was just a silly lamb in the glass again. And a dark, violent hatred for her husband surged within her. What was he doing, sitting there glowing, lost in thought, so soulful?
She shifted sharply, she knocked him as she pretended to pick up her glove, she groped among his feet.
She moved quickly, bumping into him as she pretended to pick up her glove, searching around 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.
He woke up, feeling confused and vulnerable. Anyone else would have felt sorry for him. She wanted to tear him apart. He had no idea what was wrong or 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.
As they sat at dinner in their cottage, he was taken aback by the coldness coming from her. She didn’t understand why she was so angry. But she was furious.
“Why do you never listen to the sermon?” she asked, seething with hostility and violation.
“Why don’t you ever listen to the sermon?” she asked, filled with anger and frustration.
“I do,” he said.
“I do,” he replied.
“You don’t—you don’t hear a single word.”
“You don’t—you don’t hear a 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.
He withdrew into himself, savoring his own feelings. There was something hidden about him, as if he had a secret world underground. The young girl hated being 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.
After dinner, he went into the living room, still lost in his thoughts, which was really frustrating for her. Then he went to the bookshelf and pulled down books to look at that she had barely even glanced at.
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 sat deeply focused on a book about the illustrations in old missals, and then another one about paintings in churches: Italian, English, French, and German. When he was sixteen, he discovered a Roman Catholic bookstore where he could find these kinds of books.
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.
He flipped through the pages, completely engrossed in what he was seeing rather than thinking. She later described him as if his eyes were in his chest.
She came to look at the things with him. Half they fascinated her. She was puzzled, interested, and antagonistic.
She came to check out the things with him. Half of them fascinated her. She was confused, intrigued, and confrontational.
It was when she came to pictures of the Pietà that she burst out.
It was when she saw images of the Pietà that she broke down.
“I do think they’re loathsome,” she cried.
"I really think they're disgusting," she said.
“What?” he said, surprised, abstracted.
“What?” he said, surprised and distracted.
“Those bodies with slits in them, posing to be worshipped.”
“Those bodies with cuts in them, pretending to be worshipped.”
“You see, it means the Sacraments, the Bread,” he said slowly.
“You see, it refers to 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?”
“Does it?” she exclaimed. “Then it’s even worse. I don’t want to see your chest sliced open, nor do I want to eat your dead body, even if you offer it to me. Can’t you see how terrible that is?”
“It isn’t me, it’s Christ.”
“It’s not 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.”
“What if it is? It’s you! And it’s awful, you stuck in your own lifeless body, thinking about consuming it in the Communion.”
“You’ve to take it for what it means.”
"You have to understand it for what it is."
“It means your human body put up to be slit and killed and then worshipped—what else?”
“It means your human body is meant to be sacrificed and killed and then worshipped—what else?”
They lapsed into silence. His soul grew angry and aloof.
They fell silent. His soul became angry and distant.
“And I think that Lamb in Church,” she said, “is the biggest joke in the parish——”
“And I think that Lamb in Church,” she said, “is the biggest joke in the parish——”
She burst into a “Pouf” of ridiculing laughter.
She burst into a loud, mocking laugh.
“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.”
“It might not mean anything to those who don’t understand it,” he said. “You know it’s a 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——”
“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.
And once more she scoffed mockingly.
“It’s because you don’t know anything,” he said violently, harshly. “Laugh at what you know, not at what you don’t know.”
“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 do I not know?”
“What things mean.”
"What things mean."
“And what does it mean?”
“And what does that mean?”
He was reluctant to answer her. He found it difficult.
He was hesitant to respond to her. He found it tough.
“What does it mean?” she insisted.
“What does it mean?” she insisted.
“It means the triumph of the Resurrection.”
“It means the victory 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?
She hesitated, confused, a wave of fear washed over her. What were these things? Something dark and powerful seemed to stretch out in front of her. Was it amazing after all?
But no—she refused it.
But no—she declined 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.”
“Whatever it claims to mean, what it is is a silly, ridiculous toy lamb with a Christmas tree flag stuck on its paw—and if it wants to mean something else, it needs to 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.
He was filled with intense irritation towards her. Part of him was embarrassed by his love for these things; he kept his passion for them hidden. He felt ashamed of the ecstasy he could experience from these symbols. For a few moments, he hated the lamb and the mystical images of the Eucharist with a fierce, pale hatred. His enthusiasm was extinguished; she had doused it with cold water. The whole situation disgusted him; his mouth felt like it was filled with ashes. He left, cold with a lifeless anger, leaving her behind. He despised her. He walked through the white snow, beneath a heavy, gray sky.
And she wept again, in bitter recurrence of the previous gloom. But her heart was easy—oh, much more easy.
And she cried again, in a painful repeat of the earlier sadness. But her heart was at ease—oh, so much more at ease.
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.
She was more than willing to make up with him when he came home again. He was grumpy and moody, but he had calmed down. She had broken a part of him. Eventually, he was happy to give up all his defenses to have her loving him. He loved it when she rested her head on his knee, and he hadn't asked or expected her to do that; he loved her when she wrapped her arms around him and boldly showed her affection, and he didn’t even return the gesture. He felt a strong energy in his body 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 naïve 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.
And she loved the focused, distant look in his eyes when they fell on her: focused, yet far away, not close, not connecting with her. She wanted to pull them closer. She wanted his eyes to meet hers, to truly understand her. But they wouldn’t. They stayed focused, distant, and proud, like a hawk’s gaze—naive and cold like that of a hawk. So she loved him and touched him and stirred him like a hawk, until he became sharp and alert, but without any warmth. He came to her fierce and strong, like a hawk swooping down and taking her. He was no longer a mystic; she was his target and treasure, his prey. And she was taken away, and he was finally satisfied or filled.
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.
Then she immediately started to fight back. She was also fierce. If she pretended to be the sad little bird coming to him for help, that was just part of the game. When he, satisfied, strutted around with a proud, cocky swagger and a dismissive nod of his head, completely oblivious to her and ignoring her existence after he had gotten what he wanted from her, her spirit awakened; it became strong and determined, and she went after him. When he perched there, scanning his surroundings with solitary pride, a fierce and prominent pride, she lunged at him and knocked him from his perch savagely. She provoked him out of his sharp male dignity, pushed him out of his calm pride, until he was furious, his light brown eyes blazing with anger. Now he noticed her, his eyes flared with rage as they 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.
Very good, she was the enemy, very good. As he circled around her, she watched him. As he attacked her, she fought back.
He was angry because she had carelessly pushed away his tools so that they got rusty.
He was mad because she had carelessly moved his tools, causing them to get rusty.
“Don’t leave them littering in my way, then,” she said.
“Don’t leave them lying around in my way, then,” she said.
“I shall leave them where I like,” he cried.
“I'll leave them wherever I want,” he shouted.
“Then I shall throw them where I like.”
“Then I’ll throw them wherever I want.”
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.
They glared at each other, he full of rage, she filled with the fierce satisfaction of victory. They were equally matched. They would settle this.
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.
She turned to her sewing. As soon as the tea things were cleared away, she pulled out the fabric, and he felt a surge of anger. He couldn't stand the sound of the calico tearing as she ripped it sharply, almost as if she enjoyed it. And the rhythm
“Aren’t you going to stop that row?” he shouted. “Can’t you do it in the daytime?”
“Aren’t you going to stop that noise?” he shouted. “Can’t you do it during the day?”
She looked up sharply, hostile from her work.
She looked up quickly, defensive 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.”
“No, I can't do it during the day. I have other things to take care of. Plus, I enjoy sewing, and you’re not going to stop me from 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.
Whereupon she turned back to her organizing, fixing, and stitching, and his nerves flared with anger as the sewing machine started, 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.
But she was having a great time; she was happy and triumphant as the quick needle joyfully moved down a hem, pulling the fabric along with its bright, forceful movements. She made the machine purr. She stopped it authoritatively, her fingers were skillful, quick, and in control.
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.
If he sat behind her, tense with useless anger, it only added a shaky intensity to her energy. She continued to work. Eventually, he went to bed angry and lay rigid, turning away from her. She turned her back on him. In the morning, they didn't talk, only exchanging cold formalities.
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.
And when he came home at night, his heart warming up with love for her, just as he was about to admit he’d been wrong and expecting her to feel the same, there she sat at the sewing machine, the whole house scattered with cut-up fabric, and the kettle wasn’t even on the stove.
She started up, affecting concern.
She spoke up, feigning concern.
“Is it so late?” she cried.
“Is it really that late?” she exclaimed.
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.
But his face had hardened with anger. He walked into the living room, then he turned around and left the house again. Her heart dropped. Quickly, she started making 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 marched grimly down the road to Ilkeston. When he felt this way, he couldn't think. A bolt slammed shut in his mind, locking him in like a prisoner. He returned to Ilkeston and had a beer. What was he going to do? He didn’t want to see anyone.
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.
He decided to go to Nottingham, his hometown. He went to the station and took a train. When he arrived in Nottingham, he still had nowhere to go. However, it felt good to walk through familiar streets. He walked them with a restless energy, as if he were running wild. Then he stopped at a bookstore and found a book about Bamberg Cathedral. What a discovery! This was something for him! He went into a quiet restaurant to admire his new treasure. He felt a rush of joy as he flipped through the pages. He had finally found something meaningful in these carvings. His soul felt deeply satisfied. Hadn’t he set out to search, and hadn’t he found? He was filled with a sense of fulfillment. These were the finest carvings and statues he had ever encountered. The book felt like a doorway in his hands. The world around him was just a confinement, a room. But he was going away. He lingered over the beautiful statues of women. A marvelous, intricately crafted universe unfolded around him as he gazed again at the crowns, the flowing hair, the female faces. He actually appreciated the confusing German text even more. He preferred things he couldn't fully grasp with his mind. He loved the unknown and the unknowable. He studied the pictures intensely. And these were wooden statues—“Holz”—he believed that meant wood. Wooden statues that resonated with his soul! He felt a million times happier. How unexplored the world was, how it revealed itself to his spirit! What a wonderful, thrilling life was within his reach! Didn’t Bamberg Cathedral make the world his own? He celebrated his triumphant strength, life, and truth, embracing the vast wealth he was gaining.
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.
But it was time to head home. He should catch a train. Throughout it all, there was a constant ache in the depths of his soul, but it was so persistent that it became easy to forget. He caught a train to 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.
It was ten o’clock as he climbed the hill to Cossethay, carrying his heavy book about Bamberg Cathedral. He hadn’t really thought about Anna yet, not for sure. The dark pressure of a bruise controlled him absentmindedly.
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?
Anna felt a pang of guilt when he left the house. She rushed to make the tea, hoping he would return. She toiled over some toast and got everything ready. Then he didn’t show up. She cried out of frustration and disappointment. Why had he left? Why couldn’t he come back now? Why was it such a struggle between them? She loved him—she really did love him—so 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.
She waited in distress—then her mood hardened. He slipped out of her thoughts. She had furiously questioned what right he had to interrupt her sewing. She had angrily rejected his claim to interfere with her at all. She was not to be messed with. Was she not her own person, and he the intruder?
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.
Yet a wave of fear washed over her. What if he decided to leave her? She sat there, dwelling on fears and suffering, until she cried from sheer self-pity. She had no idea what she would do if he left or turned against her. The thought of it chilled her, leaving her feeling desolate and hard. And against him, the stranger, the outsider, the one who wanted to assume control, she remained firmly resolute. Was she not herself? How could someone not of her own kind claim authority? She knew she was unchangeable, steadfast; she wasn’t afraid for her own existence. She was only afraid of everything that wasn’t her. It surrounded her, it came to her and became a part of her, in the form of her man, this vast, echoing, foreign world that wasn’t her. And he had so many weapons; he could attack from so many angles.
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.
When he walked in through the door, his heart was filled with pity and tenderness; she looked so lost, helpless, and young. She looked up, scared. And she was surprised to see him, glowing, clear, and graceful in his movements, as if he had been purified. A sudden wave of fear and embarrassment washed over her.
They waited for each other to speak.
They waited for the other to say something.
“Do you want to eat anything?” she said.
“Do you want to eat something?” 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'll get it myself,” he replied, not wanting her to wait on him. But she brought out food anyway. And he felt happy that she did it for him. He felt like a proud lord again.
“I went to Nottingham,” he said mildly.
“I went to Nottingham,” he said casually.
“To your mother?” she asked, in a flash of contempt.
“To your mother?” she asked, with a quick look of disdain.
“No—I didn’t go home.”
“No—I didn’t go back.”
“Who did you go to see?”
“Who did you see?”
“I went to see nobody.”
“I went to see no one.”
“Then why did you go to Nottingham?”
“Then why did you go to Nottingham?”
“I went because I wanted to go.”
“I went because I wanted to go.”
He was getting angry that she again rebuffed him when he was so clear and shining.
He was getting frustrated that she had turned him down again when he was being so straightforward and radiant.
“And who did you see?”
“And who did you meet?”
“I saw nobody.”
“I didn't see anyone.”
“Nobody?”
"Anyone?"
“No—who should I see?”
“No—who should I talk to?”
“You saw nobody you knew?”
“Didn’t you see anyone you knew?”
“No, I didn’t,” he replied irritably.
“No, I didn’t,” he said, annoyed.
She believed him, and her mood became cold.
She believed him, and her mood turned icy.
“I bought a book,” he said, handing her the propitiatory volume.
"I bought a book," he said, handing her the conciliatory 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?
She casually glanced at the pictures. Beautiful, the pure women, in their flowing gowns. Her heart grew colder. What did they mean to him?
He sat and waited for her. She bent over the book.
He sat and waited for her. She leaned over the book.
“Aren’t they nice?” he said, his voice roused and glad. Her blood flushed, but she did not lift her head.
“Aren’t they nice?” he said, his voice excited and happy. Her face turned red, but she didn’t raise her head.
“Yes,” she said. In spite of herself, she was compelled by him. He was strange, attractive, exerting some power over her.
“Yes,” she said. Despite herself, she felt drawn to him. He was intriguing, attractive, and had a certain 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.
He approached her and touched her softly. Her heart raced with intense passion, fierce, uncontrollable passion. But she held back for now. It was always the unknown, always the unknown, and she clung tightly to who she was. But the overwhelming tide swept her away.
They loved each other to transport again, passionately and fully.
They loved each other completely, with all their hearts and souls.
“Isn’t it more wonderful than ever?” she asked him, radiant like a newly opened flower, with tears like dew.
“Isn’t it more amazing than ever?” she asked him, glowing like a freshly bloomed flower, with tears like droplets of dew.
He held her closer. He was strange and abstracted.
He pulled her in tighter. He felt distant and lost in thought.
“It is always more wonderful,” she asseverated, in a glad, child’s voice, remembering her fear, and not quite cleared of it yet.
“It’s always more amazing,” she insisted, in a happy, childlike voice, recalling her fear, and still not completely free of it.
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.
So it went on endlessly, the cycle of love and conflict between them. One day it felt like everything was broken, all hope ruined, desolate, and destroyed. The next day it was all amazing again, just amazing. One day she thought she might go crazy just from being around him; the sound of him drinking was unbearable to her. The next day she adored him and felt joy in the way he moved across the room; he was the sun, moon, and stars all at once.
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.
She worried, in the end, about the lack of stability. When the perfect moments returned, her heart couldn’t shake the thought that they would fade away again. She felt uneasy. What she truly wanted was certainty, the deep-down assurance, the confidence in love's lasting presence: that was what she craved. And that was what she didn’t receive. She also realized that he hadn’t found it either.
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.
Nevertheless, it was a wonderful world, and she was mostly absorbed in its wonders. Even her deepest sorrows felt amazing 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 could be really happy. And she wanted to be happy. She got upset when he made her feel unhappy. Sometimes, she felt like she could just get rid of him. Many days, she looked forward to the moment when he left for work. Then, the flow of her life, which he seemed to block, would break free, and she felt liberated. She was free, and it filled her with joy. Everything made her happy. She picked up the rug and went to shake it out in the garden. Patches of snow were on the fields, and the air felt light. She heard the ducks quacking on the pond and watched them rush and glide across the water like they were about to conquer the world. She saw the sturdy horses, one of which had been groomed so that it wore a jacket and long stockings of brown fur, nuzzling each other in the cold morning by the churchyard wall. Everything thrilled her now that he was gone, the barrier removed, the world was completely hers, connecting 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.
She was happily busy. Nothing made her happier than hanging out the laundry in a strong wind that blew over the hill, yanking the wet clothes out of her hands and making them flap around. She laughed and fought against it and got annoyed. But she loved her days alone.
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.
Then he came home at night, and she furrowed her brows because of some ongoing struggle between them. As he stood in the doorway, her heart shifted. It hardened. The laughter and excitement of the day faded away from her. She felt rigid.
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.
They fought a battle they didn't even realize they were in. Yet, they were still in love with each other; the passion was undeniable. But that passion was overshadowed by their conflict. The deep, intense struggle remained unnamed and ongoing. Everything around them was vibrantly alive, as if the world had stripped away its facade and revealed a raw, primal nature.
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.
Sunday arrived when he cast that strange spell over her. Part of her loved it. She was becoming more like him. Throughout the weekdays, there was a glimpse of sky and fields, and the little church seemed to chatter with the cottages all morning. But on Sundays, when he stayed home, a deep, intense gloom gathered over the earth, the church filled with shadows, becoming vast, a universe to her, with burning shades of blue and ruby, a sense of worship surrounding her. And when the doors opened, and she stepped out into the world, it felt like a newly created world; she walked into the resurrection of the world, her heart pulsing with 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.
If, as usual, they went to the Marsh for tea on Sundays, she entered a lighter world that had never experienced the darkness, the stained glass, or the joy of singing. Her husband faded away; she was with her father again, who was so vibrant and full of light. Her husband, with his seriousness and gloom, disappeared. She left him behind, forgot him, and embraced 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.
Yet, as she walked home again with the young man, she hesitantly placed her hand on his arm, feeling a bit ashamed. Her hand seemed to ask him not to hold her refusal against her. But he was distant. He seemed to zone out, as if he wasn’t really 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?
Then she felt scared. She wanted him. When he didn’t notice her, she nearly lost her mind with fear. She was so vulnerable, so exposed. She was connected so deeply. Everything about her felt close and beautiful, like familiar spirits surrounding her. What if they all turned cold and distant again, pulling away from her, and she, having known their warmth, was left 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.
This scared her. Her husband was always the unknown that she had surrendered to. She was like a flower that had been coaxed into blooming, with no way back. He held her vulnerability in his hands. And who was he, what was he? A blind entity, a dark force, lacking understanding. She wanted to protect 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.
Then she pulled him close again and felt content for a moment. But as time passed, she began to see more clearly that he didn’t change, that he was something dark, foreign to her. She had thought he was merely a bright reflection of herself. As the weeks and months went by, she understood that he was a dark contrast 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?
He didn't change; he stayed distinctly himself, and he seemed to expect her to be a part of him, an extension of his will. She sensed him trying to gain control over her, without truly knowing her. What did he want? Was he going to intimidate 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.
What did she truly want? She told herself that she wanted to be happy, to be natural, like the sunlight and the bustling day. Deep down in her soul, she sensed that he wanted her to be dark, unnatural. Sometimes, when he felt like the darkness suffocating and stifling her, she reacted almost in terror and struck out at him. She hit him, made him bleed, and he turned wicked. Because she feared him and was horrified by him, he became evil and wanted to destroy. And then the struggle between them was brutal.
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.
She started to shake. He wanted to take control of her. And he began to quiver. She wanted to abandon him, to leave him exposed, with the filthy dogs of the night ready to attack and consume him. He had to force her to stay with him, while she struggled to maintain her freedom from 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.
They went their separate ways, now marked and stained with blood, feeling the world far away, unable to help. Eventually, she started to get tired. After a while, she became indifferent, completely detached from him. He was always on the verge of exploding with anger towards her. Her spirit rose up and left him; she moved on. Despite her seemingly carefree attitude, which darkened his soul with resistance, she trembled as if she was bleeding.
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 time and again, pure love shone down on them like sunlight, when she seemed to him like a flower basking in the sun, so beautiful, so radiant, so incredibly precious that he could hardly handle it. In those moments, it felt like his soul had six wings of happiness as he stood there, completely caught up in admiration, feeling the vibrant energy from the Divine flow through him like a heartbeat, as he stood in the bright light of gratitude, sharing the rhythm 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.
And time and again he showed up to her as the terrifying embodiment of power. Sometimes, when he stood in the doorway with his face illuminated, he felt like a revelation to her, making her heart race. She watched him, in a state of suspension. He had a dark, intense energy that she feared and fought against. She was at his mercy like she was in the presence of a powerful force. She waited on him, listened to his demands, and felt a shiver in her service to him.
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.
Then all of this faded away. He loved her for her innocence and for how different she was from him, for the uniqueness of her soul that contrasted with his and made him real when he might have been fake. And she loved him for the way he lounged in a chair, or for the way he walked through a door with an open and eager expression. She adored his bright, enthusiastic voice, and the aura of mystery surrounding him, his complete 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.
Yet neither of them was really happy. He sensed that she didn’t respect him. She only valued him as far as he was connected to her. Beyond that, she didn’t care about what he truly was. She didn’t appreciate what he represented as an individual. It's true, he didn’t even know what he represented himself. But whatever it was, she didn’t genuinely honor it. She didn't support his work as a lace designer, nor did she value him as a provider. Just because he went to the office and worked every day didn’t mean he earned any respect or consideration from her, and he knew that. In fact, she looked down on him for it. And he almost loved her for this, even though at first it drove him crazy 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.
What was even more challenging was that she soon began to challenge his deepest feelings. What he thought about life, society, and humanity didn't really matter to her; he was just too insignificant. This was frustrating for him. She would judge these things without considering his opinions. Eventually, he started to accept her judgments, seeing them as if they were his own. But that wasn't where the real problem was. The core of his resentment stemmed from the fact that she mocked his soul. He struggled to articulate his thoughts and often felt stupid. However, there were certain things he held onto fervently. He loved the Church. If she tried to pry into what he truly believed, they'd quickly find themselves both engulfed in a white-hot 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.”
Did he really believe that water turned into wine at Cana? She was driving him toward accepting it as a historical fact: so much rainwater—look at it—can it really become grape juice, wine? For a moment, he saw clearly and said no, his rational mind momentarily rejecting the idea. But instantly, his whole being erupted in a wild, confused hatred against this violation of himself. It was true for him. His reasoning shut down immediately, and frustration surged within him. In his blood and bones, he craved that scene, the wedding, the water brought from the barrels as red wine: and Christ saying to His mother: “Woman, what do I have to do with you?—my hour has not yet come.”
And then:
And then:
“His mother saith unto the servants, ‘Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.’”
“His mother says to the servants, ‘Whatever he tells 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.
Brangwen loved it with all his being; he couldn't let it go. But she made him. She disliked his mindless 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.
Water, natural water, could it suddenly and unnaturally turn into wine, lose its essence and randomly take on another form? 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 became the anxious, resentful child again, destructive and full of hate. He fell silent and felt empty. Deep down, he knew it was true: wine was just wine, and water was just water, always. The water had never turned into wine. The miracle wasn’t real. It felt like she was tearing him apart. He left, feeling dark and broken, his soul bleeding. And he experienced death. Because his life was built on these unquestioned beliefs.
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.
She felt lonely again, just like she did when she was a child, and walked away, crying. She didn't care, she didn't 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 a heavy sadness washed 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.
They were really down for a while. Then life started to come back. He was nothing if not persistent. He thought again of the chapter from St. John. There was a sharp pain. “But you have kept the good wine until now.” “The best wine!” The young man's heart responded with longing and triumph, even though the knowledge that it wasn't true gnawed at him like a weasel in his heart. Which was stronger, the pain of denial or the desire for affirmation? He was stubborn in spirit and stuck to his desires. But he wouldn’t claim the miracles were true anymore.
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.
Very well, it wasn't true; the water hadn't turned into wine. The water hadn’t turned into wine. But despite that, he would carry it in his soul as if the water had turned into wine. In reality, it hadn’t. 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.”
“Whether it turns into wine or not,” he said, “doesn’t bother me. I accept it for what it is.”
“And what is it?” she asked, quickly, hopefully.
“And what is it?” she asked, quickly, with hope.
“It’s the Bible,” he said.
“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.
That response infuriated her, and she hated him. She didn't personally question the Bible. But he made her feel disdain.
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 yet he didn't care about the Bible or the written word. Even though he couldn't meet her expectations, she knew deep down that he had something genuine. He wasn't a dogmatist. He didn't genuinely believe that water turned into wine. He didn't want to turn it into a fact. In fact, his attitude was free of judgment. It was completely personal. He took what was valuable to him from the Written Word and added it to his spirit. He let his mind rest.
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.
And she was angry with him for letting his mind go dull. He refused to engage with what was human and part of humanity. He only thought about himself. He wasn't a Christian. Above all, Christ had taught 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.
She, almost despite herself, held on to her reverence for human knowledge. People may die physically, but in their knowledge, they are immortal. That was, in some way, her belief, vague and unarticulated. She had faith in the limitless power 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.
He, on the other hand, blind as a creature living underground, just ignored the human mind and chased after his own dark desires, following his own instinct. She often felt like she was suffocating. And she resisted him.
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.
Then he, aware of his blindness, fought back wildly, consumed by intense fear. He acted foolishly. He insisted on his rights, taking back the old role of the master of the house.
“You’ve a right to do as I want,” he cried.
"You have the right to do what I want," he shouted.
“Fool!” she answered. “Fool!”
"Idiot!" she replied. "Idiot!"
“I’ll let you know who’s master,” he cried.
“I'll show you who's in charge,” he shouted.
“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!”
“Idiot!” she replied. “Idiot! I’ve known my own father, who could fit a dozen of you in his pipe and shove you down with his finger. Don’t I know what an idiot 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 was aware of how foolish he was, and the realization stung. Still, he kept trying to navigate the course of their shared life. He stood firm in his role as the captain of their ship. But the captain and the ship bored her. He wanted to feel important as the leader of one of the countless domestic vessels that make up society's vast fleet. To her, it seemed like a silly flotilla of useless boats colliding aimlessly. She had no faith in it. She mocked him as the master of the house, the master of their joint existence. And he felt overwhelmed with shame and anger. He knew, with embarrassment, how her father had been a man without claiming 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.
He had taken the wrong approach, and he found it difficult to abandon the journey. There was a strong wave of frustration and embarrassment. Eventually, he relented. He had let go of the idea of being in charge.
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.
There was something he wanted, though, a sense of control. Every now and then, after he stumbled into the trivial and embarrassing, he stood back up, and, determined in his spirit, confident in his ability to start over, set out again with his masculine pride to fulfill the deep desire of his soul.
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.
It started off well, but it always ended in conflict between them, driving them both almost to madness. He claimed she didn’t respect him. She laughed at him with empty ridicule. For her, it was enough that she loved him.
“Respect what?” she asked.
“Respect what?” she asked.
But he always answered the wrong thing. And though she cudgelled her brains, she could not come at it.
But he always responded with the wrong answer. And even though she tried hard to think, she couldn't figure it out.
“Why don’t you go on with your wood-carving?” she said. “Why don’t you finish your Adam and Eve?”
“Why don’t you keep going 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.”
But she didn’t care for the Adam and Eve, and he never touched it again. She mocked the Eve, saying, “She’s like a little puppet. 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!”
“It’s outrageous to claim that Woman was made from Man’s body,” she continued, “when every man is born of a woman. What audacity 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.
In a fit of anger one day, after struggling with the board and failing, which left him feeling sick to his stomach, he chopped up the entire panel and tossed it into the fire. She had no idea. For the next few days, he walked around feeling very quiet and subdued.
“Where is the Adam and Eve board?” she asked him.
“Where's the Adam and Eve board?” she asked him.
“Burnt.”
"Burned."
She looked at him.
She glanced at him.
“But your carving?”
"But what about your carving?"
“I burned it.”
"I set it on fire."
“When?”
"When?"
She did not believe him.
She didn't believe him.
“On Friday night.”
"Friday night."
“When I was at the Marsh?”
“When I was at the Marsh?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
She said no more.
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.
Then, after he left for work, she cried all day and felt deeply affected. From the ashes of this latest hurt, a new, delicate flame of love emerged.
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.
Directly, it hit her that she was pregnant. A deep sense of wonder and excitement surged through her soul. She wanted a child. It wasn't that she was particularly fond of babies, although she felt a fondness for all young beings. She longed to have children. And a certain yearning in her heart wanted to bring her husband and herself together through 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.
She really wanted a son. She believed a son would mean everything to her. She wanted to share this with her husband, but it felt like such a vulnerable and personal thing to say, especially since he was being so tough and distant at that moment. So, she walked away and cried. It felt like such a waste of a beautiful chance, such a harsh blow that ruined one of the best moments of her life. She moved around feeling heavy and anxious with her secret, wanting to touch him gently and see his dark, sensitive face react to her news. She kept waiting for him to become kind and calm with her, but he was always rough and bullied her.
So that the buds shrivelled from her confidence, she was chilled. She went down to the Marsh.
So the buds wilted from her confidence, leaving her feeling cold. 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?”
“Well,” her father said, looking at her and noticing her right away, “what’s wrong with you now?”
The tears came at the touch of his careful love.
The tears fell at the gentle touch of his love.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Nothing,” she replied.
“Can’t you hit it off, you two?” he said.
"Can't you two get along?" he said.
“He’s so obstinate,” she quivered; but her soul was obdurate itself.
"He's so stubborn," she shivered; but her heart was unyielding itself.
“Ay, an’ I know another who’s all that,” said her father.
“Ay, and I know someone else who's exactly that,” said her father.
She was silent.
She didn’t say anything.
“You don’t want to make yourselves miserable,” said her father; “all about nowt.”
“You don’t want to make yourselves unhappy,” her father said; “it’s all about nothing.”
“He isn’t miserable,” she said.
“He's not 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'll put my life on it, if you can't do anything else, you can make him as miserable as a dog. You'd be really good at that, my girl.”
“I do nothing to make him miserable,” she retorted.
“I don’t do anything to make him miserable,” she shot back.
“Oh no—oh no! A packet o’ butterscotch, you are.”
“Oh no—oh no! You’re a packet of butterscotch.”
She laughed a little.
She chuckled a bit.
“You mustn’t think I want him to be miserable,” she cried. “I don’t.”
“You shouldn’t think I want him to be unhappy,” 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.”
“We easily believe that,” replied Brangwen. “And you don’t expect him to be jumping for joy like a fish in a pond either.”
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.
This made her think. She was quite surprised to realize that she did not expect her husband to be jumping for joy like a fish in a pond.
Her mother came, and they all sat down to tea, talking casually.
Her mom came, and they all sat down for tea, chatting 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.”
“Remember, sweetheart,” her mom said, “not everything is just waiting for you to pick it up or let it go. You can’t expect that. In a relationship, love is what really counts, and it’s not just you or him. It’s a separate thing that you both have to build together. Don’t expect it to always go 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.”
“Ha—me neither. If I did, I would quickly realize my mistake. If I reach out to grab something, my hand is bitten very quickly, trust me.”
“Then you must mind where you put your hand,” said her father.
“Then you need to be careful about 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.
Anna was quite upset that they treated the tragedy of her early married life with such calmness.
“You love the man right enough,” said her father, wrinkling his forehead in distress. “That’s all as counts.”
“You really love the guy,” her father said, furrowing his brow in worry. “That’s all that matters.”
“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.
“I do love him, which is so wrong of him,” she cried. “I want to tell him—I’ve been waiting for four days now to tell him——” her face began to tremble, and the tears started to flow. Her parents watched her in silence. She didn’t continue.
“Tell him what?” said her father.
“Tell him what?” her father asked.
“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.”
“Here we are, about to have a baby,” she cried, “and he’s never, ever let me, not even once. Every time I've gone to him, he’s been terrible to me, and I've wanted to tell him. I really have. But he won’t let me—he's been so 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.
She cried as if her heart was about to break. Her mother came over to comfort her, wrapped her arms around her, and held her tight. Her father sat with a strange, furrowed brow, looking a bit paler than usual. His heart was filled with hatred for 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.
So that, when the story was finished, and comfort was given and tea was sipped, and something like calm was restored to the small group, the idea of Will Brangwen's arrival was not looked upon positively.
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:
Tilly was on the lookout for him as he walked by on his way home. The small group at the table heard the woman’s servant’s loud call:
“You’ve got to come in, Will. Anna’s here.”
“You need to come in, Will. Anna’s here.”
After a few moments, the youth entered.
After a short while, the young man came in.
“Are you stopping?” he asked in his hard, harsh voice.
“Are you stopping?” he asked in his rough, grating voice.
He seemed like a blade of destruction standing there. She quivered to tears.
He looked like a force of destruction standing there. She trembled to the point of tears.
“Sit you down,” said Tom Brangwen, “an’ take a bit off your length.”
“Sit down,” said Tom Brangwen, “and take a load off your feet.”
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.
Will Brangwen sat down. He felt something unusual in the atmosphere. He had dark brows, but his eyes had a sharp, focused look, as if he could only see far away; this was a quality in him that made Anna so angry.
“Why does he always deny me?” she said to herself. “Why is it nothing to him, what I am?”
“Why does he always deny me?” she wondered. “Why doesn't he care about who I am?”
And Tom Brangwen, blue-eyed and warm, sat in opposition to the youth.
And Tom Brangwen, with his blue eyes and warm personality, sat facing the young man.
“How long are you stopping?” the young husband asked his wife.
“How long are you staying?” the young husband asked his wife.
“Not very long,” she said.
"Not too long," she said.
“Get your tea, lad,” said Tom Brangwen. “Are you itchin’ to be off the moment you enter?”
“Get your tea, kid,” said Tom Brangwen. “Are you eager to leave the second you walk in?”
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.
They chatted about trivial things. The rays of the setting sun streamed in through the open door, illuminating the floor. A gray hen quickly stepped into the doorway, pecking at the ground. The light shone through her comb and wattles, creating a flowing banner as she moved, her gray body looked almost ghostly.
Anna, watching, threw scraps of bread, and she felt the child flame within her. She seemed to remember again forgotten, burning, far-off things.
Anna, watching, tossed pieces of bread, and she felt the child ignite within her. She seemed to recall once more forgotten, burning, distant memories.
“Where was I born, mother?” she asked.
“Where was I born, Mom?” she asked.
“In London.”
“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?”
“And was my father”—she talked about him like he was just a strange name: she could never see him as part of her—“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.
“He had dark brown hair and dark eyes and a healthy complexion. He went bald, pretty bald, when he was quite young,” replied her mother, as if recounting a story that was merely a product of her imagination.
“Was he good-looking?”
“Was he attractive?”
“Yes—he was very good-looking—rather small. I have never seen an Englishman who looked like him.”
“Yes—he was very attractive—quite petite. I have never seen an Englishman who looked like him.”
“Why?”
“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.”
“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 at all steady—like a flowing stream.”
It flashed over the youth—Anna too was like a running stream. Instantly he was in love with her again.
It hit the young man—Anna was just like a flowing river. In that moment, he fell in love with her all over 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.
Tom Brangwen was scared. His heart was always filled with anxiety, fear of the unknown, when he heard the women in his life talk about their past partners as if they were strangers they had met briefly and then moved on from.
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?
In the room, a silence fell, and a sense of unity took over all their hearts. They were individual people with their own paths. Why should they try to forcefully claim each 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.
The young people went home as a tiny moon was setting in the early evening of spring. Clumps of trees floated in the sky, the small church stood out vaguely at the top of the hill, and the ground was a deep 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.
She lightly placed her hand on his arm from a distance. Even from afar, he felt her touch. They walked together, hand in hand, along different paths, connecting even as the day faded. The soft sound of thrushes echoed in the deepening blue twilight.
“I think we are going to have an infant, Bill,” she said, from far off.
“I think we’re going to have a baby, Bill,” she said, from a distance.
He trembled, and his fingers tightened on hers.
He shook, and his grip on her fingers grew tighter.
“Why?” he asked, his heart beating. “You don’t know?”
“Why?” he asked, his heart racing. “You don’t know?”
“I do,” she said.
"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.
They kept walking in silence, moving along different paths, hand in hand across the space between them, two distinct individuals. He felt a shiver as if a strong wind was hitting him from an invisible source. He felt scared. Scared to face the fact that he was alone. She seemed complete, independent, and content in her part of the world. He couldn't handle the thought of being disconnected. Why couldn’t he always feel united with her? After all, he was the one who had given her the child. Why couldn't she be with him, united with him? Why did he have to exist in this separation? Why couldn’t she be close to him, as one with him? She had to 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”.
He held her fingers tightly in his. She had no idea what he was thinking. The radiant light in her heart was too beautiful and overwhelming, stemming from the life inside her. She walked with a sense of glory, and the sounds of the thrushes, the trains in the valley, and the distant, 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 he was struggling in silence. It felt like there was a solid wall of darkness in front of him that was holding him back, suffocating him, and driving him crazy. He wanted her to come to him, to complete him, to stand before him so that his eyes wouldn’t have to meet the bare darkness. Nothing mattered to him except for her coming and making him whole. He was tormented by the terrible feeling of his own limitations. It was as if he was left unfinished, not fully formed against the darkness, and he wanted her to come and set him free into wholeness.
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.
But she was whole on her own, and he felt embarrassed by his dependence, his helpless dependence on her. His need, and his shame about that need, felt like a burden on him, almost like a madness. Nevertheless, he remained calm and gentle, honoring her state and because she was carrying his child.
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.
And she was happy in the sunshine. She loved her husband, appreciating him as a companion, as a source of gratitude. But for now, her needs were met, and all she wanted was to hold her husband’s hand in pure happiness, without overthinking it, just feeling joy.
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.
He had several collections of reproductions, including a cheap print of Fra Angelico’s “Entry of the Blessed into Paradise.” This brought Anna immense joy. The beautiful, innocent way the Blessed held hands as they moved towards the light, the truly angelic melody, made her cry tears of happiness. The flowers, the beams of light, the joining of hands was almost overwhelming for her, so pure and 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.
Day after day, the light streamed through the door of Paradise, and each day she stepped into that brightness. The child inside her sparkled, making her a beam of sunshine; the sunlight lingered and drifted outdoors, where the catkins on the large hazel bushes at the end of the garden hung in a gentle sway, and little puffs of warmth erupted from the black yew trees as a bird perched on the branches. One day, bluebells blossomed along the hedge bottoms, and cowslips shimmered like gold, fleeting and beautiful in the meadows. She felt a deep drowsiness and solitude. How happy she was; how glorious it felt to be alive: to have known herself, her husband, the passion of love and motherhood; and to realize that all of this continued to exist and burn around her, a powerful cleansing fire, through which she had passed to reach this peaceful, golden light, when she was pregnant, innocent, and in love with her husband and all the many angels by her side. She lifted her chin to the breeze that swept across the fields, feeling it caress her like sisters embracing her, and she inhaled the scents of cowslips and 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.
And in all the happiness, a dark shadow, shy and wild, a predator, roamed and disappeared from view, and like strands of fine silk blown across her eyes, there was a fear 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.
She felt scared when he came home at night. So far, her fear had never spoken, the shadow never rushed over her. He was gentle and humble, holding himself back. His hands were gentle on her, and she loved them. But there was a chill that ran through her, sharp as pain, because she sensed the darkness and something otherworldly still in his soft, protected 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.
But summer arrived quietly, almost like a miracle, and she spent most of her time alone. Meanwhile, the long, gentle drowsiness continued; the pale pink roses in the garden had all fallen, washed away by a heavy rain. Summer faded into autumn, and the long, hazy golden days started to come to an end. Crimson clouds swirled in the west, and as night fell, the entire sky was billowing and steaming, while the moon, far above the fast-moving clouds, appeared white and blurry. The night felt restless. Suddenly, the moon would shine through a clear patch in the sky, looking down from above like a prisoner. And Anna couldn't sleep. There was an unusual, dark tension surrounding 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.
She realized he was trying to impose his will on her, as if there was something he wanted, lying there dark and tense. Her soul sighed in exhaustion.
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?
Everything felt so unclear and beautiful, and he wanted to bring her back to the harsh, unwelcoming reality. She pulled away in resistance. Still, he didn’t say anything. But she could feel his intensity weighing on her, until the pressure became too much, and she cried out against the exhaustion. He was pushing her, he was pushing her. And she longed for the joy, the ambiguity, and the innocence of her pregnancy. She didn’t want his painful, corrosive love; she didn’t want it forced into her, to hurt her. Why did she have to endure it? Why, oh, why couldn’t he just be happy and self-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.
She spent hours by the window during those times when he dominated her with the heavy weight of his will, watching the rain fall on the yew trees. She wasn't sad, just a bit melancholic and pale. The child growing inside her provided a constant warmth. And she felt certain. The pressure came only from the outside; her soul was free of any burdens.
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.
Yet in her heart was always this same tension, anxious and on edge. She didn’t feel safe; she was constantly exposed and under attack. There was a deep longing within her for complete peace and happiness. What a weighty yearning it was—so weighty.
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.
She knew, somewhat, that he was never truly satisfied, constantly trying to pull something from her. Oh, how she wished she could connect with him in her own way! He was so present in her life. She felt like she existed in him too. And how she longed to be at peace with him, truly at peace. She loved him. She wanted to give him love, genuine love. With a strange, captivated expression on her face, she looked forward to his return 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.
Then, when he arrived, she stood up with her hands full of love, like flowers, radiant and innocent. A dark spasm crossed his face. As she watched, her face shining and flower-like with innocent love, his expression grew dark and tense, the cruelty showing in his brows, his eyes turned away, and she saw the whites of his eyes as he looked past her. She waited, reaching out to him with her hands. But from his body through her hands came the bitter shock of his passion, overwhelming her and destroying her in bloom. She recoiled. She got up from her knees and walked away from him, to protect herself. And it pained her greatly.
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.
To him, it was also torture. He saw the bright, flower-like love in her face, and his heart felt heavy because he didn’t want it. Not this—not this. He didn’t want that sweet innocence. He was restless. The anger and turmoil of his dissatisfaction tormented him endlessly. Why hadn’t she satisfied him? He had made her happy. She was fulfilled, at peace, innocent around the gates 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.
And he was unhappy and unfulfilled, consumed by torment, constantly wanting. It was her job to satisfy him: so let her do it. She shouldn’t come to him with sweet, innocent love. He would just push it aside and crush the flowers to nothing. He would ruin her naive happiness. Wasn’t he entitled to satisfaction from her? His heart was filled with burning desire, and his soul was tormented by unfulfillment. So let it be fulfilled in him, just like it was fulfilled in her. He had given her what she needed. Now she should 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.
He was harsh with her. But all along, he felt ashamed. And feeling ashamed made him even harsher. He was ashamed that he couldn’t find happiness without her. And he couldn’t. And she wouldn’t listen to him. He was trapped and engulfed in 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.
She begged him to start working again, to do his wood-carving. But he felt too hopeless. He had ruined his panel of Adam and Eve. He couldn't start over, especially not now, while he felt this way.
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.
For her, there was no ultimate escape, since he couldn't be free from himself. Strange and formless, she had to keep longing through the chaos, like a warm, glowing cloud caught in the middle of a storm. She felt so full, in her comforting uncertainty, that her soul cried out for him because he troubled her and wanted to ruin 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 still had her moments of joy, reviving old feelings of happiness. As she sat by her bedroom window, watching the steady rain, her mind was somewhere far away.
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.
She sat with pride and curious pleasure. When there was no one to celebrate with, and the unfulfilled soul needed to 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.
Suddenly, she realized that this was what she wanted to do. Pregnant as she was, she danced there in the bedroom by herself, raising her hands and her body to the Unseen, to the invisible 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.
She wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know. She danced in secret, and her spirit soared in happiness. She danced quietly before the Creator, she removed her clothes and danced in the pride of her size.
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.
It surprised her when it was over. She felt small and scared. What was she now facing? She kind of wanted to tell her husband. Yet, she hesitated to approach 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.
All the time, she ran on her own. She liked the story of David, who danced before the Lord and joyfully revealed himself. Why should he reveal himself to Michal, an ordinary woman? He revealed 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.”
"You come to me with a sword, a spear, and a shield, but I come to you in the name of the Lord:—for the battle belongs to the Lord, and He will hand you over to us."
Her heart rang to the words. She walked in her pride. And her battle was her own Lord’s, her husband was delivered over.
Her heart responded to the words. She walked with pride. And her fight was her own; her husband was handed 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.
In those days, she didn't even notice him. Who was he to challenge her? No, he wasn't even a Philistine or a Giant. He was just like Saul, declaring himself king. She felt a sense of amusement inside. Who was he to claim his kingship? She felt a proud laugh welling up inside her.
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.
And she had to dance joyfully in front of him. Since he was in the house, she had to dance for her Creator, separate from the man. On a Saturday afternoon, with a fire in the bedroom, she took off her clothes again and danced, lifting her knees and hands in a slow, rhythmic celebration. He was in the house, so her pride was stronger. She would dance his defeat; she would dance for her unseen Lord. She felt elevated over him, in front of 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.
She heard him coming up the stairs, and she flinched. She stood with the firelight on her ankles and feet, naked in the dim late afternoon, tying up her hair. He was taken aback. He stood in the doorway, his brows dark and furrowed.
“What are you doing?” he said, gratingly. “You’ll catch a cold.”
“What are you doing?” he said, irritatingly. “You’re going to 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.
And she raised her hands and danced again, to erase him, the light shining on her knees as she made her slow, graceful movements across the far side of the room, through the firelight. He stood away by the door in deep shadow, watching, mesmerized. With slow, heavy movements, she swayed back and forth, like a full ear of corn, pale in the dim afternoon, threading before the firelight, dancing his absence, dancing for herself to the Lord, to joy.
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.
He watched, and his soul burned within him. He turned away; he couldn't bear to look, it hurt his eyes. Her graceful limbs lifted and lifted, her hair wild and fierce, and her large, strange, terrifying belly raised up to the Lord. Her face was ecstatic and beautiful as she danced joyfully before her Lord, completely unaware of any 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:
It pained him to watch, as if he were the one being punished. He felt like he was burning alive. The oddness and intensity of her dance consumed him; he was overwhelmed and confused. He waited in a daze. Then his eyes became blind to her, and he could no longer see her. Through the invisible barrier between them, he called out to her in a strained voice:
“What are you doing that for?”
“What are you doing that for?”
“Go away,” she said. “Let me dance by myself.”
“Go away,” she said. “I want to dance alone.”
“That isn’t dancing,” he said harshly. “What do you want to do that for?”
"That's not dancing," he said sharply. "Why do you want to do that?"
“I don’t do it for you,” she said. “You go away.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” she said. “Just leave.”
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.
Her oddly protruding belly, swollen with his child! Did he have no right to be there? He felt like his presence was an invasion. But he did have the 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.
She stopped dancing and faced him, lifting her slim arms and twirling her hair again. Her nakedness made her feel vulnerable, in contrast to him.
“I can do as I like in my bedroom,” she cried. “Why do you interfere with me?”
“I can do whatever I want in my bedroom,” she shouted. “Why do you bother 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.
And she put on a robe and crouched in front of the fire. He felt more relaxed now that she was covered up. The image of her haunted him every day of his life, as she had been then, an unusual, elevated figure that had no connection to him.
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.
After that day, his mind felt like it was closed off. His brow furrowed and became unyielding. His eyes stopped seeing, and his hands hung still. Inside him, his will was coiled like a beast, lurking in the shadows, but always powerful, active.
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.
At first, she continued happily enough with him silent beside her. But soon his influence started to take hold of her. The intense, smoldering power he had, like a creature that stays hidden and uses its strength to destroy the free-spirited beings, was like a tiger lurking in the shadows, slowly causing the fall and death of the light creatures that drink by the waterside in the morning. This began to impact her. Even though he lay still in the darkness, she sensed that he was waiting for her. She felt his will gripping her and pulling her down, even while he remained quiet and mysterious.
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.
She noticed that, in everything she did, he was holding her back. Slowly, she understood that he was weighing her down, the clingy, heavy presence of him dragging her down like a leopard clinging to a wild cow, tiring her out and forcing 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.
Gradually, she understood that her life, her freedom, was slipping away under the quiet control of his physical presence. He wanted to possess her. He wanted to consume her at his convenience, to truly have her. Eventually, she recognized that her sleep felt like a prolonged ache filled with weariness and exhaustion, because of his will bearing down on her as he lay there next to her throughout 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.
She understood everything, and there was a significant pause, a break in her quick running, a moment of suspension in her life, when she felt 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?
Then she spun around angrily and confronted him. He couldn’t do this to her; it was outrageous. What terrible power did he want to have over her body? Why did he want to pull her down and destroy her spirit? Why did he want to deny her essence? Why did he see her as just a body? And did he think he could take her just as a lifeless shell?
Some vast, hideous darkness he seemed to represent to her.
Some large, awful 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?”
“What are you doing to me?” she shouted. “What awful thing are you doing to me? You put this terrible pressure on my head, you won’t let me sleep, you won’t let me live. Every moment of your life, you’re doing something to me, something awful, that tears me apart. There’s something horrible in you, something dark and savage in your will. What do you want from 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.
All the blood in his body turned black, strong, and toxic when he heard her. He was overwhelmed with blind hatred for her. He was trapped in a dark hell and couldn’t break free.
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.
He hated her for what she said. Hadn't he given her everything? Wasn't she everything to him? The shame burned like a bitter fire inside him, knowing she was all he had. And then she dared to mock him for it, making it impossible for him to escape! The anger coursed through his veins like poison. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't break free. She was his everything; she was his life, his purpose. He relied on her. If she were taken away, he would fall apart like a house with its main support taken out.
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.
And she hated him because he relied on her completely. He treated her terribly. She wanted to push him away, to distance herself from him. It was awful that he clung to her, so tightly, so tightly, like a leopard that had jumped on her and held on.
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.
He went on day after day, consumed by anger, shame, and frustration. He tortured himself, trying to find a way to escape her. But he couldn’t. She was like the rock he stood on, surrounded by deep, turbulent water, and he couldn’t swim. He had to rely on her; he had to 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.
What did he have in life, except for her? Nothing. Everything else was just a chaotic tide. The fear of that night of relentless, overwhelming waves, which represented his view of life without her, was unbearable for him. He held onto her tightly and desperately.
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.
And she pushed him away, she pushed him away. Where could he go, like a swimmer in a dark ocean, pushed away from his grip, where could he go? He wanted to walk away from her, he needed to be able to walk away from her. For the sake of his soul, for the sake of his manhood, he had to 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.
But for what? She was the refuge, and the rest of the world was chaos. The only real, safe thing was the woman. He could only leave her for another woman. And where was that other woman, and who was she? Besides, he would just find himself in the same situation. Another woman would be just another woman; it would be the same deal.
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?
Why was she everything to him? Why did he have to live solely through her? Why would he drown if he were separated from her? Why did he cling to her in a desperate frenzy as if his life depended on it?
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.
The only other way to leave her was to die. The only clear way to leave her was to die. His dark, raging soul understood that. But he didn’t want to die.
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.
Why couldn’t he just walk away from her? Why couldn’t he just jump into the water and let whatever happen, happen? He couldn’t, he just couldn’t. But what if he left, like really left, found a job, and had a place to stay again? He could go back to how he was 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.
But he knew he couldn't. He needed a woman; he had to have a woman. But if he had a woman, he also needed to be free from her. It would be the same situation. Because he couldn't truly be free from 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.
For how can a man stand, unless he has something solid under his feet? Can a man walk on unstable water his entire life and call that standing? It’s better to just give in and drown right away.
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?
And what else could he rely on, except a woman? Was he then like the old man of the sea, unable to move without depending on someone else? Was he powerless, or broken, or flawed, or just incomplete?
It was black, mad, shameful torture, the frenzy of fear, the frenzy of desire, and the horrible, grasping back-wash of shame.
It was dark, insane, embarrassing torture, the chaos of fear, the chaos of desire, and the awful, clawing aftereffect 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.
What was he afraid of? Why did life, without Anna, feel like a terrible mess, everything tumbling around in a meaningless, dark, endless wave? Why, if Anna left him even for a week, did he feel like he was desperately clinging to the edge of reality, slipping further and further into a flood of unreality that would overwhelm him? This awful descent into unreality drove him crazy, his soul screamed with fear and pain.
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.
Yet she was shoving him away, breaking his grip on her, relentlessly and mercilessly. He wanted her to feel sorry for him. And sometimes, for a brief moment, she did. But she always started again, pushing him away, into the deep water, into the chaos and pain 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 turned into a fury toward him, completely oblivious to his feelings. Her eyes shone with a cold, unyielding hatred. At that moment, his heart felt like it was dying from sheer fear. She could easily shove him off into the abyss.
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.
She wouldn't sleep with him anymore. She said he ruined her sleep. That's when all of his panic and torment began. She pushed him away. Like a scared, sneaky devil, he was cast out, his mind scheming against her, plotting harm for her. But she pushed him away. In his moments of deep pain, she seemed unimaginable to him, a monster, the embodiment 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.
However her pity might fade at times, she was tough and distant like a gemstone. He needed to be kept away from her; she had to 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.
And he lay there defeated, his spirit battered almost to death, yet still the same. He lay in deep pain, thrown back into a state of confusion, like a person tossed overboard into an ocean, forced to swim until he sinks, because there was nothing to grab onto, just a vast, churning 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 didn’t sleep, except for that light dozing when a thin veil covers the mind. It wasn’t real sleep. He was awake, yet he wasn’t fully alert. He couldn’t be alone. He needed to wrap his arms around her. He couldn’t stand the empty space against his chest, where she used to be. He couldn’t handle it. It felt like he was floating in space, held there by the strength of his will. If he let go, his will would drop, fall through endless space, into a bottomless pit, always falling, without will, helpless, nonexistent, just plummeting towards extinction, falling until the heat of friction faded away, like a shooting star, then nothing, nothing, absolute 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.
He woke up in the grey, unreal morning. And she appeared to be fond of him again; she seemed to be trying to win him over a bit.
“I slept well,” she said, with her slightly false brightness. “Did you?”
“I slept well,” she said, with a touch of forced cheerfulness. “Really?”
“All right,” he answered.
“Okay,” he answered.
He would never tell her.
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.
For three or four nights he lay alone in a deep sleep, his will unwavering, still tense, locked in place. Then, as if she had come back to life and was free to care for him again, misled by his silence and apparent acceptance, and also moved by compassion, she took him back once more.
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.
Each night, despite all the shame, he anxiously waited for bedtime to see if she would shut him out. And each night, as she cheerfully said goodnight, he felt he had to either kill her or himself. But she asked for her kiss, so sadly, so sweetly. So he kissed her, while his heart was cold as 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.
And sometimes he went outside. Once he sat for a long time in the church entryway before heading to bed. It was dark, and a wind was blowing. He sat in the church porch and felt a sense of shelter, a bit of security. But it got cold, and he had to go to bed.
Then came the night when she said, putting her arms round him and kissing him fondly:
Then came the night when she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him affectionately:
“Stay with me to-night, will you?”
“Will you stay with me tonight?”
And he had stayed without demur. But his will had not altered. He would have her fixed to him.
And he had stayed without complaint. But his will had not changed. He wanted her bound to him.
So that soon she told him again she must be alone.
So she soon told him again that she needed to 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.”
“I don’t want to send you away. I want to sleep with you. But I can’t sleep; you won’t let me sleep.”
His blood turned black in his veins.
His blood turned dark in his veins.
“What do you mean by such a thing? It’s an arrant lie. I don’t let you sleep——”
“What do you mean by that? It’s a complete lie. I don’t keep you from sleeping——”
“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.”
“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 this pressure on my head. And I must sleep, now that the baby is coming.”
“It’s something in yourself,” he replied, “something wrong in you.”
“It’s something in you,” he replied, “something wrong with 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.
These nighttime battles were absolutely terrible, when the whole world was asleep, and they were all alone, just the two of them, pushing each other away. It was almost too much to handle.
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 went and lay down by himself. After a long, grey, and haunting time, he finally relaxed; something inside him loosened. He let go and didn’t care what happened to him anymore. He started to feel strange and disconnected from himself, from her, from everyone. Everything seemed vague, like he was drowning. And it felt like an endless relief to drown, a relief, a huge, huge 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.
He wouldn't push anymore, he wouldn't pressure her anymore. He wouldn't impose himself on her anymore. He would let go, chill, and whatever happens, happens.
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 still wanted her; he always, always wanted her. Deep down, he felt empty like a child, completely helpless. Like a little kid depends on its mom, he relied on her for his existence. He was aware of it, and he realized there was little he could do about 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.
Yet he needs to be able to be alone. He must be able to lie down next to the emptiness and just let it be. He must be able to surrender to the flow, to either sink or survive as it happens. Eventually, he realized his own limitations, as well as the limits 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.
There was a quietness, a frailty between them. At least half of the struggle was behind them. Sometimes she cried as she went about her day; her heart felt extremely 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.
They were friends again, new and more reserved friends. But there was a distance between them. They slept together once more, very quietly and separately, not as unified as before. She was close with him like she used to be, but he was very quiet and not close at all. He felt happy in his soul, but for now, he didn’t feel fully 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.
He could sleep with her and then let her go. He could be alone now. He had just discovered what it meant to be able to be alone. It felt right and peaceful. She had given him a new, deeper kind of freedom. The world might be a chaotic mess of uncertainty, but he was finally himself. He had come into his own existence. He was born a second time, finally becoming his true self, stepping out of the vast crowd of humanity. Now, at last, he had a separate identity; he existed alone, even if he wasn’t entirely alone. Before, he had only existed in relation to someone else. Now he had a complete self—as well as a connected 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.
But it was a really dumb, weak, helpless self, a crawling infant. He moved around very quietly and in a sort of submissive way. He finally had a constant self, free, separate, and 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.
She felt relieved; she was free from him. She had let him go. Sometimes she cried out of exhaustion and helplessness. But he was still her husband. And with the child on the way, she found herself starting to forget. It made her feel warm and sleepy. She drifted into a long, hazy daydream, soft and unclear, not wanting to be pulled out of her daze. And she leaned on him too.
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.
Sometimes she came to him with a strange light in her eyes, intense and almost sad, as if she were asking for something. He looked at her and couldn’t understand. She was so beautiful, so enchanting, it felt like the light inside him was reaching out to her. He was there entirely for her. She would hold his chest and kiss it over and over, kneeling beside him, waiting for the moment of her delivery. He would lie there, looking down at his chest, until it felt like his chest wasn’t a part of him anymore, like he had left it behind. Yet it was also him, beautiful and radiant from her kisses. He felt a strange, glowing pain of happiness while she knelt beside him, kissing his chest with a slow, devoted, almost reverent touch.
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.
He knew she wanted something, and his heart ached to give it to her. He was captivated by her. As she lifted her face, her beauty shining like a rosy cloud, his heart continued to ache for her, and from a distance, he adored her. She had a flower-like presence that he admired from afar, like 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.
The weeks went by, and the time was approaching; they were very kind and gently happy. The intense, passionate, dark part of him, the strong sense of dissatisfaction, seemed quieted and controlled; the lion lay down with the lamb within 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.
She loved him a lot, and he waited close by. At that moment, she seemed like a precious, distant being to him as she awaited her child. Her soul was filled with joy and excitement because of the impending baby. She wanted a boy: oh, how she desperately 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.
But she looked so young and so delicate. She was really just a girl. As she stood by the fire washing herself—she was proud to be doing that at this moment—and he watched her, his heart was filled with deep tenderness for her. Such fine, delicate limbs, her slim, rounded arms like playful lights, and her legs so simple and youthful, yet very proud. Oh, she stood on proud legs, with a lovely, carefree balance of her full belly, and the charming little curves, and her breasts starting to become significant. Above it all, her face was like a rosy cloud glowing.
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.
How proud she was, what a beautiful proud thing her young body! And she loved it when he put his hand on her fullness, so that he could also feel the excitement and the energy there. He was scared and quiet, but she wrapped her arms around his neck with proud, cheeky 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:
The contractions started, and oh—how she cried! She wanted him to stay with her. After her long tears, she would look at him, with tears in her eyes and a sobbing laugh on her face, saying:
“I don’t mind it really.”
"I'm fine with 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.
It was tough enough. But for her, it was never fatal. Even the intense, sharp pain felt exhilarating. She screamed and suffered, but all the while, she felt strangely alive and vibrant. She felt so intensely alive and under the control of such a powerful force of life that her deepest feeling was one of exhilaration. She knew she was winning, winning; she was always winning, with every wave of pain, she got closer 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.
Probably he suffered more than she did. He wasn't shocked or horrified. But he was stuck really tight in the grip 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.
It was a girl. The brief moment of silence on her face when they said so revealed her disappointment. A powerful wave of resentment and protest surged 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.
But when the milk arrived, and the baby latched onto her breast, she looked like she was overflowing with joy.
“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.
“It’s pulling me in, it’s pulling me in, it likes me—oh, it loves it!” she cried, holding the child to her chest with both 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:
And in a few moments, as she got used to her happiness, she looked at the young man with shining, unfocused eyes and said:
“Anna Victrix.”
"Anna Victrix."
He went away, trembling, and slept. To her, her pains were the wound-smart of a victor, she was the prouder.
He walked away, shaking, and fell asleep. For her, her pain was the battle scar of a winner; she felt even more proud.
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.
When she recovered, she was very happy. She named the baby Ursula. Both Anna and her husband felt they needed a name that brought them personal joy. The baby had tawny skin, a soft downy texture, and strands of bronze hair, along with yellow-grey eyes that shifted before settling into golden-brown like her father's. So they named her Ursula because of the image 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.
It was a pretty fragile baby at first, but soon it got stronger and was as restless as a young eel. Anna was exhausted from the nonstop struggle with its youthful energy.
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.
As a small creature, she loved and adored it and felt happy. She loved her husband, kissed his eyes, nose, and mouth, and cherished him, saying his body was beautiful; she was captivated by his physical form.
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 she really was Anna Victrix. He couldn’t fight her anymore. He was out in the wilderness, alone with her. When he had to go to London, he wondered, as he came back, about the naked, lurking savages on an island and how they had built up and created the huge expanse of Oxford Street or Piccadilly. How had helpless savages, running with their spears on the riverside after fish, managed to create this massive London, the heavy, imposing, ugly structure of a world made by humans on top of a natural world? It frightened and amazed him. Humanity was terrifying, awful in its creations. What people built was more terrifying than people themselves, 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 yet, for his own sake, Brangwen felt that everything in the man's world was outside and irrelevant to his true life with Anna. If he could just remove all the overwhelming structures of today's world—cities, industries, and civilization—leaving only the bare earth with plants growing and water flowing, he wouldn't care, as long as he felt complete, had Anna and the child, and the new, strange certainty in his soul. Then, even if he was naked, he would find clothes somewhere, build a shelter, and provide food for 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?
And what else? What else would be needed? The huge amount of activity that people were involved in meant nothing to him. He simply wasn’t a part of it. So what did he live for? Only for Anna, and just for the sake of living? What did he want in this world? Only Anna, his kids, and his life with them? Was there nothing 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 felt a sense of something greater, something beyond, that gave him complete existence. It was like he was now part of Eternity, regardless of Time. What was out there? The made-up world that he didn’t believe in? What could he bring to her from the outside? Nothing? Was it enough as it was? He felt uneasy about just accepting it. She wasn’t with him. Yet he hardly trusted himself without her, even though the entire Infinite was with him. Let the whole world fall into oblivion; he would stand alone. But he was uncertain about her. And he existed in her too. So he was conflicted.
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.
He hovered close to her, never quite able to shake the vague, haunting uncertainty that seemed to challenge him, yet which he wouldn't confront. A pang of dread, almost guilt, as if he were inadequate, washed over him as he listened to her talking to the baby. She stood by the window, holding the month-old child in her arms, speaking in a musical, youthful sing-song that he had never heard before, which resonated in his heart like a distant call, or the voice of another world demanding his attention. He stood nearby, listening, and his heart surged, wanting to rise and surrender. Then it pulled back and remained distant. He couldn't move; he felt a denial taking hold, as if he couldn’t 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.
“Look at the silly blue-tits, my darling,” she cooed, lifting the baby to the window, where the white garden sparkled and the blue-tits flitted around in the snow: “Look at the silly blue-tits, sweetheart, having a little squabble in the snow! Watch them, my dear—flapping their wings and shaking their heads. Oh, aren't they naughty little things, naughty little things! Look at their yellow feathers scattered on the snow! They'll miss those when they get 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.
“Do we have to tell them to stop, do we need to say ‘knock it off’ to them, my bird? But they are so naughty, so naughty! Look at them!” Suddenly her voice turned loud and fierce as she tapped the window 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.
“Stop it,” she shouted, “stop it, you little pests. Stop it!” She called out louder and knocked on the window more forcefully. Her voice was intense and commanding.
“Have more sense,” she cried.
"Be more sensible," 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.”
“There, now they’re gone. Where have they gone, those silly things? What will they say to each other? What will they say, my little lamb? They’ll forget, right? 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.
After a moment, she turned her shining 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.
“They were really fighting; they were truly fierce with each other!” she said, her voice full of excitement and amazement, as if she belonged to the birds’ world and identified with their kind.
“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.
“Yeah, they’ll fight, those blue-caps,” he said, feeling happy when she turned to him, lighting up from somewhere far away. He came over and stood next to her, looking out at the marks in the snow where the birds had scratched around, and at the heavy, white and black branches of the yew trees. What was it that drew him in, what was the question in her bright face, what challenge was he being asked to confront? He didn’t know. But as he stood there, he felt a sense of responsibility that made him both happy and unsettled, as if he had to dim his own light. And he couldn’t move just 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?
Anna loved the child a lot, really a lot. But still, she wasn’t completely fulfilled. She had a slight feeling of anticipation, as if a door were half open. Here she was, safe and sound in Cossethay. Yet, it felt like she wasn’t truly in Cossethay at all. She was straining her eyes towards something beyond. And from her vantage point, which she had reached, what could she see? A faint, shining horizon far away, and a rainbow like an archway, a shadowy door with softly colored trim above it. Did she have to move toward that?
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.
Something she hadn't realized, something she couldn't understand, was beyond her reach. But why did she have to begin the journey? She felt so secure 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”.
In the winter, when she woke up with the sunrise and looked out the back windows to see the east glowing bright yellow and orange above the green, shining grass, while the huge pear tree in the middle stood dark and impressive like an idol, and under that dark pear tree, the small pond reflected smooth, shiny yellow light, she said, “It is here.” And when, in the evening, the sunset burst in a red glare through the big gap 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?
Dawn and sunset were the ends of the rainbow that stretched across the day, and she saw the hope, the promise. Why should she go 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?”
Yet she always asked the question. As the sun set in its fiery winter rush, she confronted the intense end of the situation, in which she had not fully participated, and she insisted still: “What are you doing, creating this huge shining fuss? What is it that keeps you so occupied that you won't 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.
She didn't look to her husband to guide her. He felt separate from her, shaped by her own views of him. The child she could hold close, she could also throw into the fire; the child could walk there among the burning coals and the intense heat, just like the three witnesses walked with the angel in the flames.
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.
Soon, she felt confident in her husband. She recognized his dark features and the depth of his passion. She acknowledged his slim, energetic body, claiming it as her own. At that point, there was no arguing with her. She was a wealthy woman relishing her wealth.
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.
And soon she was pregnant again. This made her happy and took away her discontent. She forgot that she had watched the sun rise and move across the sky, a magnificent traveler pushing forward. She forgot that the moon had peeked through a window in the dark night and nodded like it recognized her, beckoning her to follow. The sun and moon moved on, leaving her behind, a wealthy woman enjoying her riches. She should go too. But she couldn’t leave when they called, because she had to stay home now. With satisfaction, she gave up the adventure into the unknown. She was having 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.
There was another child on the way, and Anna fell into a vague sense of happiness. If she weren't still a traveler into the unknown, if she were here now, settled in her beautiful house, a wealthy woman, still her doors would open under the arch of the rainbow, her doorstep would reflect the passing of the sun and the moon, the great travelers, and her house would be filled with the echoes of adventure.
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.
She was a door and a threshold, she herself. Through her, another soul was coming, to stand upon her as if on a threshold, looking out, shading its eyes to see which way to go.
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.
During the first year of her marriage, before Ursula was born, Anna Brangwen and her husband went to visit her mother’s friend, Baron Skrebensky. He had maintained a bit of a connection with Anna’s mother and had always shown some eager 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.
When Baron Skrebensky was around forty, his wife passed away, leaving him upset and heartbroken. Lydia had come to see him then, bringing Anna along. Anna was fourteen at the time. She hadn’t seen him since. She remembered him as a short, intense clergyman who cried and talked a lot and scared her, while her mother offered the strangest comfort 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.
The little Baron never really liked Anna because she didn’t speak any Polish. Still, he saw himself as her guardian, at least in a way, for Lensky, and he gave her some old, heavy Russian jewelry, the least valuable of his wife’s keepsakes. After that, he drifted out of the Brangwen’s life again, even 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.”
Three years later, the surprising news arrived that he had married a young English woman from a respectable family. Everyone was amazed. Then a copy of “The History of the Parish of Briswell, by Rudolph, Baron Skrebensky, Vicar of Briswell” appeared. It was an odd book, disjointed, yet packed with fascinating discoveries. 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.”
“If he embraces nothing more than the spirit of England,” said Tom Brangwen, “it’s a poor future 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.
But during a formal visit with his wife, he found the new Baroness to be a bit of a sly, creamy-skinned character with red-brown hair and a mouth that you had to keep an eye on, because it constantly curved into an odd, mysterious laugh that revealed her rather prominent teeth. She wasn't beautiful, yet Tom Brangwen was instantly captivated by her. She seemed to curl up like a kitten in his warmth, while also being elusive and ironic, hinting at 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.
The Baron was nearly overly polite and attentive to her. She, almost teasingly, yet very happy, allowed him to fawn over her. She was a curious little thing, possessing the soft, creamy, elusive beauty of a ferret. Tom Brangwen was completely at a loss, completely in her hands, and she laughed, a bit breathlessly, as if tempted to be cruel. She certainly put the elderly Baron through some delightful torments.
When some months later she bore a son, the Baron Skrebensky was loud with delight.
When a few months later she had a son, Baron Skrebensky was very loud with joy.
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.
Gradually, she built a circle of acquaintances in the county. She came from a good family, partially Venetian, and was educated in Dresden. The little foreign vicar reached a social status that nearly satisfied his intense 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.
Therefore the Brangwens were surprised when the invitation arrived for Anna and her young husband to visit Briswell vicarage. The Skrebenskys were now doing fairly well, as Millicent Skrebensky had some money 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.
Anna put on her best clothes, tapped into her top high-school manners, and arrived with her husband. Will Brangwen, with his ruddy complexion, bright demeanor, long limbs, and small head, resembled some awkward bird and hadn’t changed at all. The little Baroness was smiling, showing her teeth. She had a genuine charm, a kind of joyful coolness, laughing and delighted, like a weasel. Anna instantly respected her and felt cautious around her, instinctively drawn to the strange, childlike confidence of the Baroness, yet also mistrusting it, captivated. The little baron was now completely white-haired, very fragile. He was wizened and wrinkled but still fiery and unbowed. As Anna looked at his lean body, his small, finely built legs, and lean hands while he spoke, she felt a flush rise. She recognized his masculine qualities, his lean, focused age, his informed passion, his ability for sharp, deliberate replies. He was so detached, so purely objective. A woman was completely outside of him. There was no confusion. This allowed him to give that precise, measured 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?
He was distinct and intriguing; his tough, core essence, shaped by age into something almost lifeless and harsh, was still so unwaveringly confident in its actions, so clear in its certainty, that she felt drawn to him. She observed his cool, hard, separate intensity, captivated by it. Would she prefer that over her husband’s scattered warmth, over his blind, fiery 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?
She seemed to be breathing in thin, sharp air, as if she had just stepped out of a hot room. These strange Skrebenskys made her aware of a different, freer atmosphere, where everyone was separate and independent. Wasn't this her true environment? Wasn't the close-knit Brangwen life suffocating 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.
Meanwhile, the little baroness, with a subtle glimmer in her full, shiny hazel eyes, was playing with Will Brangwen. He wasn’t quick enough to catch all her movements. Still, he watched her steadily, with bright, unwavering eyes. She was a strange being to him. But she had no influence over him. She blushed and felt irritated. Yet, she kept glancing at his dark, lively face, almost as if she looked down on him. She despised his straightforward, serious nature; it offered her nothing. Yet it frustrated her, as if she felt envious. He observed her with respectful interest, like he would watch a stoat at play. But he wasn’t involved. He was different altogether. She was like flickering, biting flames, while he was a steady, glowing red fire. She could draw nothing from him. So she made him blush deeply by adopting a biting, subtle sense of superiority. He blushed, but still did not object. He was simply 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.
Her little boy came in with the nurse. He was a quick, slender child, with sharp perception and a fleeting curiosity. Immediately, he regarded Will Brangwen as an outsider. He stayed with Anna for a moment, acknowledged her, and then quickly disappeared again, observant and restless, glancing at everything with interest.
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.
The father adored him and spoke to him in Polish. It felt strange, the formal, aristocratic way the father interacted with the child, the distance in their relationship, the classic fatherhood on one side, and the child's dependence on the other. They played together, but in their own distinct ways, like two separate beings, differing more in status than in their bond. And the baroness smiled, smiled, smiled, always smiling, revealing her slightly prominent teeth, possessing a mysterious appeal 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.
Anna realized how different her life could have been, how different her life was. Her soul stirred; she felt like a different person. The closeness she shared with her husband faded away, the intimate connection with Brangwen that was so warm, so close, yet so suffocating, where it felt like they were always in contact with one another, like family, was gone. She rejected this deep bond with her young husband. They were not one. His warmth didn’t always fill her, seep into her mind and her identity, until she became so entwined with him that she lost herself. She wanted her own life. He seemed to wrap around her, filling her with his essence, his passionate life, until she couldn't tell if she was still herself or if she had become another being, fused with him in a tight-knit world that engulfed her and cut her off from everything cool and 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.
She wanted her own, old, sharp self, detached, detached, active but not absorbed, active for her own sake, taking and giving, but never fully immersed. He, on the other hand, desired this strange connection with her, which she still fought against. Yet, she was somewhat powerless against it. She had spent so much time in Tom Brangwen’s love before.
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.
From the Skrebenskys’, they went to Will Brangwen’s cherished Lincoln Cathedral, since it wasn’t far away. He had promised her that, one by one, they would visit all the cathedrals in England. They started 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.
He started to feel excited as the time to leave approached. What was it that changed him so much? She was almost angry, given her background with the Skrebenskys. But now he was off on his own. He felt like his heart was opening up to look for the grand church overlooking the town. His spirit was racing 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.
When he spotted the cathedral in the distance, dark blue and watchful in the sky, his heart skipped a beat. It was a sign from above, the Spirit hovering like a dove, like an eagle over the earth. He turned his radiant, ecstatic face toward her, his mouth open in a strange, ecstatic grin.
“There she is,” he said.
"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.
The "she" annoyed her. Why "she"? It was "it." What was the cathedral, just a big building, a relic of the past, that could get him so worked up? She started to prepare herself.
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 climbed the steep hill, he excited like a pilgrim reaching a holy site. As they got closer to the area, with a castle on one side and a cathedral on the other, his veins felt like they were bursting with energy, he was filled with joy.
They had passed through the gate, and the great west front was before them, with all its breadth and ornament.
They had gone through the gate, and the impressive west front was in front of them, with all its width and decorations.
“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.
“It’s a facade,” he said, gazing at the golden stone and the twin towers, and loving them all the same. In a moment of joy, he found himself on the porch, standing at the edge of the unknown. He looked up at the beautiful texture of the stone. He was about to enter the perfect sanctuary.
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.
Then he pushed open the door, and the vast, shadowy space was in front of him, where his soul trembled and stirred from its resting place. His soul jumped, rising into the grand church. His body remained still, captivated by the towering height. His soul soared into the darkness, feeling like it was taking possession, it whirled, it was dizzy with a profound release, it trembled in the very essence, in the silence and the shadows of fertility, like a seed of creation 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.
She was also filled with wonder and amazement. She accompanied him on his journey. Here, the twilight was the essence of life, the colorful darkness was the source of all light, and the day. Here, the very first dawn was rising, the final sunset was setting, and the ancient darkness, from which life’s day would bloom and fade away, echoed with peace and deep, timeless 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.
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. Holding both birth and death, potential amidst all the noise and transitions of life, the cathedral remained quiet, a great, complex seed, whose flower would be a vibrant, unimaginable life, but whose beginning and end were the circle of silence. Surrounded by the rainbow, the jeweled gloom draped music over silence, light over darkness, fertility over death, like a seed folding leaf upon leaf and silence over the root and the flower, concealing the secret of all between its parts, the death from which it fell, the life into which it has dropped, the immortality it contains, 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 in the church, “before” and “after” were intertwined, everything existed in unity. Brangwen reached his fulfillment. He had come out of the womb, leaving behind its confines, and stepping into the light. Day after day, he had gained knowledge and experience, recalling the darkness of the womb while sensing the darkness that comes after death. Then, in that moment—after he had pushed open the doors of the cathedral and stepped into the twilight of both darkness, amidst the stillness of the two-fold silence where dawn was also 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.
Here the stone jumped up from the flat ground, jumping up with a complex, clustered desire each time, up, away from the horizontal earth, through twilight and dusk and the entire range of desire, through the swaying, the decline, ah, to the ecstasy, the touch, to the meeting and the fulfillment, the meeting, the clasp, the close embrace, the neutrality, the perfect, swooning fulfillment, the timeless ecstasy. There his soul stayed, at the peak of the arch, caught in the timeless ecstasy, fulfilled.
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.
And there was no time, no life, no death, just this timeless union, where the force from the earth met the force from the sky and the arch was secured on the keystone of ecstasy. This was it; this was everything. Until he brought himself back to the world below. Then he regrouped, in motion, every part of him strained and jumped, leaping straight into the darkness above, toward the richness and the distinct mystery, to the touch, the embrace, the union, the peak of eternity, the top 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.
She was also overwhelmed, but instead of connecting with the place, she felt silent. She loved it as a world that wasn’t entirely hers, and she resented his intense emotions. His passion in the cathedral initially amazed her, but then it made her angry. After all, there was the sky outside, and in here, in this mysterious half-light, while his spirit soared with the pillars, it wasn’t towards the stars and the vast dark space, but to intertwine with the echoing impulse of the towering stone, hidden in the dimness of the ceiling. The distant joining and interaction of the arches, the leap and push of the stone supporting a massive roof above, left her awed and speechless.
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.
But still—she remembered that the open sky wasn’t just a blue ceiling, or a dark dome filled with twinkling lights, but a vast space where stars moved freely, with an even greater freedom above them.
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.
The cathedral inspired her too. But she would never agree to all the soaring stone being woven into a massive roof that trapped her inside, beyond which lay nothing, absolutely nothing; it was the final limit. His soul would have loved for it to be that way: here, here is everything, whole, eternal: motion, connection, bliss, and no illusion of time, of night and day slipping by, just perfectly balanced space and movement intertwining and refreshing, with passion crashing like great waves toward the altar, a cycle 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.
Her soul was also pulled toward the altar, to the edge of Eternity, filled with reverence, fear, and joy. But she always hesitated along the way, uncertain about reaching the altar. She didn't want to be swept away by intense emotions, only to end up at the altar steps like someone washed up on the shore of the unknown. There was immense joy and truth in that, but even in the dizzying atmosphere of the cathedral, she asserted her own right. The altar was empty, its lights extinguished. God no longer burned in that bush. It was just lifeless matter resting there. She insisted on her right to freedom above her, beyond the ceiling. She always felt confined under a roof.
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.
She clung to small things that kept her from being swept away by the rush of passion that propels forward into the Infinite in a huge, triumphant wave, following its own path. She wanted to escape this constant, rushing motion, to rise above it like a bird with wet, heavy feet struggling to take off from the sea, to lift herself as a bird does, pushing against the force and surge of a sea that drives it towards an undesired end, to break free like a bird on wings, and in open space where everything is clear, to hover above the unsteady, charged movement, a separate dot suspended, moving here and there, observing and reacting before it sinks down again, having chosen or discovered the direction it will be taken.
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.
And it felt like she had to grab onto something, like her wings were too weak to lift her up from the rough movements below. Then she noticed the eerie, strange little faces carved in stone, and she stood in front of them, frozen.
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.
These sneaky little faces peeked out from the impressive cathedral like they had a secret. They were well aware, these little tricksters who challenged humanity's own illusions, that the cathedral wasn't everything. They winked and smirked, hinting at all the things that were missing from the grand idea of the church. "No matter how much is in here, there's a lot they haven't included," the little faces taunted.
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.
Beyond the lift and energy of the strong push toward the altar, these little faces had their own wills, movements, and understanding, which pushed back against the current and reveled in the victory of their own smallness.
“Oh, look!” cried Anna. “Oh, look how adorable, the faces! Look at her.”
“Oh, look!” Anna exclaimed. “Oh, look how cute the faces are! Check her out.”
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.
Brangwen looked away, not wanting to. This was the voice of temptation in his paradise. She pointed out a chubby, cunning, malicious little face carved in stone.
“He knew her, the man who carved her,” said Anna. “I’m sure she was his wife.”
“He knew her, the guy 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.
“It isn’t a woman at all, it’s a man,” Brangwen said bluntly.
“Do you think so?—No! That isn’t a man. That is no man’s face.”
“Do you really think so?—No! That’s not a man. That’s not a 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.
Her voice sounded kind of mocking. He gave a short laugh and continued on. But she wouldn’t follow him. She hung around the carvings instead. And he couldn’t move forward without her. He waited, frustrated by this hold-up. She was ruining his intense connection with the cathedral. His eyebrows started to furrow.
“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?”
“Oh, this is great!” she exclaimed again. “Here’s the same woman—look!—only he made her angry! Isn’t it beautiful! He made her so ugly, right?” She laughed with delight. “Didn’t he despise her? He must have been a nice guy! Look at her—isn’t it just awful—just like a mean woman. He must have loved putting her in like that. He really got back at her, didn’t he?”
“It’s a man’s face, no woman’s at all—a monk’s—clean shaven,” he said.
“It’s a man’s face, definitely not a woman’s—a monk’s—clean-shaven,” he said.
She laughed with a pouf! of laughter.
She laughed with a burst 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.
"You hate to think he put his wife in your cathedral, don’t you?" she teased, with a burst of inappropriate laughter. And she laughed with wicked satisfaction.
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.
She had escaped from the cathedral, even shattering the passion he had for it. She felt happy. He was filled with intense anger. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see the cathedral as wonderful anymore. He was disillusioned. What had once been his everything, embodying all things heavenly and earthly, had become for him, just like for her, a beautiful pile of lifeless matter—but lifeless, lifeless.
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.
His mouth was full of ash, and his soul was furious. He hated her for destroying another one of his essential illusions. Soon he would be completely exposed, without a single place to stand, without a single belief to hold on to.
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.
Yet somewhere inside him, he felt a stronger connection to the cunning little face that understood more than he had to the perfect rise 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.
Nevertheless, for now his soul was miserable and without a home, and he couldn’t stand the thought of Anna pushing him out of his cherished realities. He wanted his cathedral; he wanted to fulfill his intense desire. And he could not do that anymore. Something got in the way.
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.
They went home again, both changed. She had a new appreciation for what he desired, and he felt that his cathedrals would never again hold the same significance for him. Previously, he had viewed them as absolute. But now, he saw them huddled under the sky, still holding the dark, mysterious reality inside, but like a world within a world, a kind of sideshow, whereas before they had seemed like a world to him within chaos: a reality, an order, an absolute, amid 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.
He had felt before that if he could just walk through the big door and look into the darkness toward the distant, ultimate wonder of the altar, then, with the windows hovering around like shining jewels, giving off their own light, he would have arrived. Here was the fulfillment he had longed for, at this threshold of the great Unknown, all of reality coming together, and there, the altar was the mystical door through which everything must pass into 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.
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 jeweled 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.
He listened to the thrushes in the gardens and heard a note that the cathedrals didn’t capture: something free, carefree, and joyful. He crossed a field filled with vibrant dandelions on his way to work, and the bright yellow glow was both luxurious and fresh, making him glad to be away from his dark 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.
There was life beyond the Church. There was a lot that the Church didn't encompass. He considered God and the vast blue sky of the day. That felt something majestic and unrestricted. He reflected on the remnants of Greek worship, and it appeared that a temple was never truly a temple until it had decayed, intertwining with the winds, the sky, and the plants.
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.
Still, he loved the Church. He cherished it as a symbol. He cared for it because of what it represented, rather than what it actually was. Still, he loved it. The small church across his garden wall attracted him, and he gave it his affectionate attention. But he took charge of it to preserve it. To him, it was like an old, sacred thing. He looked after the stone and woodwork, fixed the organ, restored a piece of broken carving, and repaired the church furniture. Eventually, he also became the choir master.
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.
His life was losing its core, becoming more shallow. He couldn't manage to become truly articulate, couldn't find genuine expression. He had to stick to the old ways. But inside, he felt unformed.
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.
Anna was completely focused on the child now, leaving her husband to go his own way. She was ready to put aside any adventures into unknown territories. She had the child, and her tangible and immediate future was the child. If her soul had found no voice, 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.
The church next to his house became very close and meaningful to him. He treasured it, and it was entirely his responsibility. If he couldn’t find anything new to do, he would be perfectly happy embracing the familiar, beloved way of worship. He recognized this small, whitewashed church. In its quiet ambiance, he felt at peace. He enjoyed losing himself in its stillness like a stone sinking 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 walked through his garden, climbed the small steps to the wall, and stepped into the quiet and calm of the church. As the heavy door slammed shut behind him, his footsteps echoed in the aisle, and his heart resonated with a touch of tenderness and a sense of mystical peace. He also felt a bit embarrassed, like someone who has fallen short and is returning to seek fulfillment.
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 loved to light the candles at the organ and sit there alone in the soft glow, practicing the hymns and chants for the service. The whitewashed arches faded into the darkness, the sound of the organ and the pedals faded away into the unchanging stillness of the church, there were faint, ghostly noises in the tower, and then the music swelled out again, loudly and 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.
He stopped worrying about his life. He let go of his will and relaxed. What existed between him and his wife was something significant, if not everything. She had truly won. Let him wait and endure, wait and endure. She, the baby, and he were one. The organ echoed his protest. His soul was in the darkness as he played 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.
To Anna, the baby brought her complete joy and fulfillment. Her own desires faded away; her soul was filled with happiness over the baby. It was a fragile child, and she found it challenging to care for it. She never once thought it might die. Because it was a delicate infant, she needed to make it strong. She dedicated herself to the task; the child was everything to her. Her imagination was completely consumed by this. She was a mother. It was enough just to hold the tiny limbs, the small body, and to hear the soft cries break the silence. The future echoed for her in the sounds of the baby's crying and cooing; she felt like she was balancing all the years to come in her hands as she cared for the child. The intense sense of fulfillment and the promise of the future grew within her, making her vibrant and strong. All the future lay in her hands, in the hands of a woman. And before this baby turned ten months old, she was pregnant again. She felt caught up in a whirlwind of life; every moment was rich and busy with productivity for 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.
Brangwen kept himself busy with the church; he played the organ, trained the choir boys, and taught a Sunday school class for youths. He felt content. There was a kind of eager, yearning happiness in him as he taught the boys on Sundays. He was constantly stimulating himself with the closeness of some secret he had yet to discover.
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.
In the house, he catered to his wife and their little family. She loved him because he was the father of her kids. Plus, she always had a physical attraction to him. So, he stopped trying to have spiritual superiority and control, or even her respect for his personal or public life. He lived simply by her physical love for him. He took care of the family, nursing the child and helping with housework, no longer concerned about his own dignity and importance. But his giving up on claims and living for his own interests made him appear insignificant and irrelevant.
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.
Anna wasn't openly proud of him. But soon enough, she learned to be indifferent to public life. He wasn't what you'd call a typical manly man; he didn't drink, smoke, or seek attention. But he was her man, and his indifference to all notions of masculinity made her feel important in their own world together. Physically, she loved him, and he fulfilled her. He always took a backseat. At first, it annoyed her how little the outside world seemed to matter to him. When she viewed him from a distance, she felt a bit of disdain. But that disdain turned into a kind of respect. She admired how he could serve her so simply and completely. Most of all, she loved bearing his children. She loved being the source of life.
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.
She couldn’t understand him—his strange, dark tempers and his dedication to the church. It was the church building he cared about; yet his soul longed for something more. He worked hard cleaning the stonework, fixing the wood, restoring the organ, and making the singing as perfect as possible. His goal was to keep the church structure and rituals intact, to have the sacred space completely in his control, and to ensure the service was fulfilling. There was a hint of bright anguish and tension on his face, and in his focused movements. He was like a lover who knows he’s been betrayed but still loves, whose love is only more intense. The church felt false to him, but he served it with even more devotion.
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.
During the day, at his office job, he felt like he was just going through the motions. He didn’t truly exist. He worked on autopilot until it was time to head 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.
He passionately loved the dark-haired little Ursula and waited for the child to wake up. Meanwhile, the mother was holding the baby all to herself. But his heart remained in its waiting state. His time 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.
In the end, he learned to give in to Anna. She made him follow her rules while still allowing him to keep his own. She fought against his inner demons. She endured a lot because of his strange and uncontrollable dark moods, when a deep gloom took over him, and it felt like a dark wind was wiping out everything connected to him. She could feel herself, everything, being destroyed 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.
At first, she resisted him. At night, in this state, he would kneel down to pray. She watched his hunched form.
“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?”
“Why are you kneeling there, pretending to pray?” she said, harshly. “Do you think anyone can pray when they're in the terrible mood you're in?”
He remained crouching by the beside, motionless.
He stayed crouched by the bedside, completely still.
“It’s horrible,” she continued, “and such a pretence! What do you pretend you are saying? Who do you pretend you are praying to?”
“It’s awful,” she continued, “and such an act! What are you pretending to say? Who are you pretending to pray 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.
He stayed completely still, boiling with undefined anger, when his whole being felt like it was falling apart. He seemed to be living under constant pressure, and every now and then, he would experience these dark, chaotic rages, a desire to destroy. She would then fight with him, and their fights were terrible, violent. And afterward, the passion between them felt just as dark and intense.
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.
But gradually, as she grew to love him more deeply, she would set aside her own needs. When she sensed one of his episodes hitting him, she would ignore him, successfully allowing him to stay in his own world while she stayed in hers. He fought a dark battle within himself to return to her. Eventually, he realized that he would be in torment until he came back to her. So, he struggled to surrender to her, and she was unsettled by the pain reflected in his eyes. She expressed her love for him and embraced him. In that moment, he felt grateful for her love, humbled.
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.
He built himself a woodworking shed to fix things that were damaged in the church. So he had a lot on his plate: his wife, his child, the church, the woodworking, and his job all kept him busy. If only there weren't some limit to him, some shadow over his eyes! Eventually, he had to face it himself. He had to acknowledge his own shortcomings, aware of some limit within himself, of his own dark, violent temper, and deal with it. But as she was gentler with him, it became calmer.
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.
As he sat there sometimes very still, with a bright, vacant expression, Anna could see the pain beneath the surface. He sensed some limits within himself, something unformed in his very essence, some potential that wasn't ready to flourish, some hidden sources of darkness that would never grow or reveal themselves while he was alive. He wasn't ready for fulfillment. Something undeveloped within him held him back; there was a darkness inside him that he couldn’t reveal, which would never come to light within 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?
From the beginning, the baby stirred within the young father a deep, intense feeling he barely allowed himself to recognize, as it was so powerful and sprang from his own darkness. When he heard the child cry, fear overcame him, echoing from the unexplored depths within him. Did he really have to confront such vast, dangerous distances within himself?
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.
He held the baby in his arms, pacing back and forth, troubled by the cries of his own child. This was his own child crying! His soul rebelled against the sound that suddenly erupted from him, from the depths within 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.
Sometimes at night, the child cried and cried when the darkness was thick and sleep weighed heavily on him. Half-awake, he reached out his hand to cover the baby's face and silence the crying. But something stopped him: the sheer inhumanity of the relentless, continuous crying held him back. It was so impersonal, without reason or target. Yet he responded to it directly; his soul reacted to its chaos. It filled him with fear, almost with madness.
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 learned to accept this, to yield to the terrible, erased sources that were the foundation of his being. He was not what he thought he was! Instead, he was what he truly was, unknown, powerful, and mysterious.
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 got used to the baby, knowing just how to lift and balance the little body. The baby had a lovely, round head that moved him deeply. He would have fought to the last breath to protect that beautiful, 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.
He got to know the little hands and feet, the strange, unseeing, golden-brown eyes, the mouth that only opened to cry, suck, or show a weird, toothless laugh. He could almost understand the dangling legs, which at first had made him feel a bit uneasy. They could kick in their odd little way, and 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.
One evening, he suddenly saw the tiny, living creature rolling bare in the mother’s lap, and he felt sick; it was so completely helpless and vulnerable and out of place. In a world of hard surfaces and different heights, it lay exposed and defenseless at every point. Yet, it was surprisingly carefree. Still, in its blind, terrible crying, was there not a deep, distant fear of its own bare vulnerability, the fear of being so completely exposed and helpless at every moment? He couldn't stand to hear it cry. His heart felt tight, ready to stand 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.
But he waited for the fear of these days to fade; he saw happiness on the horizon. He saw the beautiful, soft, delicate ear of the baby, a bit of dark hair shining like bronze dust. And he waited for the child to be his, to look at him and respond to 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.
It had its own existence, but it was his child. His flesh and blood resonated with it. He brought the baby to his chest with a joyful, hearty laugh. And the infant recognized 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.
As the newly opened, bright eyes looked at him, he wanted them to see him, to know him. In that moment, he felt validated. The child recognized him, and a strange smile spread across its face. He pulled it close to his chest, laughing triumphantly.
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.
The golden-brown eyes of the child slowly brightened and widened at the sight of the youth's dark, glowing face. It knew its mother better; it longed for its mother more. But the purest, most intense joy 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.
It started to gain strength, to move around energetically and freely, to make sounds that resembled words. It was a baby girl now. She was already familiar with his strong hands, she reveled in his firm grip, and she laughed and squealed when he played with her.
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.
And his heart burned with intense emotions for the child. She was just over a year old when the second baby arrived. Then he claimed Ursula as his own. She was his first little girl. He had his heart set 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.
The second had dark blue eyes and fair skin: people said it was more like a Brangwen. The hair was light. But they forgot about Anna’s stiff blonde hair from childhood. They named 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.
This time, Anna felt stronger and less eager. She didn’t care that the baby wasn’t a boy. It was enough that she had milk and could nurse her child: Oh, the joy of that little life sucking the milk from her body! Oh, the happiness, as the infant grew stronger, of those tiny hands clutching, reaching out blindly yet passionately at her breast, of the little mouth searching for her with instinctive, certain need, of the sudden, perfect peace as the small body settled in, the mouth and throat sucking, sucking, sucking, drawing life from her to create a new life, almost sobbing with pure joy of receiving its own existence, the tiny hands gripping desperately as the nipple was pulled back, refusing to let go. This was enough for Anna. She seemed to drift into a kind of joy in motherhood—her joy in 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 the father held the older baby, the weaned child, while the golden-brown, curious eyes of little Ursula looked at him, having waited behind her mother until he was needed. The mother felt a sharp pang of jealousy. However, she was even more focused on the tiny baby. It was completely hers, and its needs were directly on 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.
So Ursula became her father's favorite. She was the little flower, and he was the sun. He was patient, energetic, and creative for her. He taught her all the funny little things, filling her with joy and bringing out the best in her. She responded with her joyful baby laughter and shouts 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.
Now there were two babies, and a woman came in to do the housework. Anna was completely focused on being a nurse. Two babies weren't too much for her. But she despised any kind of work now that her children had arrived, except for taking care 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 Ursula walked around, she was a totally absorbed, busy kid, always finding ways to entertain herself and not needing much attention from anyone else. In the evening, around six o’clock, Anna often crossed the lane to the gate and lifted Ursula into the field, saying, “Go and meet Daddy.” Then Brangwen, coming up the steep hill, would spot a tiny, unsteady, windblown little girl with dark hair at the top of the path. As soon as she saw him, she'd come running down the hill in a wild, windmill-like manner, arms flailing excitedly. His heart would leap, and he’d sprint toward her to catch her, knowing she might fall. She would come tumbling down, her little arms flapping. He felt joy when he scooped her up in his arms. Once, she stumbled as she raced toward him; he saw her suddenly pitch forward while reaching for him, and when he picked her up, her mouth was bleeding. He could never stand to think about it, and he always felt like crying, even as an old man when she had become a stranger to him. How he loved that little Ursula!—his heart had been deeply marked for her when he was young and 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.
When she got a bit older, he would watch her recklessly climbing over the bars of the stile, wearing her red pinafore, swinging dangerously and tumbling down, only to pick herself up and come running towards him. Sometimes she enjoyed riding on his shoulder, other times she liked to walk holding his hand, and occasionally she would wrap her arms around his legs for a moment before darting away again, while he shouted and called after her, just a kid alongside her. He was still just a tall, thin, restless young man 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:
It was him who made her cradle, her little chair, her little stool, her high chair. It was him who would lift her up to the table or create a doll for her out of an old table leg, while she watched him, saying:
“Make her eyes, Daddy, make her eyes!”
“Make her eyes, Dad, make her eyes!”
And he made her eyes with his knife.
And he crafted 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:
She loved to decorate herself, so he would tie a piece of cotton around her ear and hang a blue bead from it as an earring. The earrings changed to a red bead, a gold bead, and a little pearl bead. And when he came home at night and saw her preening and looking very aware of herself, he noticed and said:
“So you’re wearing your best golden and pearl ear-rings, to-day?”
“So you’re wearing your best gold and pearl earrings today?”
“Yes.”
"Yes."
“I suppose you’ve been to see the queen?”
“I guess you’ve been to see the queen?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Oh, and what had she to say?”
“Oh, and what did she have to say?”
“She said—she said—‘You won’t dirty your nice white frock.’”
“She said—she said—‘You’re not going to get your nice white dress dirty.’”
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.
He gave her the best bites from his plate, putting them into her red, moist mouth. And he would make a bird out of jam on a piece of bread-and-butter, which she ate with great enjoyment.
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.
After the tea things were cleaned up, the woman left, giving the family some space. Usually, Brangwen helped bathe the kids. He had long conversations with his daughter while she sat on his lap and he took off her clothes. It felt like they were talking about important issues, deep moral ideas. Then suddenly, she stopped listening when she spotted a glass rolling into a corner. She slipped away and didn’t rush to come back.
“Come back here,” he said, waiting. She became absorbed, taking no notice.
“Come back here,” he said, waiting. She got lost in thought, not paying attention.
“Come on,” he repeated, with a touch of command.
“Come on,” he said again, with a hint of authority.
An excited little chuckle came from her, but she pretended to be absorbed.
An excited little chuckle escaped her, but she acted like she was fully focused.
“Do you hear, Milady?”
“Do you hear me, Milady?”
She turned with a fleeting, exulting laugh. He rushed on her, and swept her up.
She turned with a quick, joyful laugh. He rushed to her and lifted 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.
“Who didn’t show up!” he said, playfully rolling her between his strong hands and tickling her. She laughed loudly, genuinely. She loved that he had a way of making her feel safe with his strength and confidence. He was a force of nature, the pillar of strength that rose above her vision.
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.
When the kids were in bed, sometimes Anna and he would sit and chat, aimlessly, both feeling lazy. He hardly read anything. Anything he felt like reading turned into a vivid reality for him, like another scene outside his window. Meanwhile, Anna would flip through a book to see what happened, and then she was satisfied.
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.
Therefore, they would often sit together, chatting casually. What was really between them remained unsaid. Their words were just random occurrences in the shared silence. When they spoke, they gossiped. She wasn't interested in 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 had a lovely way of sitting and daydreaming, filled with gratitude, as if her heart was glowing. Occasionally, she would turn to him, laughing, to share a little story about something that happened during the day. Then he would laugh, they would chat for a bit, before the important, physical silence settled 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.
She was slim but full of color and life. She was perfectly happy doing nothing, just sitting with a curious, relaxed dignity, so carefree that it was almost royal, so completely indifferent, and so self-assured. The connection between them was hard to define, but very strong. It kept everyone else at bay.
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.
His face never changed while she knew him; it just became more intense. It was ruddy and dark in a way that felt abstract and not very human, with a strong, focused brightness. Sometimes, when his eyes met hers, a yellow flash from them would send a wave of darkness over her mind, electric, and a strange slight laugh would appear on his face. Her eyes would lazily turn away and then close, as if she were hypnotized. And they both slipped into the same deep darkness. He had the quality of a young black cat—intent, unnoticed—but his presence gradually made itself felt, quietly and powerfully taking hold of her. He called out, not to her, but to something within her that responded subtly, emerging from 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.
So they were together in a darkness, passionate and electric, always lingering in the background of everyday life, never in the light. In the light, he appeared to be asleep, unaware. Only she recognized him when the darkness set him free, allowing him to see his intentions and desires through his glowing golden eyes. Then she was entranced, and she responded to his intense, piercing call with a gentle leap of her soul, the darkness coming alive, electric and charged with an unfamiliar, overwhelming hint.
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.
By now they knew each other; she was the day, the sunshine, he was the shadow, set aside, but in the dark strong with an overwhelming allure.
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.
She learned not to fear and hate him, but to embrace him, to surrender herself to his dark, sensual power that stayed hidden during the day. The peculiar rolling of her eyes, as if she were slipping into a trance away from her everyday awareness, became routine for her whenever something threatened or challenged 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.
So they stayed separate in the light, yet married in the deep darkness. He upheld her daytime authority, keeping it intact at last. And she, in all the darkness, was his, belonging to his intimate, suggestive, hypnotic presence.
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.
All his daytime activities, all his public life, felt like a kind of sleep. She wanted to be free, to be part of the day. And he kept running away from the day with his work. After tea, he went to the shed to do his carpentry or woodcarving. He was fixing up the patched, worn-out pulpit to its original shape.
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.
But he loved having the child close to him, playing by his feet. She was a ray of light that truly belonged to him, shining within his darkness. He left the shed door unlatched. And when, with his sixth sense of another presence, he sensed she was coming, he felt content, he felt at peace. When he was alone with her, he didn’t want to acknowledge her or talk. He wanted to just be, with her presence flickering around 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.
He always moved in silence. The child would push open the shed door and see him working by lamplight, his sleeves rolled up. His clothes hung loosely on him, like just a covering. Inside, his body was full of a flexible, charged energy all its own, isolated. From when she was a little girl, Ursula could remember his forearm, with its fine black hairs and its electric flexibility, working at the bench with quick, unnoticed movements, always caught in a kind 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.
She paused in the doorway of the shed, waiting for him to notice her. He turned, his dark, arched eyebrows raising slightly.
“Hullo, Twittermiss!”
"Hello, Twitter miss!"
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.
And he closed the door behind her. Then the child was happy in the shed that smelled of sweet wood and echoed with the sounds of the plane, the hammer, or the saw, yet was filled with the silence of the worker. She played on, focused and immersed, among the shavings and small scraps of wood. She never touched him; his feet and legs were close, but 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.
She enjoyed darting out after him when he went to church at night. If he was going to be alone, he would lift her over the wall and let her join him.
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.
Again she felt a rush of excitement when the door closed behind them, leaving the two of them in the large, empty space. She would watch him as he lit the candles on the organ, waiting while he started practicing his tunes, then she would dart around, like a kitten playing by herself in the darkness with wide eyes. The ropes hung loosely on the floor, leading up to the bells in the tower, and Ursula always wanted the soft, red-and-white or blue-and-white rope-handles. But they were too high for her to reach.
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.
Sometimes her mom came to pick her up. Then the child felt a wave of resentment. She strongly disliked her mom's shallow control. She wanted to show that she could be independent.
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.
He also occasionally shocked her in a cruel way. He allowed her to play in the church as she rummaged through footstools, hymn books, and cushions like a bee among flowers, with the organ music filling the air. This went on for a few weeks. Then, the cleaning lady worked herself into a furious rage, daring to confront Brangwen, and one day came at him like a harpy. He felt overwhelmed and wished he could break the old beast's neck.
Instead he came glowering in fury to the house, and turned on Ursula.
Instead, he stormed into the house, fuming with rage, and confronted Ursula.
“Why, you tiresome little monkey, can’t you even come to church without pulling the place to bits?”
“Why, you annoying little monkey, can’t you even come to church without causing chaos?”
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?
His voice was harsh and cat-like, and he was oblivious to the child. She recoiled in youthful distress and fear. What was it, what terrible thing was it?
The mother turned with her calm, almost superb manner.
The mother turned with her calm, almost amazing demeanor.
“What has she done, then?”
"What has she done?"
“Done? She shall go in the church no more, pulling and littering and destroying.”
“Done? She won’t be going to church anymore, messing things up and causing chaos.”
The wife slowly rolled her eyes and lowered her eyelids.
The wife slowly rolled her eyes and shut her eyelids.
“What has she destroyed, then?”
“What did she destroy, then?”
He did not know.
He didn't know.
“I’ve just had Mrs. Wilkinson at me,” he cried, “with a list of things she’s done.”
"I just had Mrs. Wilkinson on my case," he exclaimed, "with a list of things she's done."
Ursula withered under the contempt and anger of the “she”, as he spoke of her.
Ursula shrank under the disdain and anger of the “she” he referred to.
“Send Mrs. Wilkinson here to me with a list of the things she’s done,” said Anna. “I am the one to hear that.”
“Have Mrs. Wilkinson come here with a list of what she’s done,” said Anna. “I need 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.”
“It’s not what the child has done,” the mother continued, “that has upset you so much; it’s that you can’t stand being talked to by that old woman. But you don’t have the guts to stand up to her when she goes after you, so you bring your anger 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.
He fell back into silence. Ursula knew he was mistaken. In the outside, upper world, he was wrong. The cold feeling of the impersonal world was already washing over the child. There, she understood her mother was correct. Yet still, her heart longed for her father to be right in his dark, sensual underworld. But he was angry and continued on his path in darkness and brutal silence once more.
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.
The child ran around, fully immersed in life, quiet and joyful. She didn’t pay attention to things, nor to changes or differences. One day she would find daisies in the grass, the next day, apple blossoms would be scattered white on the ground, and she would run through it all, just for fun because it was there. Another time, birds would be pecking at the cherries, while her father tossed cherries down from the tree all around her in the garden. Then, the fields would be filled with 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.
She didn’t remember what had happened or what would happen; the outside stuff was there every day. She was always herself, and the world outside was just a coincidence. Even her mom felt like a coincidence to her: a situation that just happened to last.
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.
Only her father held a permanent place in her young mind. When he came back, she had a faint memory of him leaving, and when he left, she knew she had to wait for him to return. In contrast, when her mother came back from an outing, she simply showed up; there was no reason to associate her with any 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.
The arrival or departure of the father was the one event that the child remembered. When he came, something stirred inside her, some longing. She could tell when he was out of sorts, irritable, or tired: then she felt uneasy and couldn't relax.
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.
When he was in the house, the child felt complete and cozy, like a being basking in the sunlight. When he left, she became vague and forgetful. Even when he reprimanded her, she was often more aware of him than of herself. He was her strength and her better 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.
Ursula was three years old when another baby girl was born. Then the two little sisters, Gudrun and Ursula, spent a lot of time together. Gudrun was a quiet child who could play alone for hours, lost in her own imagination. She had brown hair, fair skin, and a strangely calm demeanor, almost like she was indifferent. But once she made up her mind, her determination was unbreakable. From the beginning, she followed Ursula’s lead, but she still had her own world, making it unusual to see them together. They were like two young animals playing side by side without really noticing each other. Gudrun was the mother’s favorite—though Anna always seemed to focus on her newest 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.
The weight of so many lives relying on him took a toll on the young man. He had his job at the office, which he managed to keep up only through sheer determination: he had his unfulfilled dedication to the church; he had three young kids. At the same time, his health wasn’t great. So, he became worn out and testy, often a nuisance at home. Then he was instructed to work on his woodworking or go 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.
Between him and little Ursula, a strange alliance formed. They were aware of each other. He knew the child was always on his side, but he didn’t think much of it. She was always there for him, and he took it for granted. However, his life depended on her, even when she was just a tiny child, on her support and her agreement.
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.
Anna remained caught in her intense trance of motherhood, constantly busy, often overwhelmed, but always absorbed in her role as a mother. She appeared to thrive in her own intense fertility, as if the sun shone down warmly on her. Her complexion was vibrant, her eyes filled with a deep, fertile sadness, and her brown hair fell loosely around her ears. She exuded a sense of abundance. No responsibilities or sense of obligation weighed her down. The outside world, or public life, mattered little to her.
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.
When he turned twenty-six and became the father of four kids, with a wife who embodied the beauty of the most vibrant lilies, he felt the heavy burden of responsibility weighing him down. It was during this time that his daughter Ursula tried to connect with him. Even as a four-year-old baby, she was there when he was irritable, raising his voice and making the home tense. She felt the impact of his anger, but it didn't seem like it was really him. She wished for it to stop, wanting to restore their normal relationship. Whenever he was unpleasant, she sensed a deep need in him and reacted instinctively. Her heart reached out to him as if there was a bond between them and a love he was unable to express. Her heart consistently followed him, full of 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.
But there was a faint, childish feeling of her own smallness and inadequacy, a devastating sense of worthlessness. She couldn’t do anything; she wasn’t enough. She couldn’t be important to him. This realization numbed her from the very beginning.
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.
Still she moved toward him like a trembling needle. Her entire life revolved around her awareness of him, her alertness to his existence. And she found herself at odds with 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.
Her father was the dawn that brought her awareness to life. Without him, she might have lived like the other kids, Gudrun, Theresa, and Catherine, completely absorbed in flowers, insects, and toys, without a sense of self beyond whatever caught her attention. But her father came too close. The grip of his hands and the strength of his embrace pulled her from the fleeting innocence of childhood almost painfully. With wide eyes and no real understanding, she was awake before she knew how to truly see. She was stirred too early. The call came when she was just a baby, held tight against her father's chest, her sleep-filled heart jolted into awareness by the rhythm of his larger heart, as he embraced her out of love and need, like a magnet reaching out. Her response began to form dimly and vaguely within her.
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 children were dressed simply for the countryside. When she was little, Ursula walked around in wooden clogs, wearing a blue overall over her thick red dress, with a red shawl crossed over her chest and tied at the back. 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.
The family woke up early. He was out digging by six in the morning and headed to work at eight-thirty. Ursula usually joined him in the garden, though she kept a bit of distance.
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.
At Easter one year, she helped him plant potatoes. It was the first time she had ever assisted him. The moment stayed with her as a vivid memory from her early years. They had gone out soon after dawn. A cold wind was blowing. He had his old trousers tucked into his boots, didn’t wear a coat or vest, and his shirt sleeves fluttered in the wind. His face was red and focused, almost in a daze. When he worked, he neither heard nor saw anything. A tall, thin man, still looking youthful, with a line of black mustache above his thick mouth and his fine hair blowing across his forehead, he toiled in the grey early light, alone. His solitude drew the child in 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.
The wind blew cold over the dark-green fields. Ursula ran up and watched him push the setting peg into one side of the prepared soil, stride across, and push it into the other side, pulling the line tight and straight over the clumps of dirt in between. Then with a decisive slicing sound, the shiny spade came towards her, digging into the fresh, soft earth.
He struck his spade upright and straightened himself.
He planted his spade upright and stood up straight.
“Do you want to help me?” he said.
“Do you want to help me?” he asked.
She looked up at him from out of her little woollen bonnet.
She looked up at him from beneath her little wool beanie.
“Ay,” he said, “you can put some taters in for me. Look—like that—these little sprits standing up—so much apart, you see.”
“Ay,” he said, “you can put some potatoes in for me. Look—like that—these little sprouts standing up—so far 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.
And bending down, he swiftly and carefully placed the split potatoes in the soft grip, where they lay apart and sad on the heavy, cold ground.
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 handed her a small basket of potatoes and walked over to the other end of the line. She watched him bending down, working his way towards her. She felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. She placed one potato in the ground, then adjusted it to make it sit better. Some of the sprouts were broken, and she felt anxious. The responsibility felt like a tight string around her. She couldn't help but glance nervously at the string buried under the piled-up soil. Her dad was getting closer, bending down, working his way nearer. She was overwhelmed by her responsibility. She quickly placed the potatoes into the cold earth.
He came near.
He approached.
“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.
“Not so close,” he said, bending over her potatoes, taking some out and rearranging the others. She stood there, feeling the painful, terrified helplessness of childhood. He was so oblivious and self-assured; she wanted to help but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She stood by watching, her little blue overalls fluttering in the wind, the red wool ends of her shawl blowing wildly. Then he moved down the row, methodically, turning the potatoes in with his sharp spade cuts. He didn't notice her, just kept working. He was in a different 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.
She stood there, helpless and stuck in his world. He kept doing his work. She realized she couldn’t assist him. Feeling a bit sad, she finally turned away and ran down the garden as fast as she could, trying to forget him and what he was doing.
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.
He missed her presence, her face in her red knitted hat, her blue overalls fluttering. She ran to where a small stream trickled between the grass and stones. She loved that.
When he came by he said to her:
When he stopped by, he said to her:
“You didn’t help me much.”
"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.
The child stared at him, speechless. Her heart was already weighed down by her own disappointment. Her mouth felt helpless and sad. But he didn’t notice and continued on 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.
And she kept playing, even though her disappointment lingered more in her play. She feared work because she couldn't do it the way he did. She felt the huge divide between them. She realized she had no control. The grown-up ability to work with intention was a puzzle 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.
He would crash into her delicate childhood world without care. Her mother was easygoing and not very attentive. The kids played around all day. Ursula didn’t think twice—why should she remember things? If she noticed the hedge in the garden had started to bud, and if she wanted those greenish-pink, tiny buds for her bread-and-cheese to play pretend tea party, she'd just go right over to get them.
Then suddenly, perhaps the next day, her soul would almost start out of her body as her father turned on her, shouting:
Then suddenly, maybe the next day, her soul would almost leave her body as her father yelled at her:
“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.”
“Who’s been stomping and dancing all over the spot where I just planted seeds? I know it’s you, troublemaker! Can’t you find anywhere else to walk except right over my seed beds? But that’s just like you—only thinking about your own greedy interests.”
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.
It had shocked him in his focused world to see the jagged lines of tiny footprints across his work. The child was even more shocked. Her sensitive little heart felt exposed and crushed. Why were the footprints there? She hadn’t meant to make them. She stood there, stunned, filled with pain, shame, and a sense of 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.
Her soul, her awareness seemed to fade away. She became shut off and numb, a little fixed being whose spirit had grown cold and unfeeling. The sense of her own unreality made her feel like she was frozen. She didn't care anymore.
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.
And the sight of her face, closed off and looking down on him with confident indifference, ignited a surge of rage within him. He wanted to break her.
“I’ll break your obstinate little face,” he said, through shut teeth, lifting his hand.
“I’ll smash your stubborn little face,” he said through clenched teeth, raising 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.
The child didn't change at all. The expression of indifference, total and unconcerned, as if nothing but herself mattered, stayed constant.
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.
Yet deep inside her, the sobs were tearing her apart. And when he was gone, she would crawl under the living room sofa and lie there, clinging to the quiet, hidden pain 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.
When she crawled out, after about an hour, she got up stiffly to play. She wanted to forget. She shut out her childhood memories so the pain and the insults wouldn’t feel real. She focused only on herself. There was nothing in the world but her own existence. It didn’t take long for her to believe in the external malice directed at her. And very soon, she realized that even her beloved father was part of this malice. She quickly learned to toughen her spirit in resistance and denial of everything outside herself, hardening into 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.
She never felt remorse for what she had done, nor did she forgive those who made her feel guilty. If he had asked her, “Why, Ursula, did you mess up my carefully-made bed?” that would have stung her deeply, and she would have done anything for him. But she was constantly troubled by how unreal everything outside felt. The ground was there to walk on. Why should she avoid a certain spot just because it was called a seed-bed? It was just ground to walk on. That was her instinctive belief. And when he pressured her, she became tough, cut herself off from all connection, and lived in her own little separate world of fierce determination.
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.
As she got older, at five, six, seven, the bond between her and her father grew even stronger. Yet, it always felt like it was on the verge of breaking. She kept slipping back into her own violent desires, retreating into her own world. This made him grit his teeth in frustration, because he still wanted her. But she could toughen up and shut herself off, becoming untouchable in her own universe.
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.
He loved swimming, and in warm weather, he would take her to the canal, to a quiet spot, or to a large pond or reservoir to swim. He would carry her on his back as he swam, and she would cling to him, feeling his powerful strokes beneath her, so strong, as if he could support the entire world. Then he taught her how 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 was a fearless little thing when he challenged her. And he had a strange desire to scare her, to see how she would react to him. He asked if she would ride on his back while he jumped off the canal bridge into the water below.
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.
She would. He loved feeling the bare child clinging to his shoulders. There was a strange struggle between their two wills. He climbed onto the edge of the canal bridge. The water was far below. But the child had a determined will against his. She held herself tightly 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.
He jumped, and down they went. The sound of the water crashing as they submerged hit the child’s small body, almost numbing her. But she stayed still. When they surfaced, made their way to the shore, and sat on the grass together, he laughed and said it was great. The child’s wide, dark eyes looked at him in wonder, filled with shock yet still mysterious, which made him laugh 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.
In a moment, she was safely clinging to his back again while he swam in deep water. She was used to his nudity, and to her mother's, ever since she was born. They were holding on to each other, trying to comfort one another after the strange blow they had received. On other days, though, he would leap off the bridge with her, daringly, almost mischievously. Then one time, as he jumped, she fell forward onto his head and nearly broke his neck, causing them to crash into the water together and struggle for a few moments against drowning. He saved her and sat on the bank, trembling. But his eyes were filled with the darkness 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 swingboats. 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.
Still they were not separate. There was this strange, teasing closeness between them. When the fair came, she wanted to go on the swingboats. He took her, and, standing up in the boat, holding on to the metal bars, started to swing higher, dangerously higher. The child held tightly to 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.
“Do you want to go any higher?” he asked her, and she laughed out loud, her eyes wide and dilated. They were racing 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.
“Yes,” she said, feeling like she would turn into vapor, lose her grip on everything, and fade away. The boat swung high up, then down like a stone, only to be caught again in a nauseating way.
“Any higher?” he called, looking at her over his shoulder, his face evil and beautiful to her.
“Any higher?” he called, glancing back at her, his face both wicked and handsome to her.
She laughed with white lips.
She laughed with pale lips.
He sent the swingboat 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.
He sent the swingboat flying through the air in a big semi-circle until it jolted and swayed at its peak. The child held on tightly, looking pale, her eyes locked on him. People below were shouting. The jolt at the top nearly threw them both out. He had done his best—and he was drawing criticism. He sat down and let the swingboat swing on its own.
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.
People in the crowd yelled shame at him as he stepped off the swingboat. He laughed. The child held onto his hand, looking pale and silent. After a bit, she got sick. He offered her lemonade, and she gulped down 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.
“Don’t let your mom know you’ve been sick,” he said. There was no need to ask that. When she got home, the child crawled under the living room sofa, like a sick little animal, and took a long time to come 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.
But Anna found out about this adventure, and she was really angry and looked down on him. His golden-brown eyes sparkled, and he had a strange, cruel little smile. As the child watched him, for the first time in her life, she felt a cold, isolating disappointment wash over her. She went over to her mother. She felt dead inside toward him. It made her feel 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.
Still, she forgot and kept loving him, but with growing distance. At this time, around twenty-eight years old, he was strange and intense, hedonistic. He gained some influence over Anna and everyone else he interacted 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.
After a long period of tension, Anna finally connected with him. She now had four children, all girls. For seven years, she had been fully engaged in being a wife and mother. For years, he had lived alongside her without really imposing on her. Then slowly, another part of him seemed to emerge. He remained quiet and distant, but she could sense him getting closer, as if his presence was looming over her, always inching nearer. Gradually, he became disinterested in responsibility. He would only do what made him happy, and nothing 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.
He started to leave home more often. On Saturdays, he would go to Nottingham alone to catch the football match and visit the music hall, constantly observing and staying alert. He wasn't interested in drinking. But with his sharp, golden-brown eyes, so attentive with their tiny black pupils, he kept an eye on everyone and everything around him, always waiting.
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.
In the Empire one evening, he sat next to two girls. He noticed the one beside him. She was pretty small and ordinary, with a fresh complexion and an upper lip that pulled back from her teeth, so that when she wasn’t paying attention, her mouth was slightly open and her lips were pushed outward in a sort of unknowing invitation. She was very aware of the man next to her, making her body completely still. Her face was focused on the stage. Her arms rested in her lap, also very self-conscious and motionless.
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.
A spark ignited within him: should he start with her? Should he start with her to experience the other, the unacknowledged life he craved? Why not? He had always been so good. Aside from his wife, he had never been with anyone. And why, when every woman was unique? Why, when he only had one life to live? He wanted the other life. His own life felt empty, insufficient. He desired 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.
Her open mouth, revealing her small, uneven white teeth, attracted him. It was open and inviting. It felt so vulnerable. Why shouldn't he just go in and enjoy what was there? The slim arm that lay so still and motionless in her lap was beautiful. She would be small; he could almost hold her in both hands. She would be small, almost like a child, and pretty. Her childlike quality excited him intensely. She would be helpless in 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.
“That was the best turn we’ve had,” he said to her, leaning over and clapping his hands. He felt strong and unshakeable, standing firm against the whole world. His soul was sharp and alert, sparkling with a sense of amusement. He was completely self-sufficient. He was himself, the absolute, while the rest of the world existed to enhance 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.
The girl jumped, turned around, her eyes sparkling with an almost painful brightness of a smile, her cheeks flushed deeply.
“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.
“Yes, it was,” she replied, sounding a bit empty, and she covered her noticeable teeth with her lips. Then she sat there, staring straight ahead, seeing nothing, just feeling the heat of her cheeks.
It pricked him with a pleasant sensation. His veins and his nerves attended to her, she was so young and palpitating.
It gave him a nice tingle. His veins and nerves responded to her; she was so young and lively.
“It’s not such a good programme as last week’s,” he said.
“It’s not as good a program 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.
Again she half-turned her face to him, and her clear, bright eyes, shining like shallow water, were filled with light—frightened, yet involuntarily sparkling and trembling with reaction.
“Oh, isn’t it! I wasn’t able to come last week.”
“Oh, isn’t it! I couldn’t make it 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 noticed the typical accent. It made him happy. He could tell what social class she belonged to. She was probably a warehouse worker. He was glad she was an ordinary 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.
He went on to tell her about last week's program. She replied randomly, clearly confused. Her cheeks were flushed. Still, she always responded to him. The girl sitting across from them remained distant, obviously quiet. He paid no attention to her. All his focus was on his girl, with her bright, shallow eyes and her slightly open 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.
The conversation continued, pointless and random from her side, but very intentional and focused from his. He enjoyed this talk, finding it as pleasurable as a good game of luck and skill. He was calm and good-natured, yet full of strength. She hovered around his steady warmth and confidence.
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.
He noticed the performance coming to an end. His senses were sharp and determined. He decided to take advantage of the moment. 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.”
“It’s a nasty night,” he said. “Want to come and have a drink—a cup of coffee—it’s still early.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said, looking away into the night.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said, turning her gaze away into the night.
“I wish you would,” he said, putting himself as it were at her mercy. There was a moment’s pause.
“I wish you would,” he said, putting himself, so to speak, at her mercy. There was a moment’s pause.
“Come to Rollins?” he said.
"Come to Rollins?" he asked.
“No—not there.”
“No—not that way.”
“To Carson’s, then?”
"To Carson's, right?"
There was a silence. The other girl hung on. The man was the centre of positive force.
There was silence. The other girl waited. The man was the center of positive energy.
“Will your friend come as well?”
“Is your friend coming, too?”
There was another moment of silence, while the other girl felt her ground.
There was another moment of silence as the other girl gathered her thoughts.
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’ve promised to meet a friend.”
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’ve promised to meet a friend.”
“Another time, then?” he said.
"Another time, maybe?" he said.
“Oh, thanks,” she replied, very awkward.
“Oh, thanks,” she replied, feeling really awkward.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night,” he said.
“See you later,” said his girl to her friend.
“See you later,” said his girlfriend to her friend.
“Where?” said the friend.
"Where?" asked the friend.
“You know, Gertie,” replied his girl.
“You know, Gertie,” his girlfriend replied.
“All right, Jennie.”
“Okay, 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.
The friend disappeared into the darkness. He turned with his girl to the tea shop. They talked nonstop. He loved constructing his sentences, relishing the joy of engaging with her. He was always looking at her, noticing her, appreciating her, exploring her, finding pleasure in her. He could see distinct attractions in her; her eyebrows, with their unique curve, gave him intense aesthetic satisfaction. Later, he would notice her bright, clear eyes, like shallow water, and would understand those. And then there was her open, exposed mouth, red and vulnerable. He held that back for now. All the while, his eyes were on the girl, assessing and enjoying her youthful softness. As for who she was or what she meant, he didn't care at all; he was completely unaware that she was anyone. She was just the object of his desire.
“Shall we go, then?” he said.
“Should 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.
She got up quietly, almost like she was moving on instinct, just going through the motions. He appeared to control her completely. It was still raining outside.
“Let’s have a walk,” he said. “I don’t mind the rain, do you?”
“Let’s go for a walk,” he said. “I don’t mind the rain, do you?”
“No, I don’t mind it,” she said.
“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.
He was completely aware in every way, but also calm and confident, almost glowing, as if changed from within. He felt free, moving through his own darkness, not part of anyone else's world. He was his own universe, disconnected from any shared awareness. His senses were all that mattered. Everything else felt minor and left him alone with this girl he wanted to take in, to experience every part of her with his own senses. He didn’t truly care about her, except for wanting to break down her defenses and have complete control over her, to fully 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.
They turned onto the dark streets. He held her umbrella over her and wrapped his arm around her. She walked as if she didn't notice. But gradually, as he walked, he pulled her a little closer to his side and hip. She fit in there really well. It felt great to walk with her like this. It made him acutely aware of his own strong body. His hand on her side felt one curve, and it seemed like a new creation to him, a reality, an absolute, a tangible beauty of perfection. It was like a star. Everything in him was absorbed in the sensual pleasure of this one small, firm curve in her body that his hand, and his whole being, had discovered.
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.
He took her into the park, where it was nearly dark. He spotted a spot between two walls, beneath a large overhanging ivy bush.
“Let us stand here a minute,” he said.
“Let’s stand here for 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.
He put down the umbrella and followed her into the corner, escaping the rain. He didn't need to see; all he wanted was to know her through touch. She felt like a tangible shadow. In the darkness, he found her, wrapped his arms around her, and touched her. She was quiet and mysterious. But he didn’t want to learn anything about her; he just wanted to explore her. And through her clothes, he felt an incredible beauty.
“Take your hat off,” he said.
"Take off your hat," 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.
Silently and obediently, she took off her hat and surrendered herself to his arms again. He was drawn to her—he loved the way she felt—he wanted to know her better. He let his fingers subtly explore her cheek and neck. What incredible beauty and pleasure there was in the dark! His fingers had touched Anna's face and neck in the same way. So what? One man had touched Anna, and now another was touching this girl. He preferred his new self. He was completely immersed in the sensory experience of this woman, and with every moment, it felt like he was touching pure beauty, something beyond comprehension.
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.
Very close, amazed and incredibly happy with their discoveries, his hands pressed against her, so subtly, so eagerly, so delicately and passionately exploring her, that she too was nearly fainting from pure sensual awareness. In total bliss, she tightened her knees, her thighs, her hips together! It was an added beauty for 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.
But he was patiently helping her relax, completely focused on the smile of hidden satisfaction, his whole body charged with a subtle, powerful force over her. Eventually, he leaned in to kiss her, and she was almost overwhelmed by his sly kiss. Her open mouth was too vulnerable and defenseless. He understood this, and his first kiss was very gentle, soft, and reassuring—so reassuring. Her soft, defenseless mouth began to feel confident, even bold, reaching for his. He responded gradually, slowly, his soft kiss deepening gently but increasingly intensely, until it became too much for her to handle, and she started to feel overwhelmed. She was sinking, sinking, and his smile of hidden satisfaction grew more intense; he was certain of her. He let the full force of his will press down on her to carry her away. But it was too much for her to take. With a sudden, terrible movement, she broke the moment that held them both.
“Don’t—don’t!”
"Stop—please 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.
It was a pretty horrible scream that felt like it came from her but didn’t really belong to her. It was a weird mix of pain and fear shouting out the words. There was something unsettling and frantic in the sound. His nerves tore apart like silk.
“What’s the matter?” he said, as if calmly. “What’s the matter?”
“What’s wrong?” he said, sounding calm. “What’s wrong?”
She came back to him, but trembling, reservedly this time.
She returned to him, but this time she was trembling and cautious.
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.
Her cry had satisfied him. But he realized he had been too abrupt for her. Now, he was more careful. For a while, he just protected her. Also, a crack had formed in his perfect control. He wanted to continue, to start over, to guide things back to the moment he had lost himself with her, and then handle it more carefully, more successfully. So far, she had won. And the fight wasn't finished yet. But another voice stirred inside him and urged him to let her go—let her go with disdain.
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:
He protected her, comforted her, and held her gently, kissing her as he moved in closer and closer. He centered himself. Even if he didn’t take her, he would help her let go, melting away her resistance. So gently, so tenderly, he kissed her, and it felt like every part of him was embracing her. Until, on the edge, overwhelmed and about to lose herself, she let out a muffled, indistinct, aching cry:
“Don’t—oh, don’t!”
"Stop—oh, stop!"
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.
His veins felt intensely alive. For a moment, he almost lost control and kept going on autopilot. But there was a pause, a moment of chilling stillness. He wasn't going to take her. He pulled her close, comforted her, and touched her gently. But the excitement was gone. She fought to regain herself and realized he wasn’t going to take her. Then, just as it seemed he was about to touch her again, his passionate desire rejecting her, clashing with his icy sensuality, she broke away from him with force.
“Don’t,” she cried, harsh now with hatred, and she flung her hand across and hit him violently. “Keep off of me.”
“Don’t,” she yelled, filled with hatred, and she swung her hand and hit him hard. “Stay away from me.”
His blood stood still for a moment. Then the smile came again within him, steady, cruel.
His blood froze for a moment. Then the smile returned inside him, steady and cruel.
“Why, what’s the matter?” he said, with suave irony. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
“Why, what’s wrong?” he said, with smooth sarcasm. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
“I know what you want,” she said.
“I know what you want,” she said.
“I know what I want,” he said. “What’s the odds?”
“I know what I want,” he said. “What are the odds?”
“Well, you’re not going to have it off me.”
“Well, you’re not getting it from me.”
“Aren’t I? Well, then I’m not. It’s no use crying about it, is it?”
“Aren’t I? Well, then I’m not. There’s no point in crying about it, is there?”
“No, it isn’t,” said the girl, rather disconcerted by his irony.
“No, it’s not,” said the girl, feeling a bit unsettled by his sarcasm.
“But there’s no need to have a row about it. We can kiss good night just the same, can’t we?”
“But there’s no need to argue about it. We can still say good night with a kiss, right?”
She was silent in the darkness.
She was quiet in the dark.
“Or do you want your hat and umbrella to go home this minute?”
“Or do you want to take your hat and umbrella home right now?”
Still she was silent. He watched her dark figure as she stood there on the edge of the faint darkness, and he waited.
Still, she was silent. He watched her dark silhouette 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.
“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.
Still, she didn't move. He reached out his hand and pulled her back into the darkness.
“It’s warmer in here,” he said; “a lot cosier.”
“It’s warmer in here,” he said. “Much cozier.”
His will had not yet relaxed from her. The moment of hatred exhilarated him.
His will hadn’t completely let go of her. The moment of hatred pumped him up.
“I’m going now,” she muttered, as he closed his hand over her.
“I’m leaving now,” she whispered, as he grasped her hand.
“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?”
“Look how perfectly you belong in this spot,” he said, pulling her back to where she was before, right next to him. “Why would you want to leave it?”
And gradually the intoxication invaded him again, the zest came back. After all, why should he not take her?
And gradually the buzz hit him again, the excitement returned. After all, why shouldn't he go after her?
But she did not yield to him entirely.
But she didn't give in to him completely.
“Are you a married man?” she asked at length.
“Are you married?” she asked after a while.
“What if I am?” he said.
“What if I am?” he said.
She did not answer.
She didn't answer.
“I don’t ask you whether you’re married or not,” he said.
“I don’t ask you if 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.
“You know very well I'm not,” she replied angrily. Oh, if only she could escape from him, if only she didn’t have to give in 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.
At last, her feelings toward him turned cold. She had gotten away. But she hated him for her freedom more than for the danger she had faced. Did he really look down on her so indifferently? And she was still tormented by her attachment to him.
“Shall I see you next week—next Saturday?” he said, as they returned to the town. She did not answer.
“Will I see you next week—next Saturday?” he asked as they headed back to town. She didn’t reply.
“Come to the Empire with me—you and Gertie,” he said.
“Come to the Empire with me—you and Gertie,” he said.
“I should look well, going with a married man,” she said.
“I should look good, going out with a married guy,” she said.
“I’m no less of a man for being married, am I?” he said.
“I’m not any less of a man for being married, right?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s a different matter altogether with a married man,” she said, in a ready-made speech that showed her chagrin.
“Oh, it’s a completely different situation with a married guy,” she said, in a rehearsed speech that revealed her frustration.
“How’s that?” he asked.
"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.
But she wouldn't give him any answers. Still, she hinted, without making a commitment, that she would 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.
So he left her. He didn't 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.
It was the last train, and he was really late. He didn't get home until midnight. But he felt pretty indifferent about it. He didn't have any real connection to his home anymore, not the man he had become. Anna was waiting up for him. She noticed the strange, blank expression on his face, an almost sinister smile, as if he were free from his "good" ties.
“Where have you been?” she asked, puzzled, interested.
“Where have you been?” she asked, confused and curious.
“To the Empire.”
"To the Empire."
“Who with?”
"Who are you with?"
“By myself. I came home with Tom Cooper.”
“On my own. 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.
She looked at him and wondered what he had been up to. She didn’t care if he was lying or not.
“You have come home very strange,” she said. And there was an appreciative inflexion in the speech.
“You've come home really different,” she said. And there was a note of appreciation in her voice.
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.
He wasn't bothered at all. As for his humble, good nature, he was free from it. He sat down and ate with gusto. He didn't feel tired. He seemed completely oblivious to 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!
For Anna, the moment was critical. She kept her distance and observed him. He talked to her, but with a bit of indifference, as he was barely aware of her presence. So, she didn’t seem to have any impact on him. This was a new twist in their situation! He was pretty attractive, though. She liked him better than the usual quiet, somewhat faded, and subdued man she knew him to be. So, he was finally revealing his true self! It intrigued her. Very well, let him bloom! She enjoyed this new development. He was a strange man returning to her. When she looked at him, she realized she couldn’t revert him to what he used to be. In an instant, she abandoned the idea. Yet not without a surge of anger, which longed for their old, cherished love, their familiar closeness, and her established dominance. She almost felt compelled to fight for them. And as she looked at him, remembering his father, she was cautious. This was the new twist in their situation!
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.
Very good, if she couldn’t influence him the old way, she would match him in the new one. Her old defiant attitude resurfaced. Very good, she was also on her own adventure. Her voice and demeanor changed; she was ready for the game. Something was freed inside her. She liked him. She liked this strange man who had come home to her. He was very much welcome! She was really happy to welcome a stranger. She had found the old husband boring. To his hidden, cruel smile, she responded with a bold challenge. He expected her to keep the moral high ground. Not her! That role was way too dull. She challenged him right back with a kind of radiance, very bright and free, standing in opposition to him. He looked at her, and his eyes sparkled. 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?
His senses perked up and focused on her. She laughed, completely unconcerned and carefree as he was. He moved closer to her. She neither pushed him away nor engaged with him. In a kind of glow, stunning in her mystery, she laughed in front of him. She too could let go of everything—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.
He was the sensual guy looking for his pleasure, and she was the woman ready to find hers—but on her own terms. A man could be independent, and so could a woman. She was just as detached from societal morals as he was. Everything that came before didn't matter to her. She was a different woman in the presence of this unfamiliar man. He was a stranger to her, pursuing his own goals. That was fine. She wanted to see what this stranger would do next, who he really 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.
She laughed and kept him at a distance, while seemingly ignoring him. She watched him take off his clothes as if he were a stranger. In fact, 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.
And she awakened him deeply, intensely, even before he made contact with her. The tiny being in Nottingham had just been building up to this. They let go of their moral stance in one swift movement, both were after pure and simple pleasure.
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.
His wife felt strange to him. It was like he was a complete stranger, and she was infinitely and completely foreign to him, the other half of the world, the dark side of the moon. She waited for his touch as if he were a raider who had come in, entirely unknown yet desirable to her. And he started to discover her. He had a sense of the vast unknown pleasure she held. With a passion for enjoyment that made him focus on every little beauty, in a kind of frenzy of delight, he explored her: her beauty, the various beautiful aspects 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 was completely lost in himself, overwhelmed by what he found in her. He had become a different man, reveling in her presence. There was no tenderness, no love between them anymore, just an intense, sensual desire for exploration and a relentless, overwhelming satisfaction in the sensual beauty of her body. She was a treasure chest of absolute beauty that compelled him to think. There was so much to enjoy, and he had only one man's capacity to experience it.
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 spent a long time exploring sensuality with her—it was like a duel: no love, no words, not even kisses, just the frustrating awareness of beauty that was complete and perfect through touch. He wanted to touch her, to explore her, and it drove him crazy with the desire to truly know her. But he had to take his time, or he would miss everything. He needed to appreciate one beauty at a time. Each exquisite part of her body, those countless delightful spots, drove him wild with happiness and the longing to learn more, to have the strength to discover more. Everything was right there.
He would say during the daytime:
He would say during the day:
“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.
"Tonight I will know the small dip under her ankle, where the blue vein crosses." And the thought of it, along with the longing for it, created a heavy 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.]
He spent all day waiting for night to arrive when he could indulge in the sheer beauty she offered. The thought of her hidden qualities, the unexplored beauties and thrilling spots of pleasure within her body, just waiting for him to find them, drove him a little crazy. He was obsessed. If he didn’t uncover and experience these delights, they might be lost forever. He wished he had the energy of a hundred men to enjoy her. He wished he could be a cat, to lick her with a rough, teasing tongue. He wanted to revel in her, to immerse himself in her flesh, to be completely enveloped by her.
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.
And she, apart, with a strange, dangerous, bright look in her eyes received all his efforts as if they were what she had expected, and teased him when he was quiet to do more, until sometimes he felt like he was about to break down from the sheer inability to feel satisfied with her, the 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.
Their children became nothing more than kids to them; they lived in the darkness and emptiness of their own desires. Sometimes he felt like he was losing his mind over a sense of Absolute Beauty, which he experienced through her. It was more than he could handle. And in everything, there was this same, almost creepy, terrifying beauty. But in the moments when their bodies touched, he found the ultimate beauty, knowing that this awareness could feel like death itself, yet he would have endured endless suffering for it. He would have given up anything, anything, just to keep his right to even the arch of her foot and the area where her toes spread out—the small, miraculous expanse from which the little hills of her toes emerged, and the soft, dimpling spaces between them. He felt he would have gladly died rather than lose 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.
This is what their love had turned into: a sensuality as fierce and extreme as death. They lacked any real closeness, no affectionate love. It was just raw desire and the endless, maddening high of the senses, a passion tied to 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.
He had always, throughout his life, had a secret fear of Absolute Beauty. It had always felt like a fixation to him, something to genuinely be afraid of. Because it was immoral and against humanity. So he turned to the Gothic style, which always expressed the fractured desires of humanity in its pointed arches, evading the overwhelming, 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 now he had surrendered, and with intense sensual passion, he allowed himself to experience this ultimate, immoral, Absolute Beauty in the body of a woman. It felt to him that it came into existence in her body, beneath his touch. Under his touch, even in his sight, it was present. But when he neither saw nor touched the perfect spot, it wasn't perfect, it wasn't there. And he had to make it come to life.
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.
But still, it terrified him. It was awful and threatening, dangerous to a degree, even while he surrendered to it. It was pure darkness, too. All the shameful things of the body were now revealed to him with a kind of sinister, tropical beauty. All the shameful, natural, and unnatural acts of sensual pleasure that he and the woman engaged in together had their heavy beauty and delight. Shame, what was it? It was part of extreme pleasure. It was that part of pleasure that people usually fear. Why fear? The secret, shameful things are incredibly 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.
They embraced shame and became one with it in their most forbidden pleasures. It was integrated. It was a bud that bloomed into beauty and deep, essential satisfaction.
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.
Their outer lives continued pretty much the same, but their inner lives were completely transformed. The kids mattered less, and the parents became more focused on their own experiences.
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.
And gradually, Brangwen started to feel free to engage with the outside world as well. His personal life was so intensely active that it freed another part of him. This new side of him became interested in public life, eager to discover how he could contribute. This would provide him with a way to channel his energy into new pursuits, activities that he was now ready for and inspired to explore. He wanted to connect with all of humanity that had a purpose.
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.
During this period, education was a hot topic. People were discussing new Swedish teaching methods, handwork education, and more. Brangwen genuinely welcomed the idea of incorporating handwork in schools. For the first time, he started to take a real interest in public matters. Finally, through his deep sensory experiences, he had developed a true sense of purpose.
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.
There was talk about evening classes and craft workshops. He wanted to start a woodworking class in Cossethay to teach carpentry, joinery, and wood-carving to the local boys, two nights a week. He thought it was an incredibly worthwhile thing to do. His pay would be minimal—and when he did earn it, he spent all of it on more wood and tools. But he felt very happy and enthusiastic about his new sense of community involvement.
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.
He began taking woodworking night classes when he was thirty. By then, he had five kids, the youngest being a boy. But whether it was a boy or girl didn't really matter to him. He had a deep, instinctive love for his children, and he appreciated them as they came: boys or girls. Still, he was especially fond of Ursula. In a way, she felt like the reason behind his new night school adventure.
The house by the yew trees was in connection with the great human endeavour at last. It gained a new vigour thereby.
The house by the yew trees was finally part of the larger human effort. This gave it a fresh energy.
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.
To Ursula, who was eight years old, the surge in magic was significant. She heard all the buzz, and she saw the parish room transformed into a workshop. The parish room was a tall, stone, barn-like church building located on its own in the Brangwens’ second garden, across the lane. She was always drawn to its age and its outdated charm. Now she observed the preparations being made; she sat on the stone steps leading from the porch down to the garden, listening to her father and the vicar as they talked, planned, and worked. Then an inspector arrived, a very unusual man, and he chatted with her father for an entire evening. Everything was set, and twelve boys signed up. It was all very thrilling.
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.
But to Ursula, everything her father did felt magical. Whether he returned from Ilkeston with news about the town, whether he crossed to the church with his music or tools on a sunny evening, whether he sat in his white robe at the organ on Sundays, leading the singing with his strong tenor voice, or whether he was in the workshop with the boys, he was always a source of magic and fascination for her. His voice, commanding, cheerful, and laid-back, always had a tone that thrilled her and captivated her. She felt like she was living in the shadow of a dark, powerful secret that she couldn’t even acknowledge because it had such a hold on her, clouding 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.
There was always a regular connection between Yew Cottage and the Marsh, yet the two households stayed separate and 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.
After Anna’s marriage, the Marsh became home to the two boys, Tom and Fred. Tom was a somewhat short, good-looking young man, with wavy black hair, long black eyelashes, and soft, dark, expressive eyes. He was quick-witted. After high school, he went to London to continue his studies. He had a knack for attracting strong, vibrant people. He would completely focus on the other person while still maintaining his own independence. He hardly felt real unless he was with others. When he was alone, he felt uncertain. But when he was with another guy, he seemed to blend into the other person, making them feel larger than life. As a result, a few people came to love him and found a sense of fulfillment through him. He was careful in choosing 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.
He had a sharp, quick, critical intelligence, a mind that served as a scale or balance. There was something feminine about all of 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.
In London, he was the favorite student of a skilled engineer who gained recognition around the time Tom Brangwen completed his studies. Through this mentor, the young man connected with various remarkable individuals. He never pushed himself forward; he seemed to exist to observe and evaluate those around him. He was like a presence that made others aware of their own existence. Even as a young man, he was associated with some of the most dynamic scientific and mathematical minds in London. They regarded him as an equal. Calm, insightful, and objective, he found his role and learned to appreciate others appropriately. He was there like a silent judgment. Moreover, he was very attractive, of average height but perfectly proportioned, dark-haired, with a nice complexion, always in great health.
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.
His father gave him generous pocket money, and on top of that, he had a position as an assistant to his boss. Occasionally, the young man showed up at the Marsh, looking appealing, dressed well, and keeping to himself, naturally possessing a subtle, refined way about him. And he started to make changes on 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.
Fred, the younger brother, was a Brangwen, big-boned, blue-eyed, and English. He was exactly like his father; the two of them, father and son, were completely comfortable around each other. Fred was taking over 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.
Between the older brother and the younger was a deep, almost passionate love. Tom looked after Fred with a tenderness and selfless care that was almost maternal. Fred admired Tom as if he were something incredible, something he aspired to be if he could become great too.
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.
So, after Anna left, the Marsh started to feel different. The boys were true gentlemen; Tom was unique and had achieved a lot. Fred was thoughtful and loved to read; he contemplated Ruskin and then the Agnostic writings. Like all the Brangwens, he was very much his own person, but he liked being around others and was generous towards them, having an overblown respect for people.
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.
There was an uncomfortable friendship between him and one of the young Hardys at the Hall. The two families were different, yet the young men interacted on terms of reluctant 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.
It was young Tom Brangwen, with his dark lashes and striking looks, his gentle, mysterious nature, his unusual calmness, and his knowledgeable demeanor, along with his status in London, who seemed to highlight the more sophisticated foreign presence in the Marsh. When he showed up, perfectly dressed, looking both friendly and yet somewhat detached from everyone, he made people feel uneasy; he seemed distant and reserved to the acquaintances from Cossethay and Ilkeston, as if he belonged 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.
He and his mother shared a special bond. The love between them was quiet and somewhat distant, but deep-rooted. His father was always a bit anxious and somewhat respectful toward his oldest son. Tom also acted as the connection that kept the Marsh linked to the Skrebenskys, who had become quite significant in their own area.
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.
A shift in mood settled over the Marsh. Tom Brangwen, the father, as he got older, seemed to grow into a gentleman-farmer. His build suited him: robust and striking. His face stayed youthful, and his blue eyes remained bright; his thick hair and beard had gradually turned a silky white. He often laughed a lot, in his agreeable, stubborn way. Life had confused him quite a bit, so he decided to take an easy-going, good-natured approach. He didn’t see himself as responsible for how things were. Still, he was apprehensive about the uncertainties of 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.
He was doing pretty well for himself. His wife was there with him, a different person yet somehow deeply connected to him—how and where was beyond his understanding. His two sons were gentlemen, separate individuals with their own lives, but still linked to him. It was all exciting and confusing. Still, one felt a sense of importance within their own life, no matter how many branches there were.
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.
So, looking handsome and confused, he laughed and held onto himself as the only thing he could rely on. His youth and wonder stayed nearly the same within him. He became lazy and developed a comfortable ease. Fred did most of the farm work, while his father handled the more important matters. He drove a nice mare and sometimes rode his cob. He drank in hotels and inns with better-off farmers and owners, and he had wealthy acquaintances among men. But no group suited him any 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.
His wife still had no friends. Her hair was now streaked with grey, and her face had aged but kept the same expression. She looked just like she did when she first arrived at the Marsh twenty-five years ago, except now her health was more fragile. It always felt like she haunted the Marsh instead of truly living there. She was never involved in the life around her. There was something about her that felt out of place; she remained a stranger within those walls, in some ways fixed and unaffected, in other ways oddly refined. She highlighted the separateness and individuality of all the people at the Marsh, making the household feel fragile.
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.
When young Tom Brangwen turned twenty-three, there was a falling out between him and his boss that was never clarified, and he left for Italy, then America. He returned home for a bit, then headed to Germany; he remained the same handsome, well-dressed, appealing young man, in great shape, yet somehow disconnected from it all. In his dark eyes was a profound sadness that he carried with the same ease and charm as his fitted 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.
To Ursula, he was a romantic and captivating figure. He had a knack for bringing beautiful gifts: a box of expensive chocolates that Cossethay had never seen; or he gave her a hairbrush and a long, sleek mother-of-pearl mirror, all pale, shimmering, and exquisite; or he sent her a little necklace made of rough stones, amethyst, opal, diamonds, and garnet. He spoke other languages easily and fluently, and his nature was oddly gracious and charming. Despite all this, he was unmistakably an outsider. He didn’t belong anywhere, to any 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.
Anna Brangwen had kept her close relationship with her father distant since she got married. At the time of her wedding, it was completely set aside. There was now a gap between them. Anna spent more time with her mother.
Then suddenly the father died.
Then suddenly, the dad 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.
It happened one spring when Ursula was around eight years old. Tom Brangwen headed out one Saturday morning to the market in Nottingham, saying he might not be back until late because there was a special show and a meeting he needed to attend. His family knew he would have a good time.
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.
The season had been rainy and gloomy. In the evening, it was pouring. Fred Brangwen, feeling restless and uneasy, stayed indoors, which wasn’t like him. He smoked, read, and fidgeted, constantly hearing the sound of water trickling outside. The wet, dark night made him feel isolated and uneasy, making him aware of himself, aware that he wanted something else, aware that he wasn’t truly living. He felt like there was no foundation to his life, no place where he could find satisfaction. He dreamed of traveling abroad. But deep down, he knew that just changing his location wouldn’t fix his problems. He craved a profound, essential change in his life. And he didn’t know how to achieve 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.
Tilly, now an old woman, came in saying that the workers who had just finished dinner said the yard and everywhere was just soaked with water. He listened with indifference. But he hated the bleak, cold 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.
His mother was in bed. Finally, he closed his book, his mind was blank, he walked upstairs consumed by depression and anger, and, consumed by depression and anger, locked himself away in 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.
Tilly placed slippers in front of the kitchen fire and then went to bed, leaving the door unlocked. The farm was then shrouded in darkness, with rain pouring down.
At eleven o’clock it was still raining. Tom Brangwen stood in the yard of the “Angel”, Nottingham, and buttoned his coat.
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.
“Oh, well,” he said cheerfully, “it’s rained on me before. Go ahead and put her in, Jack, my friend, put her in—you're a rare old chap, Jacky-boy, with a belly on you that does justice to your drinking, if not to your food. Come on, girl, let’s head to the old homestead. Oh my, what a wet night! There won’t be any volcanoes after this. Hey, Jack, my handsome young friend, which one of us is Noah? It feels like the waterworks have burst. Ducks and aquatic birds will be the kings of the castle at this rate—dove and olive branch and all. Stand up then, girl, stand up, we’re not staying here all night, even if you thought we were. I swear, the pouring rain would make anyone think they were drunk. Hey, Jack—does rainwater bring 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 always felt embarrassed when he had to drive after drinking, constantly apologizing to the horse. His apologetic demeanor made him a bit sarcastic. He knew he couldn't walk in a straight line. Still, his determination stayed firm and focused, despite his drunkenness.
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 got on and rode out through the gates of the courtyard. The mare moved smoothly, and he sat still, with the rain hitting his face. His heavy body felt like it was motionless in a sort of daze, with one part of his mind barely aware and the rest in darkness. He focused his remaining attention on the fact that he was driving down a road he knew very well. He knew it so well that he watched for it carefully, forcing himself to pay attention.
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.
He spoke out loud to himself, trying to sound wise despite his anxiety, as if he were completely sober, while the mare trotted along and the rain pounded on him. He observed the rain in front of the carriage lamps, the faint glimmer of the shadowy horse’s body, and the dark hedges whizzing by.
“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.”
“It’s not a good night to let a dog out,” he said to himself, speaking aloud. “It’s about time it did some clearing up; I swear it really is. All that effort to put those ten loads of cinders on the road was pointless. They'll get washed away completely if this doesn’t change. Well, that’s Fred’s problem, if they do. He’s in charge of that stuff. I don’t see why I should worry. They can wash away to who-knows-where for all I care. I guess they’d eventually wash back again someday. That’s just how things work. The rain falls just to form clouds again. That’s what they say. There’s no more water on Earth than there was at the very beginning. That’s the reality, my boy, if you get it. There’s no more today than there was a thousand years ago—nor any less. You can’t use up water. No, my boy: it’ll just slip away from you. Try to use it up, and it turns into vapor, sticking its tongue out at you. It turns into clouds and falls as rain on the good and the bad. I wonder if I’m the good or the bad.”
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.
He jolted awake as the vehicle hit a deep rut. He realized he had reached a significant point in his journey. He had covered quite a bit of distance since he last remembered being aware.
But at length he reached the gate, and stumbled heavily down, reeling, gripping fast to the trap. He descended into several inches of water.
But eventually he reached the gate and stumbled down, swaying and holding tightly to the trap. He stepped into a few inches of water.
“Be damned!” he said angrily. “Be damned to the miserable slop.”
“Damn it!” he said angrily. “Damn the miserable mess.”
And he led the horse washing through the gate. He was quite drunk now, moving blindly, in habit. Everywhere there was water underfoot.
And he guided the horse to wash through the gate. He was pretty drunk now, moving aimlessly, out of habit. There was water everywhere 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.
The elevated path of the house and the farm was dry, though. But there was a strange noise in the night that felt like it came from the depths of his own drunkenness. Stumbling, dazed, and nearly unconscious, he brought his bags and the rug and cushions inside, dropped them, and then went out to put away 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.
Now he was home, a sleepwalker, just waiting for the moment when the activity would end. Very slowly and carefully, he guided the horse down the slope to the cart shed. She hesitated and pulled back.
“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.
“Why, what’s wrong?” he hiccupped, trudging along. And he was back in a rush of water, the horse splashed up water as it moved. It was pitch black, except for the gig lamps, and they illuminated a shimmering 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.
“Well, that’s impressive,” he said, as he reached the cart shed and was wading through six inches of water. But everything struck him as funny. He laughed at the idea of there being six inches of water 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 backed the mare in. She was fidgety. He laughed at the fun of taking off her gear while water splashed around his feet. He laughed because it bothered her. “What’s wrong, what’s wrong? A little water won’t hurt you!” As soon as he unfastened the traces, she hurried 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.
He hung up the shafts and grabbed the gig lamp. As he stepped out of the familiar clutter of shafts and wheels in the shed, the water came rushing in little waves against his legs. He stumbled and nearly fell.
“Well, what the deuce!” he said, staring round at the running water in the black, watery night.
“Well, what the heck!” he said, glancing around at the rushing water in the dark, wet 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.
He went to meet the rushing flood, sinking deeper and deeper. His soul was filled with great amazement. He had to go and see where it was coming from, even though the ground was giving way beneath him. He continued, shakily heading down towards the pond. He actually found it somewhat enjoyable. He was knee-deep, and the water was pulling heavily. He stumbled and reeled, feeling nauseous.
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.
Fear gripped him. Clutching the lamp tightly, he staggered and looked around. The water was pulling his feet away, and he felt dizzy. He didn’t know which way to turn. The water was swirling, swirling, and the entire dark night spun in circles. He swayed unsteadily at the center of all the chaos, reeling in panic. Deep down, he knew he was going to 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.
As he stumbled, something in the water hit his legs, and he fell. Immediately, he was engulfed in a suffocating panic. He struggled in a dark terror of drowning, fighting and wrestling, but he was always pulled down, pulled down with no escape. He continued to fight to free himself, caught in the indescribable struggle of suffocation, but each time he sank deeper. Something hit his head, a wave of intense pain washed over him, and then darkness consumed him completely.
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.
In the complete darkness, the unconscious, drowning body was being dragged along, the water pouring in, washing over and filling the space. The cattle stirred and got to their feet, and the dog started to bark. And the unconscious, drowning body was pulled along in the black, swirling darkness, without resistance.
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.
Mrs. Brangwen woke up and listened. With unusually keen senses, she heard the movements of all the darkness swirling outside. For a moment, she lay still. Then she went to the window. She heard the sharp sound of rain and the deep flow of water. She knew her husband was outside.
“Fred,” she called, “Fred!”
"Fred," she called, "Fred!"
Away in the night was a hoarse, brutal roar of a mass of water rushing downwards.
Away in the night was a rough, harsh sound of a large amount of water rushing downward.
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.
She went downstairs. She couldn’t figure out why there was so much water running. As she stepped down into the kitchen, her foot landed in a puddle. The kitchen was flooded. Where did it come from? She couldn't 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.
Water was streaming in and out of the utility room. She waded through barefoot to check it out. Water was boiling violently beneath the outer door. She felt scared. Then something brushed against her, something wrapped around her foot. It was the riding whip. On the table were the rug, the cushion, and the package from the carriage.
He had come home.
He returned home.
“Tom!” she called, afraid of her own voice.
“Tom!” she called, scared of her own voice.
She opened the door. Water ran in with a horrid sound. Everywhere was moving water, a sound of waters.
She opened the door. Water rushed in with a terrible noise. There was moving water everywhere, a sound of flowing water.
“Tom!” she cried, standing in her nightdress with the candle, calling into the darkness and the flood out of the doorway.
“Tom!” she shouted, standing in her nightgown with the candle, calling into the darkness and the stream coming from the doorway.
“Tom! Tom!”
“Tom! Tom!”
And she listened. Fred appeared behind her, in trousers and shirt.
And she listened. Fred showed up behind her, wearing pants and a shirt.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“Where is he?” he asked.
He looked at the flood, then at his mother. She seemed small and uncanny, elvish, in her nightdress.
He glanced at the flood, then at his mother. She looked small and strange, almost like an elf, in her nightdress.
“Go upstairs,” he said. “He’ll be in th’ stable.”
“Go upstairs,” he said. “He’ll be in the 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.
“To—om! To—om!” shouted the elderly woman, with a long, eerie, piercing call that sent chills down her son’s spine. He quickly put on his boots and coat.
“Go upstairs, mother,” he said; “I’ll go an’ see where he is.”
“Go upstairs, Mom,” he said; “I’ll go 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.
“To—om! To—o—om!” echoed the high-pitched, otherworldly scream of the small woman. All that could be heard was the sound of water, the nervous mooing of cattle, and the distant barking of the dog, barking loudly in the dark.
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.
Fred Brangwen dashed into the flood with a lantern. His mother stood on a chair in the doorway, watching him leave. It was all water, water, rushing, shimmering 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.
“Tom! Tom! To—o—om!” her eerie call echoed through the night. It sent a chill through her son’s soul.
And the unconscious, drowning body of the father rolled on below the house, driven by the black water towards the high-road.
And the unconscious, lifeless body of the father floated beneath the house, carried by the dark water toward the main 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.
Tilly walked in, wearing a skirt over her nightdress. She noticed her mistress holding onto the top of a chair in the open doorway, a candle lit 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!”
“God’s sake!” yelled the old servant. “The cut’s burst. That embankment’s broken. What are we going 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.
Mrs. Brangwen watched her son and the lantern as they made their way along the upper path to the stable. Then she noticed the dark shape of a horse, and her son hung the lamp in the stable, casting a faint light on him as he took off the mare's tack. The mother saw the horse's gentle, marked face lean forward into the stable door. The stables were still above the water, but the flood was rushing strongly into the house.
“It’s getting higher,” said Tilly. “Hasn’t master come in?”
“It’s going up,” Tilly said. “Hasn’t the master come in?”
Mrs. Brangwen did not hear.
Mrs. Brangwen didn’t hear.
“Isn’t he the—ere?” she called, in her far-reaching, terrifying voice.
“Isn’t he the—right?” she called, in her loud, intimidating voice.
“No,” came the short answer out of the night.
“No,” came the brief reply from the darkness.
“Go and loo—ok for him.”
“Go and look—it's fine for him.”
His mother’s voice nearly drove the youth mad.
His mom's voice almost drove the young man crazy.
He put the halter on the horse and shut the stable door. He came splashing back through the water, the lantern swinging.
He put the halter on the horse and shut the stable door. He splashed 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.
The unconscious, drowning body was swept past the house in the strong current. Fred Brangwen went to his mother.
“I’ll go to th’ cart-shed,” he said.
"I'll go to the 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.
“To—om, To—o—om!” echoed the powerful, unnatural cry. Fred Brangwen's blood ran cold, his heart was filled with fury. He clenched his fists in a frenzy. Why was she screaming like this? He couldn't stand the sight of her, sitting on a chair in her white nightdress in the doorway, both enchanting and terrifying.
“He’s taken the mare out of the trap, so he’s all right,” he said, growling, pretending to be normal.
“He’s taken the mare out of the trap, so he’s good,” he said, grumbling, trying to act 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.
But as he walked down to the cart shed, he stepped into a foot of water. He heard the rushing in the distance; he knew the canal had overflowed. The water was getting 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.
The trap was definitely there, but there was no sign of his father. The young man waded into the pond. The water rose above his knees, swirling and pushing against him. He stepped back.
“Is he the—e—ere?” came the maddening cry of the mother.
“Is he here?” came the maddening cry of the mother.
“No,” was the sharp answer.
“No,” was the quick reply.
“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.
“To—om—To—o—om!” came the sharp, wild, otherworldly call. It sounded high and supernatural, almost pure. Fred Brangwen hated it. It nearly drove him crazy. It sang out so terribly, almost like a song.
The water was flowing fuller into the house.
The water was rushing more 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.
“You should go up to Beeby’s and bring him and Arthur down, and ask Mrs. Beeby to get Wilkinson,” Fred told Tilly. He made his mother go upstairs.
“I know your father is drowned,” she said, in a curious dismay.
“I know your father drowned,” she said, with a strange sense of 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.
The flood rose throughout the night until it knocked the kettle off the stove in the kitchen. Mrs. Brangwen sat alone by a window upstairs. She didn’t call out anymore. The men were busy with the pigs and 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.
Towards morning the rain stopped, the stars appeared over the noise and the unsettling sound of the water flowing. Then there was a pale light in the east as the day began. In the warm light of dawn, she saw the waters spreading out, moving slowly, with the buildings emerging from a sea of water. Birds started to sing, lazily, as if still waking up. It got brighter. Up the second field was the large, rough gap in the canal bank.
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.
Mrs. Brangwen moved from window to window, watching the flood. Someone had brought a small boat. The light brightened, the red shimmer was gone from the floodwaters, and day began. Mrs. Brangwen went from the front of the house to the back, looking out, focused and unyielding, at the pale spring morning.
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.
She caught a glimpse of her husband’s heavy coat in the floodwaters as they pushed his body against the garden hedge. She called out to the men in the boat. She felt relieved that he was found. They pulled him out of the hedge. They couldn’t lift him into the boat. Fred Brangwen jumped into the water, up to his waist, and half carried his father’s body through the flood to the road. Hay, twigs, and dirt were tangled in his beard and hair. The young man waded through the water, crying out loudly but without tears, like a wounded animal. The mother at the window cried silently, causing no disturbance.
The doctor came. But the body was dead. They carried it up to Cossethay, to Anna’s house.
The doctor arrived. But the body was lifeless. They took 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.
When Anna Brangwen heard the news, she threw her head back and rolled her eyes, as if something was lunging at her throat. She tilted her head back, her mind felt heavy with sleep. Since getting married and becoming a mother, the girl she once was had been forgotten. Now, the shock threatened to crash into her and erase her entire life in between, making her feel like an eighteen-year-old girl again, loving her father. So she leaned back, trying to avoid the shock, holding tightly to her current 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.
It was when they brought him to her house lifeless and in his soaked clothes, his wet, heavy clothes, fully dressed as he came from the market, yet all drenched and lifeless, that the shock really hit her hard, and she was filled with fear. He was a big, heavy, lifeless mass, who had been for her the embodiment of power and vibrant 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.
Almost in horror, she started to take the wet clothes from him, pulling off the mismatched market attire of a well-off farmer. The kids were sent away to the Vicarage, the dead body rested on the parlor floor. Anna quickly began to undress him, placing his fob and seals in a wet pile on the table. Her husband and the woman assisted her. They cleaned 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.
There, it looked peaceful and magnificent. He was completely serene in death, and now he lay in line, untouched, unreachable. To Anna, he embodied the greatness of the unattainable man, the greatness of death. It left her quiet and filled with awe, almost happy.
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.
Lydia Brangwen, the mother, arrived and saw the impressive, untouchable body of the dead man. She went pale at the sight of death. He was beyond change or understanding, absolute, lying in alignment with the infinite. What connection did she have to him? He was a majestic concept, made visible now for a brief moment, untouched, absolute. And who could claim him? Who could talk about him, the person who was revealed in the stripped moment of transition from life to death? Neither the living nor the dead could claim him; he was both and neither, untouchable, uniquely 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 shared my life with you, and I belong to eternity in my own way,” said Lydia Brangwen, her heart feeling cold, aware of her own solitude.
“I did not know you in life. You are beyond me, supreme now in death,” said Anna Brangwen, awe-stricken, almost glad.
“I didn’t know you when you were alive. You’re beyond me now, but you’re at the top in death,” said Anna Brangwen, filled with awe, almost happy.
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.
It was the sons who couldn't handle it. Fred Brangwen walked around with a rigid, pale face and clenched fists, his heart filled with anger and resentment for what had happened to his father, but also aching with a longing to have his father back, to see him, to hear him again. He couldn't take 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 ——.”
Tom Brangwen arrived only on the day of the funeral. He was as quiet and composed as always. He kissed his mother, who still looked somber and unreadable, shook hands with his brother without meeting his gaze, and noticed the large coffin with its black handles. He even read the nameplate: “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.
The handsome young man’s face twisted into a terrible grimace for a moment before returning to its calmness. The coffin was brought to the church, the funeral bell rang occasionally, and the mourners carried their white flower wreaths. The mother, a Polish woman, walked with a dark, distant expression on her son’s arm. He looked as good as ever, his face perfectly still and somehow pleasant. Fred walked with Anna, who looked odd yet charming, while he had a stiff, unyielding expression, like wood.
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.
Only later did Ursula, flitting between the currant bushes down the garden, see her Uncle Tom standing there in his black clothes, looking tall and stylish, but with his fists clenched and his face twisted, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a horrific grin, like an animal suffering in pain, while his body panted quickly, like a dog that was out of breath. He was facing the open distance, panting and remaining still, then panting rapidly again, but his face remained locked in that almost animalistic expression of agony, with his teeth bared, nose wrinkled, and his eyes vacant and 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.
Terrified, Ursula slipped away. When her Uncle Tom was back in the house, serious and very quiet, to the point that he felt almost heavy with sadness, she observed his still, handsome face, picturing it again in its twisted form. But she noticed his nose was somewhat thick, somewhat Russian, beneath its transparent skin. She remembered the teeth under the meticulously trimmed mustache were small, sharp, and evenly spaced. She could see him, with all his elegant demeanor, almost animalistic, almost corrupt. And she was scared. From that moment on, she always looked for the animalistic, frightening side of him.
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.
He said "Goodbye" to his mom and left right away. Ursula almost pulled away from his kiss now. She wanted it, though, and the small discomfort too.
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.
At the funeral and afterward, Will Brangwen was completely in love with his wife. The death had shaken him. But everything related to death seemed to fuel a crazy, overwhelming passion for his wife. She appeared so unusual and charming. He was nearly out of his mind with desire for her.
And she took him, she seemed ready for him, she wanted him.
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.
The grandmother stayed for a bit at the Yew Cottage until the Marsh was fixed. Then she went back to her own rooms, calm, and it seemed like she didn’t want anything. Fred threw himself into the work of restoring the farm. The fact that his father was killed there made it feel all the more personal and undeniably 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.
There was a saying that the Brangwens always died a violent death. To all of them, except maybe Tom, it felt almost normal. Yet Fred was stubborn, his heart set. He could never forgive the Unknown for killing 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.
After the father passed away, the Marsh was really quiet. Mrs. Brangwen felt uneasy. She couldn't sit peacefully all evening like she used to, and during the day, she was always getting up and hesitating, as if she had to go somewhere but wasn’t quite sure where that was.
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.
She was spotted hanging around the garden in her little wool jacket. She frequently went out in the carriage, sitting next to her son and watching the countryside or the town streets, with a naive, innocent, almost eerie expression, as if everything was new 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.
The kids, Ursula, Gudrun, and Theresa, walked by the garden gate on their way to school. Their grandmother always wanted them to stop by whenever they passed, inviting them to come to the Marsh for dinner. She loved having children around 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.
Of her sons, she felt a deep sense of fear. She could see the dark passion, desire, and dissatisfaction in them, and she wished she didn’t have to witness it anymore. Even Fred, with his blue eyes and strong jaw, unsettled her. There was no peace. He wanted something—he wanted love and passion—but he couldn’t find them. Why did he have to burden her? Why did he come to her with his turmoil and suffering? She felt too old for this.
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.
Tom was more composed and distant. He held his body very still. But he bothered her even more. She couldn’t help but notice the dark depths of his turmoil in his eyes, the momentary look he gave her, as if she could rescue him, as if he was about to expose his true self.
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.
And how could age save youth? Youth must be with youth. The storm is always there! Could she not find peace in these years, away from life’s chaos? No, the waves always crash against her and break through the barriers. She must always be caught up in the turmoil, the anger, and the passion that never ends. And she wanted to pull away. She finally wanted her own innocence and tranquility. She didn’t want her sons to impose on her the same old brutal story of desire and sacrifices and the deep, hidden anger that unsatisfied men have towards women. She wanted to rise above it all, to experience the peace and innocence that come with 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 had never been the type of woman to work much. So now she often stood by the garden gate, watching the limited world pass by. The sight of children brought her joy and made her happy. She usually had an apple or a few candies in her pocket. She liked it when children smiled 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.
She never visited her husband’s grave. She talked about him casually, as if he were still alive. Sometimes tears would roll down her face in helpless sadness. Then she'd pull herself together and be happy again.
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.
On rainy days, she stayed in bed. Her bedroom was her safe haven, where she could lie down and think and think. Sometimes Fred would read to her. But that didn't mean much. She had so many dreams to reflect on, such an unfiltered collection. 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.
Her main friend during this time was Ursula. The little girl and the thoughtful, delicate woman of sixty seemed to speak the same language. At Cossethay, everything was full of energy and intensity, all driven by strong emotions. There were also four children younger than Ursula, a crowd of little ones, with many lives constantly interacting with one another.
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.
For the oldest child, the tranquility of the grandmother’s bedroom was exceptional. Here, Ursula felt like she had entered a serene, heavenly place; her own life became simple and beautiful, almost like she was 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.
Always on Saturdays, she came down to the Marsh, always holding a small offering, whether it was a little mat made of strips of colorful, woven paper, a tiny basket made during a kindergarten lesson, or a small 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.
When she showed up in the doorway, Tilly, old but still in charge, would stretch 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!”
“Oh, it’s you, right?” she said. “I thought we’d be seeing you. Wow, that’s an amazing bunch of flowers 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.
It was interesting how Tilly kept the essence of Tom Brangwen, who had passed away, alive in the Marsh. Ursula always linked her to 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.
This day, the child had picked a small, tight bouquet of white and pink carnations, with a border of pink ones. She felt very proud of it, but also 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?”
“Your grandma's in her bed. Wipe your shoes properly if you're going upstairs, and don't barge in on her like a firework. Wow, that's a lovely bouquet! Did you do it all by yourself?”
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.
Tilly quietly guided her into the bedroom. The child walked in with a peculiar, hesitant drag that always came over her when she was being moved. Her grandmother was sitting up in bed, wearing a small grey wool sweater.
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.
The child paused quietly by the bed, holding the bouquet in front of her. Her innocent eyes sparkled. The grandmother's grey eyes mirrored that same brightness.
“How pretty!” she said. “How pretty you have made them! What a darling little bunch.”
"How pretty!" she said. "You've made them so nice! What a cute little bunch."
Ursula, glowing, thrust them into her grandmother’s hand, saying, “I made them you.”
Ursula, beaming, placed them into her grandmother’s hand, saying, “I made these for 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.”
“That's how the peasants used to tie them at home,” the grandmother said, pushing the pinks with her fingers and smelling them. “Just like these tight little bunches! And they make wreaths for their hair—they weave the stalks together. Then they walk around with wreaths in their hair, wearing their best aprons.”
Ursula immediately imagined herself in this story-land.
Ursula instantly envisioned herself in this story world.
“Did you used to have a wreath in your hair, grandmother?”
“Did you used to wear a wreath in your hair, grandma?”
“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.”
“When I was a little girl, I had golden hair, kind of like Katie’s. I would wear a wreath of tiny blue flowers, so incredibly blue, that bloom when the snow melts away. Andrey, the coachman, would bring me the very first ones.”
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.
They chatted, and then Tilly brought out the tea set for two. Ursula had a special green and gold cup just for herself at the Marsh. There was delicate bread and butter, and cress for tea. Everything felt special and delightful. She ate very carefully, taking small, picky 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.
“Why do you have two wedding rings, Grandma?—Do you have to?” asked the child, noticing her grandmother’s ivory-colored hand with blue veins above the tray.
“If I had two husbands, child.”
“If I had two husbands, kid.”
Ursula pondered a moment.
Ursula thought for a moment.
“Then you must wear both rings together?”
“Then you have to wear both rings at the same time?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Which was my grandfather’s ring?”
“Which ring belonged to my grandfather?”
The woman hesitated.
The woman paused.
“This grandfather whom you knew? This was his ring, the red one. The yellow one was your other grandfather’s whom you never knew.”
“This grandfather you knew? This was his ring, the red one. The yellow one belonged to your other grandfather, whom you never met.”
Ursula looked interestedly at the two rings on the proffered finger.
Ursula looked intrigued at the two rings on the offered finger.
“Where did he buy it you?” she asked.
“Where did he buy it from you?” she asked.
“This one? In Warsaw, I think.”
“This one? In Warsaw, I believe.”
“You didn’t know my own grandfather then?”
"You didn’t know my grandfather then?"
“Not this grandfather.”
“Not this granddad.”
Ursula pondered this fascinating intelligence.
Ursula pondered this intriguing insight.
“Did he have white whiskers as well?”
“Did he also have white whiskers?”
“No, his beard was dark. You have his brows, I think.”
“No, his beard was dark. I think you have his brows.”
Ursula ceased and became self-conscious. She at once identified herself with her Polish grandfather.
Ursula stopped and felt self-conscious. In that moment, she saw herself in her Polish grandfather.
“And did he have brown eyes?”
“And did he have brown eyes?”
“Yes, dark eyes. He was a clever man, as quick as a lion. He was never still.”
“Yes, dark eyes. He was a smart man, 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.
Lydia still held a grudge against Lensky. Whenever she thought of him, she always imagined herself as younger than him, always twenty or twenty-five, and under his control. He included her in his thoughts as if she weren't a person in her own right, just his assistant, or part of his possessions, or one of his surgical tools. That still bothered her. And he was always only thirty; he died when he was thirty-four. She didn’t feel sorry for him. He was older than she was. Yet she still felt pain when remembering those days.
“Did you like my first grandfather best?” asked Ursula.
“Did you like my first grandpa the most?” asked Ursula.
“I liked them both,” said the grandmother.
“I liked them both,” said the grandma.
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.
And, lost in thought, she found herself once again as Lensky’s young bride. He came from a respectable family, even better than her own since she was half German. She was a young woman in a household of uncertain means. He was an intellectual, a skilled surgeon and physician, who had loved her. She remembered how she had admired him! She recalled the excitement she felt when he spoke to her, the serious young man with the strong black beard. He had seemed so amazing, such an authority figure. After her own chaotic home life, his seriousness and confident, firm presence felt almost divine to her. She had never experienced that kind of stability; her surroundings had always been loose, disorganized, and tumultuous.
“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.
“Miss Lydia, will you marry me?” he asked her in German, his voice serious yet shaky. She had felt intimidated by his dark eyes on her. They didn’t just look at her; they seemed to penetrate her. He was confident and assertive. She was thrilled by it and said yes. During their courtship, his kisses amazed her. She thought about them constantly and pondered their meaning. She never felt the need to kiss him back. In her view, the man initiated the kiss, and the woman reflected on 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.
She had never really gotten over her shock from the first days and nights of marriage. He had taken her to Vienna, and she felt completely alone with him, completely isolated in a strange new world, everything foreign, even him. Then came the real marriage, passion swept over her, and she became his servant; he was her master, her master. She was the young bride, the servant; she kissed his feet and considered it an honor to touch his body, to take off his boots. For two years, she continued as his servant, crouching at his feet and holding onto 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.
Children had arrived, and he had pursued his thoughts. She was there for him, just to help him stay focused. To him, she represented one of the basic, material needs essential for his well-being as he followed his ideas of nationalism, freedom, and 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.
But gradually, at twenty-three, twenty-four, she started to realize that she too might think about these ideas. By accepting her self-subordination, he drained the feeling out of her. Some of his colleagues would talk about these ideas with her, even though he didn’t want to. She ventured into the thoughts of other men. His wasn’t the only male perspective! She didn’t exist solely as his attribute! She began to notice the attention of other men. An excitement washed over her. She now remembered the men who had courted her 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 rebellion started, and she felt inspired too. She would volunteer as a nurse alongside her husband. He worked tirelessly, exhausting himself. And she followed him helplessly. But she didn’t really believe in him. He was so distant, he overlooked so much. He relied 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?”
Then the children were gone, and everything felt distant to her. He felt distant too. She watched him turn pale when he heard the news, then frown, as if he was thinking, “Why did they have to die 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.”
“He doesn’t have time to grieve,” she had said, in her distant, dreadful spirit. “He has no time. What he does is so important! He’s so full of himself, this half-crazed man! Nothing matters except this work of rebellion! He doesn’t have time to grieve or even think about his kids! He didn’t even have time to really bring them into the world.”
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.
She had allowed him to go on by himself. But in the midst of the chaos, she had worked alongside him again. And from that chaos, she had escaped 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.
He was a shattered, distant man. He had no love for her, or for anyone else. He had failed in his work, so everything had fallen apart. He tensed up 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.
She couldn't commit. He had let her down, everything had fallen apart, yet behind the failure was the unwavering spirit of life. The individual attempt might fail, but not the joy of being human. She was part of that 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.
He died and moved on, but not before another child was born. This little Ursula was his granddaughter. She was happy about it. She still respected him, even though he had been wrong.
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, Lydia Brangwen, felt sorry for him now. He was dead—he had barely lived. He had never really known her. He had been with her, but he had never truly understood her. He had never received what she could offer him. He had left her feeling empty. So, he had never really lived. So, he had died and faded 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.
She could barely forgive him for never truly living. If it weren't for Anna and little Ursula, who had his features, there would be nothing left of him but a discarded, broken vessel, barely 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.”
Tom Brangwen had been there for her. He had come into her life and taken from her. He had passed away and moved on to the afterlife. But he had made himself eternal in his understanding of her. So, she had her place here, in life, and in eternity. Because he had carried his knowledge of her into death, she had her place in that realm as well. “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 loved both her husbands. To one, she had been a naked little girl-bride, rushing to serve him. The other she loved for different reasons, because he was good and had given her life, because he had treated her with respect and become her partner, 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.
She had found her place in this phase of life; she had discovered who she truly was. In her first marriage, she hadn't really existed, only defined by him—he was the essence, and she was just the shadow following him. She was really happy to finally know herself. She felt thankful to Brangwen. She reached out to him in that gratitude, even in 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.
In her heart, she felt a faint sense of tenderness and pity for her first husband, who had been her master. It was so unjust that he had died without truly living or becoming his own person. And he had been her master! It all felt so strange! Why had he been her master? He now seemed so distant, so disconnected from her life.
“Which did you, grandmother?”
"Which one did you, grandma?"
“What?”
“What?”
“Like best.”
"Favorite."
“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.”
“I liked them both. I married the first one when I was still quite young. Then I fell in love with your grandfather when I was an adult. There’s a difference.”
They were silent for a time.
They were quiet for a while.
“Did you cry when my first grandfather died?” the child asked.
“Did you cry when my first grandpa died?” the child asked.
Lydia Brangwen rocked herself on the bed, thinking aloud.
Lydia Brangwen rocked back and forth on the bed, talking to herself.
“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.
“When we arrived in England, he barely spoke; he was too focused on everything around him to notice anyone. He grew thinner and thinner, until his cheeks were sunken and his mouth jutted out. He wasn't attractive anymore. I knew he couldn't stand losing, and I thought everything was hopeless. But I had your mother as a baby, so it wouldn’t be worth it for me to die.”
“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 looked at me with his dark eyes, almost as if he hated me, when he was sick, and said, ‘It just needed this. It just needed for me to leave you and a young child to starve in this London.’ I told him we wouldn’t starve. But I was young, naive, and scared, 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!’
“He was angry, and he never backed down. He lay there thinking hard, trying to figure out what he could do. ‘I don’t know what you’ll do,’ he said. ‘I’m worthless, I’m a complete failure. I can’t even take care of my wife and kid!’”
“But you see, it was not for him to provide for us. My life went on, though his stopped, and I married your grandfather.
“But you see, it wasn’t his responsibility to take care of us. My life continued, even though his ended, 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.”
“I should have known better, I should have been able to say to him: ‘Don’t be so bitter, don’t let this failure consume you. You are not everything.’ But I was too young, he never allowed me to find my own way, I really believed he was everything. So I let him carry it all. But it wasn’t all on him. Life has to continue, and I have to marry your grandfather, and have your Uncle Tom, and your Uncle Fred. We can’t shoulder all of this 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.
The child's heart raced as she listened to these things. She couldn’t fully grasp them, but she felt a connection to distant places. It filled her with a deep, joyful excitement to know that she came from far away, from Poland, and that imposing man with the dark beard. It was strange; her origins were unusual, and she sensed a powerful fate looming around her.
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.
Almost every day, Ursula saw her grandmother, and each time, they had conversations together. Until the grandmother’s sayings and stories, shared in the quiet of the Marsh bedroom, built up with deep meaning and became a sort of Bible to the child.
And Ursula asked her deepest childish questions of her grandmother.
And Ursula asked her most childlike questions to her grandmother.
“Will somebody love me, grandmother?”
“Will someone love me, grandma?”
“Many people love you, child. We all love you.”
“Lots of people care about you, kid. We all care about you.”
“But when I am grown up, will somebody love me?”
"But when I'm grown up, will someone 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.”
“Yes, some guy will love you, sweetheart, because that’s just who you are. And I hope it's someone who loves you for who you are, not for what he wants from you. But we have the right to our desires.”
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.
Ursula was scared, hearing all of this. Her heart sank, and she felt like she had no solid ground beneath her. She held onto her grandmother. Here, there was peace and safety. From her grandmother’s calm room, the door opened up to a larger space—the past—so expansive that everything in it felt small: loves, births, and deaths, tiny details within a vast horizon. It was a huge relief to understand the minor significance of the individual within the grand history.
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.
It was really tough for Ursula to be the oldest in the family. By the time she turned eleven, she had to take Gudrun, Theresa, and Catherine to school. The boy, William, who was always called Billy to avoid confusion with his dad, was a sweet, somewhat fragile three-year-old, so he stayed home for now. There was also another baby girl named 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”.
The kids attended the little church school near the Marsh for a while. It was the only school nearby, and since it was so small, Mrs. Brangwen felt comfortable sending her children there, even though the village boys called Ursula "Urtler," 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.
Gudrun and Ursula were roommates. The second child, with her long, dreamy body and her endless stream of fantasies, wanted nothing to do with reality. She was not interested in that; she was all about her own dreams. Ursula, on the other hand, was grounded in reality. So Gudrun left all the practicalities to her older sister, trusting her completely and without concern. Ursula felt a deep affection for her 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.
It was pointless to hold Gudrun accountable. She glided through life effortlessly, like a fish in the ocean, entirely at ease in her own uniqueness. The rest of existence didn’t bother her. She only believed in Ursula and relied on her.
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.
The oldest child was really stressed out by her responsibility for the younger ones. Especially Theresa, a strong, bold-eyed kid, had a knack for causing trouble.
“Our Ursula, Billy Pillins has lugged my hair.”
“Our Ursula, Billy Pillins has dragged my hair.”
“What did you say to him?”
“What did you say to him?”
“I said nothing.”
"I didn't say anything."
Then the Brangwen girls were in for a feud with the Pillinses, or Phillipses.
Then the Brangwen girls were ready 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.
“You're not going to pull my hair again, Billy Pillins,” said Theresa, walking with her sisters and giving the freckled, red-haired boy a fierce look.
“Why shan’t I?” retorted Billy Pillins.
“Why shouldn't I?” replied Billy Pillins.
“You won’t because you dursn’t,” said the tiresome Theresa.
“You won’t because you don’t dare,” said the annoying Theresa.
“You come here, then, Tea-pot, an’ see if I dursna.”
“You come here, then, Tea-pot, and see if I don’t.”
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.
Up marched Tea-pot, and right away Billy Pillins grabbed her long, dark hair. Furious, she lunged at him. Then Ursula and Gudrun rushed in, along with little Katie, and soon the other Phillips siblings, Clem, Walter, and Eddie Anthony, joined the fray. It turned into a brawl. The Brangwen girls were tall and stronger than many boys. If it weren't for their pinafores and long hair, they would have easily won. However, they went home with their hair pulled and their pinafores torn. The Phillips boys took great pleasure in tearing 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.”
Then there was a big uproar. Mrs. Brangwen would not accept it; no, she absolutely wouldn’t. All her natural dignity and aloofness surged up. Then the vicar began lecturing the school. “It's unfortunate that the boys of Cossethay can’t act more like gentlemen towards the girls of Cossethay. Seriously, what kind of boy attacks a girl, kicking her, hitting her, and tearing her dress? That boy deserves harsh punishment and the label of coward, because no boy who wasn’t 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.
Meanwhile, there was a lot of resentful anger in the Pillinses’ hearts, but a lot of virtue in the Brangwen girls’, especially in Theresa. The feud continued, with times of extraordinary friendship, when Ursula was Clem Phillips’s girlfriend, Gudrun was Walter’s, Theresa was Billy’s, and even little Katie had to be Eddie Ant’ny’s girlfriend. There was a strong bond. Whenever they could, the little group of Brangwens and Phillipses would come together. Yet neither Ursula nor Gudrun wanted any real closeness with the Phillips boys. For them, this alliance and the idea of having boyfriends was more of a pretense.
Again Mrs. Brangwen rose up.
Again, Mrs. Brangwen stood 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.”
“Ursula, I will not allow you to be out there raking the roads with guys, just so you know. Now cut it out, and everyone else will too.”
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.
How Ursula hated always having to represent the little Brangwen club. She could never be herself; instead, she was always Ursula-Gudrun-Theresa-Catherine—and later, even Billy was tacked on to her. Plus, she didn't want the Phillipses around either. She just didn't fit in 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.
However, the Brangwen-Pillins alliance quickly fell apart because of the unfair advantage the Brangwens had. The Brangwens were wealthy. They had unrestricted access to the Marsh Farm. The school teachers treated the girls with almost a sense of respect, and the vicar spoke to them as equals. The Brangwen girls were confident; they tossed their heads with pride.
“You’re not ivrybody, Urtler Brangwin, ugly-mug,” said Clem Phillips, his face going very red.
“You’re not everybody, Urtler Brangwin, ugly mug,” said Clem Phillips, his face turning bright red.
“I’m better than you, for all that,” retorted Urtler.
“I’m better than you, anyway,” Urtler shot back.
“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.
“You think you are—with a face like that—Ugly Mug,—Urtler Brangwin,” he started to mock, trying to get everyone else to join in against her. Then hostility flared up again. How she hated their mocking. She grew cold towards the Phillipses. Ursula was very proud of her family. The Brangwen girls all had a strange, unseeing dignity, even a sort of nobility in the way they carried themselves. Because of their background and upbringing, they seemed to go through their lives without a care for how others saw them. From the very beginning, it never crossed Ursula's mind that other people might think poorly of her. She believed that anyone who knew her recognized her worth and accepted her as she was. She thought the world was made up of people like herself. She suffered deeply if she had to think poorly of anyone, 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.
This was infuriating to many small-town folks. Throughout their lives, the Brangwens encountered people who tried to belittle them. Interestingly, the mother knew what would happen and was always prepared to give her children the edge in those situations.
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.
When Ursula was twelve, and the local school and the companionship of the village kids, who were petty and envious, started to impact her, Anna sent her and Gudrun to the Grammar School in Nottingham. This was a huge relief for Ursula. She had a strong desire to break free from the degrading circumstances of her life, the small jealousies, the minor differences, the little meanness. It tortured her that the Phillipses were poorer and more petty than she was, that they made small, spiteful remarks and took cheap shots. She wanted to be around people who were her equals, but not at the cost of diminishing herself. She truly wished for Clem Phillips to be her equal. Yet, for some strange and painful reason, when he was actually there with her, he made her feel tightness in her head. She felt like banging her forehead, wanting 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.
Then she realized that escaping was simple. She left everything behind. She went to the Grammar School and left the little school, the underwhelming teachers, and the Phillipses whom she had tried to care for but who had let her down, and whom she couldn't forgive. She had an instinctive fear of small-minded people, like a deer is afraid of dogs. Since she was blind, she couldn’t judge or assess people. She had to assume that everyone was just like her.
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.
She judged by the standards of her own family: her dad and mom, her grandmother, her uncles. Her beloved dad, so completely straightforward in his behavior, yet with his strong, dark soul anchored deep in unexpressed emotions that both intrigued and scared her; her mom, who was so unusually detached from money, social norms, and fear, totally indifferent to the world, standing alone, without any ties; her grandmother, who had traveled so far and was connected to such a broad horizon: people had to meet these standards before they could be considered part of Ursula’s circle.
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.
So even at twelve, she was excited to break free from the small confines of Cossethay, where only a few ordinary people lived. Outside was all about the wide-open world and a crowd of genuine, proud individuals whom she would truly admire.
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.
Going to school by train, she had to leave home at 7:45 in the morning, and she didn't get back until 5:30 in the evening. She was grateful for this, since the house was small and crowded. It was a whirlwind of activity, from which there was no escape. She really disliked 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.
The house was chaotic with movement. The kids were lively and wild, while their mother only cared about their well-being. As Ursula got a bit older, it turned into a nightmare for her. Later, when she saw a Rubens painting featuring storms of naked babies, titled “Fecundity,” she shuddered, and the world became repulsive to her. She understood as a child what it was like to live in the chaos of babies, in the heat and mess of fertility. And as a child, she was fiercely opposed to her mother; she longed for some spirituality and dignity.
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.
In bad weather, home was chaotic. Children rushed in and out of the rain, splashing in the puddles beneath the gloomy yew trees, across the wet kitchen flagstones, while the cleaning lady grumbled and scolded; kids were piled on the sofa, kicking the piano in the parlor to make it sound like a beehive, rolling on the hearth rug with their legs in the air, pulling a book apart between them, children, devilish and everywhere, sneaking upstairs to see where Ursula was, whispering at bedroom doors, hanging on the latch, calling out mysteriously, “Ursula! Ursula!” to the girl who had locked herself in to read. And it was pointless. The locked door fueled their sense of mystery, and she had to open it to break the spell. These kids clung to her with wide-eyed, excited questions.
The mother flourished amid all this.
The mother thrived in all of this.
“Better have them noisy than ill,” she said.
“Better to have them noisy than sick,” 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.
But the growing girls, on the other hand, experienced deep anguish. Ursula was just reaching the point when Andersen and Grimm were being replaced by 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.”
“Elaine the beautiful, Elaine the charming,
Elaine the lily maid of Astolat,
High in her room in a tower to the east
Kept watch over the sacred shield of Lancelot.”
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.
How she loved it! How she leaned out of her bedroom window with her rough black hair on her shoulders and her warm face all focused, gazing across at the churchyard and the little church, which looked like a castle with towers, from where Launcelot would ride by right now, wave to her as he passed, his red cloak fluttering behind the dark yew trees and through the open space. And she, ah, she would stay the lonely maid up high and isolated in the tower, polishing the formidable shield, weaving it a cover with a true symbol, and waiting, always distant and elevated.
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:
At that moment, there would be a faint scuffle on the stairs, a soft whisper outside the door, and a creaking of the latch: then Billy, excited, whispered:
“It’s locked—it’s locked.”
"It’s locked—it's locked."
Then the knocking, kicking at the door with childish knees, and the urgent, childish:
Then there was the knocking, the kicking at the door with little knees, and the urgent, childish:
“Ursula—our Ursula? Ursula? Eh, our Ursula?”
“Ursula—our Ursula? Ursula? Huh, our Ursula?”
No reply.
No response.
“Ursula! Eh—our Ursula?” the name was shouted now. Still no answer.
“Ursula! Hey—our Ursula?” the name was shouted now. Still no answer.
“Mother, she won’t answer,” came the yell. “She’s dead.”
“Mom, she won’t respond,” came the shout. “She’s dead.”
“Go away—I’m not dead. What do you want?” came the angry voice of the girl.
“Go away—I’m not dead. What do you want?” shouted the girl, sounding angry.
“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:
“Open the door, our Ursula,” came the complaining cry. It was all over. She had to open the door. She heard the screech of the bucket downstairs being 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.
“What were you doing? Why did you lock the door?” Then she found the key to the parish room, went there, and sat on some sacks with her books. Another dream began.
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.
She was the only daughter of the old lord and had magical abilities. Day after day passed in quiet awe as she wandered through the silent, ancient mansion like a ghost, or drifted along the peaceful 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.
Here, a deep sadness hit her: that her hair was dark. She must have fair hair and a fair skin. She felt pretty frustrated about her black hair.
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.
Never mind, she would dye it when she was older, or bleach it in the sun, until it was lightened. In the meantime, she wore a beautiful white cap made 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.
She moved quietly along the terraces, where sparkling lizards lay on the stone, showing no reaction when her shadow passed over them. In the complete stillness, she heard the sound of the fountain and caught the scent of the roses whose blooms hung lush and still. So she floated on, carried by the enchanting grace of beauty, past the water and the swans, to the grand park, where, beneath a large oak tree, a dappled doe rested with her four delicate feet together, her fawn snuggled up beside her, glowing in the sunlight.
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.
Oh, and this doe was her companion. 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.
Then one day, she left the door of the parish room unlocked, careless and oblivious as she always was; the kids found their way in, Katie cut her finger and screamed, Billy carved notches into the nice chisels, and caused a lot of damage. There was a huge uproar.
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.
The mother's anger soon faded. Ursula locked the room again and thought everything was done. Then her father walked in with the notched tools, his forehead creased.
“Who the deuce opened the door?” he cried in anger.
“Who the heck opened the door?” he shouted angrily.
“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.
“It was Ursula who opened the door,” her mother said. He had a duster in his hand. He turned and whipped the cloth hard across the girl’s face. The cloth stung, and for a moment, the girl felt dazed. Then she stayed still, her face tight and defiant. But her heart was on fire. Against her will, the tears welled up higher, despite her efforts to hold them back.
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.
In spite of her, her face cracked, she made a strange gulping expression, and tears streamed down. So she walked away, heartbroken. But her fiery heart was strong and determined. He watched her leave, and a bittersweet feeling washed over him, a mix of triumph and a sense of control, quickly followed by deep sympathy.
“I’m sure that was unnecessary—to hit the girl across the face,” said the mother coldly.
“I’m sure that was unnecessary—to hit the girl in the face,” said the mother coldly.
“A flip with the duster won’t hurt her,” he said.
“A quick swat with the duster won’t hurt her,” he said.
“Nor will it do her any good.”
“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.
For days and weeks, Ursula’s heart ached from this rejection. She felt so painfully vulnerable. Didn’t he realize how fragile she was, how exposed and hurting? He, of all people, knew. And he chose to do this to her. He wanted to hurt her right where it mattered most, to shame her, to insult her deeply.
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.
Her heart ached in loneliness, like a fire that was lit. She didn't forget, she didn't forget, she never forgot. When she thought about her love for her father, the feelings of mistrust and rebellion simmered endlessly, even if they were kept hidden. She no longer belonged to him without question. Slowly, the fire of mistrust and rebellion burned in her, erasing her bond 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.
She often ran alone, drawn to anything that was lively and in motion. She loved the little streams. Wherever she found flowing water, she felt joy. It seemed to make her spirit run and sing alongside it. She could sit for hours by a brook or stream, on the roots of the alders, watching the water rush and dance over the stones, or weave among the twigs of a fallen branch. Sometimes, little fish disappeared before they felt real, like illusions; sometimes wagtails dashed along the water's edge; sometimes other small birds came to drink. She spotted a kingfisher zipping by in brilliant blue—and that made her really happy. The kingfisher was the gateway to a magical world: it was the witness to the edge 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.
But she needs to step out of the complex illusion of her life: the illusion of a father whose life was an epic journey in a vast world; the illusion of her grandmother, of realities so vague and distant that they became like mystical symbols: peasant girls with wreaths of blue flowers in their hair, the sleds and the depths of winter; the dark-bearded young grandfather, marriage, war, and death; then the countless illusions about herself, how she was really a princess of Poland, how in England she was under a spell, she wasn’t really this Ursula Brangwen; then the mirage from her reading: from the colorful illusions of 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.
She was shy and it was painful for her. For one thing, she bit her nails and felt a terrible awareness at her fingertips, a sense of shame, an exposure. This shame, which was completely out of proportion, tormented her. She spent hours in agony, imagining ways to keep her gloves on: whether she could say her hands were burned, or if she could somehow 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.
For she was going to inherit her own estate when she started high school. There, every girl was a lady. There, she would walk among free spirits, her peers and equals, and all trivial things would be left behind. Ah, if only she didn’t bite her nails! If only she didn’t have this flaw! She longed so much to be perfect—flawless and living a 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.
It upset her that her father made such a bad introduction. He was as brief as always, like a kid stating his purpose, and his clothes looked loose and casual. Meanwhile, Ursula would have preferred formal robes and a proper ceremony to mark her introduction to this 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.
She created a fresh impression of school. Miss Grey, the headmistress, had a kind of silvery, authoritative charm. The school had once been a gentleman’s home. Dark, somber lawns set it apart from the upscale avenue. However, the rooms were spacious and nicely decorated, and from the back, you could gaze over the lawns and bushes, past the trees and the grassy slope of the Arboretum, toward the town that filled the valley with its rooftops, domes, and 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.
So Ursula sat on the hill of knowledge, looking down at the smoke, chaos, and busy work of the town. She felt happy. Up here, in the Grammar School, she believed the air was cleaner, away from the factory smoke. She wanted to learn Latin, Greek, French, and math. She felt nervous and excited like a beginner 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:
She was on another hillside that she hadn't reached the top of yet. There was always a wonderful eagerness in her heart to climb higher and see what was beyond. A Latin verb felt like untouched territory to her: she sensed a new smell in it; it meant something, even if she didn’t know what it was. But she embraced it: it was important. When she realized that:
x2 – y2 = (x + y) (x – y)
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:
then she felt that she had understood something, that she was free in an exhilarating atmosphere, fresh and unrestrained. And she was very happy as she worked on her French assignment:
“J’ai donné le pain à mon petit frère.”
“I gave the bread to my little brother.”
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.
In all these things, there was a bugle call to her heart, exciting and inviting her to amazing places. She never forgot her brown "Longman’s First French Grammar," her "Via Latina" with its red edges, or her little grey Algebra book. There was always a sense of 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 quick, smart, and intuitive when it came to learning, but she wasn't "thorough." If something didn't come to her naturally, she just couldn't grasp it. On top of that, her intense hatred for all lessons, her harsh disdain for all teachers and schoolmistresses, and her strong, almost animalistic arrogance made her unbearable.
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.
She was a free, unstoppable spirit, expressing her defiance: there were no laws or rules that applied to her. She lived solely for herself. After that, a long struggle with everyone followed, and eventually, she broke down after exhausting all her resistance, sobbing uncontrollably, feeling lost; and later, in a humbled, drained, almost ghostly state, she finally understood what had eluded her before, and left feeling sadder but 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.
Ursula and Gudrun attended school together. Gudrun was a shy, quiet, wild girl, a slender figure who held back from attention or quickly slipped away to retreat into her own world. She seemed to instinctively avoid all contact and followed her own path, chasing half-formed ideas that had no connection 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.
She wasn't clever at all. She thought Ursula was smart enough for both of them. Ursula got it, so why should Gudrun stress about it? The younger girl lived her religious, responsible life through her sister, by proxy. For herself, she was indifferent and focused like a wild animal, and just as reckless.
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.
When she realized she was at the bottom of the class, she laughed casually and felt okay, saying she was safe now. She didn’t care about her father's disappointment or her mother's slight embarrassment.
“What do I pay for you to go to Nottingham for?” her father asked, exasperated.
“What am I paying for you to go to Nottingham for?” her father asked, frustrated.
“Well, Dad, you know you needn’t pay for me,” she replied, nonchalant. “I’m ready to stop at home.”
“Well, Dad, you know you don’t have to pay for me,” she replied, nonchalant. “I’m ready to head 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.
She was happy at home, but Ursula was not. Slim and uncomfortable outside, Gudrun was relaxed in her own house like a wild creature in its den. In contrast, Ursula, focused and sharp when away, felt hesitant, uneasy, and unwilling to be herself at home, or maybe she just couldn’t.
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.
Nevertheless, Sunday remained the best day of the week for both of them. Ursula looked forward to it passionately, appreciating the sense of eternal security it provided. She experienced intense anxiety during the weekdays, feeling like there were powerful forces that wouldn’t acknowledge her. She constantly felt an apprehension and aversion toward authority. She believed she could do whatever she wanted as long as she managed to steer clear of conflict with Authority and those in power. But if she revealed her true self, she knew she would be lost and destroyed. There was always a looming threat 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.
This weird feeling of cruelty and ugliness that always seemed ready to grab hold of her, that sense of the mob's begrudging power lying in wait for her as the exception, was one of the biggest influences on her life. Wherever she found herself—at school, with friends, on the street, on the train—she instinctively shrank away, made herself seem smaller, pretended to be less than she really was, out of fear that her true self would be discovered, attacked, or targeted by the savage resentment of the ordinary and average.
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.
She felt pretty safe at school now. She understood how to fit in there and how much of herself to keep to herself. But she was only truly free on Sundays. When she was just fourteen, she started to sense a resentment building against her at home. She realized she was the one causing the tension there. But for now, on Sundays, she was truly free, free to be herself, without fear or doubt.
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.
Even at its stormiest, Sunday was a wonderful day. Ursula woke up with a sense of immense relief. She wondered why her heart felt so light. Then she remembered it was Sunday. A joy seemed to explode around her, a feeling of great freedom. For twenty-four hours, the entire world was paused, reset. 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.
She loved the chaos of the household. It was a rare treat if the kids slept until seven o’clock. Usually, just after six, a chirping sound was heard, followed by an excited voice announcing the start of a new day. There was a pounding of tiny feet, and the kids were up and running around, in their shirts, with pink legs and shiny, fluffy hair all clean from Saturday night’s bath, their spirits lifted by their bodies' freshness.
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.
As the house started to fill with active, half-dressed clean kids, one of the parents got up, either the mom, laid-back and a bit disheveled, with her thick, dark hair loosely piled and falling over one ear, or the dad, relaxed and cozy, with messy black hair and his shirt unbuttoned at the neck.
Then the girls upstairs heard the continual:
Then the girls upstairs heard the constant:
“Now then, Billy, what are you up to?” in the father’s strong, vibrating voice: or the mother’s dignified:
“Now then, Billy, what are you doing?” in the father’s strong, booming voice: or the mother’s dignified:
“I have said, Cassie, I will not have it.”
“I've told you, Cassie, I'm not going to allow 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.
It was incredible how the father's voice could resonate like a gong, completely unbothered, and how the mother could speak like a queen in front of an audience, even though her blouse was sticking out everywhere, her hair wasn't styled, and the kids were screaming in chaos.
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.
Slowly, breakfast was made, and the older girls came down into the din, while half-dressed kids darted around like little cherubs, as Gudrun put it, watching the bare little legs and chubby butts show up and vanish.
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:
Gradually, the kids were caught, and their nightgowns were finally taken off, getting ready for the fresh Sunday shirt. But before the Sunday shirt was pulled over the soft head, the naked child dashed away to roll around on the sheepskin rug in the living room. Meanwhile, the mother chased after, sharply protesting and holding the shirt like a noose, while the father's deep voice rang out, and the naked child rolling on its back in the thick sheepskin joyfully exclaimed:
“I’m bading in the sea, mother.”
“I’m bathing in the sea, Mom.”
“Why should I walk after you with your shirt?” said the mother. “Get up now.”
“Why should I walk behind you with your shirt?” said the mother. “Get up now.”
“I’m bading in the sea, mother,” repeated the wallowing, naked figure.
“I’m bathing in the sea, mom,” 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.”
“We say bathing, not bading,” the mother said, with her odd, detached dignity. “I’m 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.
Finally, the shirts were put on, the stockings matched up, the little trousers buttoned, and the little petticoats tied at the back. The family's ongoing issue was their reluctance to deal with the garter problem.
“Where are your garters, Cassie?”
“Where are your stockings, Cassie?”
“I don’t know.”
"I have no idea."
“Well, look for them.”
"Well, go find 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.
But none of the older Brangwens would truly confront the situation. After Cassie had crawled under all the furniture and messed up her perfectly clean Sunday appearance, much to everyone’s dismay, the garter was overlooked in the rush to wash her 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.
Later, Ursula would be outraged to see Miss Cassie walking into church from Sunday school with her stockings slipped down to her ankle, exposing a dirty knee.
“It’s disgraceful!” cried Ursula at dinner. “People will think we’re pigs, and the children are never washed.”
“It’s embarrassing!” Ursula shouted at dinner. “People are going to think we’re messy, and the kids are never cleaned up.”
“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.”
“Don’t worry about what people think,” the mother said confidently. “I make sure the child is bathed properly, and if I’m satisfied, then everyone else should be too. She can’t keep her stockings up without a garter, and it’s not her fault she was allowed 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.
The issue with garters persisted in different ways, but it didn't go away until each child wore long skirts or long pants.
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.
On this day of propriety, the Brangwen family took the main road to church, making a detour around the garden hedge instead of climbing over the wall into the churchyard. There were no rules from the parents. The children were the guardians of Sabbath decorum, very strict and quick to keep each other in line.
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.
It gradually became clear that after church on Sundays, the house was like a sanctuary, filled with a calm atmosphere that felt almost magical. Inside, only reading, storytelling, and quiet activities like drawing were permitted. Outside, playing had to be done quietly. If there was loud noise, yelling, or shouting, a fierce side of the father and older kids would emerge, making the younger ones quiet and fearful of being excluded.
The children themselves preserved the Sabbath. If Ursula in her vanity sang:
The kids themselves kept the Sabbath. If Ursula, feeling proud, sang:
“Il était un’ bergère
Et ron-ron-ron petit patapon,”
“Il était une bergère
Et ron-ron-ron petit patapon,”
Theresa was sure to cry:
Theresa was definitely going to cry:
“That’s not a Sunday song, our Ursula.”
“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.
“You don’t know,” Ursula replied, sounding condescending. Still, she hesitated. Her song trailed off before she could finish.
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.
Because, even though she didn’t realize it, her Sunday was very valuable to her. She found herself in a strange, unclear place, where her spirit could drift in dreams, free from any disturbances.
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.
The spirit of Christ in white robes moved between the olive trees. It was a vision, not real life. And she herself became part of that visionary being. There was a voice in the night calling, “Samuel, Samuel!” And still the voice called out in the night. But not this night, nor last night, but in the deep, unknown night of Sunday, in the quiet of the Sabbath.
There was Sin, the serpent, in whom was also wisdom. There was Judas with the money and the kiss.
There was Sin, the serpent, who was also wise. 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.
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 misbehavior. If Billy skipped 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”.
Sin was total and eternal: evil and wrongdoing were fleeting and subjective. When Billy, picking up on the local slang, called Cassie a “sinner,” everyone hated him for it. But when a quirky little foxhound puppy arrived at the Marsh, he was playfully named “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.
The Brangwens avoided using their religion to guide their everyday actions. They sought a sense of the eternal and immortal, not a set of rules for daily life. As a result, they were poorly behaved—headstrong and arrogant—despite their generous feelings. They also had a proud demeanor that clashed with the jealous mindset of their neighbors, who held a typical view of democratic Christianity. This made them always stand out, living outside what was considered 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.
How much Ursula resented her first encounter with evangelical teachings. She felt a strange thrill at applying the concept of salvation to her own life. "Jesus died for me, He suffered for me." There was a mix of pride and excitement in it, soon followed by a sense of emptiness. Jesus with wounds in His hands and feet: that was repulsive to her. The shadowy Jesus with the Stigmata: that was her own vision. But Jesus as a real man, speaking with teeth and lips, inviting someone to touch His wounds, like a villager bragging about his sores, disgusted her. She found herself opposed to those who insisted on the humanity of Christ. If He were just a man living an ordinary 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?”
But it was the jealousy of ordinary people that had to insist on the humanity of Christ. It was the ordinary mindset that wouldn't allow anything beyond itself to exist. It was the dirty, degrading hands of the revivalists that wanted to bring Jesus into everyday life, to dress Him in pants and a suit, to force Him into a common-level equality. It was the audacious suburban soul that would ask, “What would Jesus do if He were in my position?”
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.
Against all this, the Brangwens held their ground. If anyone was affected by or careless about the noisy chatter, it was the mother. She wanted nothing beyond human experience. Throughout her life, she never truly embraced 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 with her father. As she hit her teenage years, around thirteen or fourteen, she became increasingly frustrated with her mother’s practical indifference. To Ursula, there was something heartless, almost wicked in her mother’s attitude. What did Anna Brangwen care about God, Jesus, or Angels during these years? She was focused on the life of today. She was still having children, immersed in all the little tasks of her family. Almost instinctively, she resented her husband’s blind devotion to the Church, his dark, submissive desire to worship an invisible God. What did the unknown God matter when a man had a young family to care for? He should focus on the immediate issues in his life, not project himself toward 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:
But Ursula was all for the ultimate. She was always rebelling against babies and the chaos of home life. To her, Jesus represented another realm; He wasn't of this world. He didn't shove His hands in front of her face and, showing His wounds, say:
“Look, Ursula Brangwen, I got these for your sake. Now do as you’re told.”
“Look, Ursula Brangwen, I got these for you. Now do what 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.
To her, Jesus felt beautifully distant, glowing far away like a white moon at sunset, a crescent moon inviting as it trails behind the sun, out of our sight. Occasionally, dark clouds far off, highlighted by a bright yellow band of sunset on a winter evening, reminded her of Calvary; sometimes the full moon rising blood-red over the hill frightened her with the realization that Christ was now dead, heavy and lifeless on 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.
On Sundays, this incredible world came to life. She felt the deep silence, aware that the blend of dark and light was happening. In church, the Voice resonated, echoing not from this world, as if the Church itself were a shell still speaking 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.
“The Sons of God noticed that the daughters of men were attractive, and they took as wives any of them they liked.”
“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.
“And the Lord said, My spirit will not always contend with humans, for they are also flesh; yet their days will be one 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.”
“There were giants on the earth during those times; and also later, when the Sons of God interacted with the daughters of men, and they had children with them, those children became mighty warriors from ancient times, famous men.”
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.
Over this, Ursula felt a stirring as if she were being called from a distance. Back then, wouldn’t the Sons of God have found her beautiful? Wouldn’t one of them have taken her as his wife? It was a dream that scared her because she couldn't comprehend 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.
Who were the sons of God? Wasn't Jesus the only begotten Son? Wasn't Adam the only man created by God? Yet there were men who were not born from Adam. Who were they, and where did they come from? They must also come from God. Did God have many offspring besides Adam and Jesus, children whose origins the children of Adam don't recognize? And maybe these children, these sons of God, had never experienced expulsion or the shame 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.
These came freely to the daughters of humans, saw that they were attractive, and took them as wives, resulting in the women conceiving and giving birth to famous men. This was a real destiny. She moved about in those crucial days when the sons of God came to the daughters of humans.
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.
Nor would any comparison of myths lessen her passion for knowledge. Jupiter had turned into a bull, or a man, to love a mortal woman. He had fathered a giant, a hero, through her.
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.
Very well, he had that in Greece. As for her, she was not a Greek woman. Neither Jove nor Pan nor any of those gods, not even Bacchus or Apollo, could approach her. But the Sons of God who married the daughters of men, those were the ones who should marry her.
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.
She held onto a secret hope, a dream. She lived two lives: one where the realities of everyday life consumed everything, being abundant, and the other where those realities were overshadowed by a lasting truth. She yearned for the Sons of God to connect with the daughters of men; she believed more in her longing and its realization than in the obvious truths of life. Just because a man was a man didn’t mean he wasn't a descendant of Adam, nor did it rule out that he could be one of the timeless, mysterious Sons of God. For now, she was confused, but not defeated.
Again she heard the Voice:
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.”
“It’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter 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.
But it was explained that the needle's eye was a small opening for pedestrians, through which a large, humped camel with its load couldn't possibly squeeze through; or perhaps, with a lot of risk, if it were a small camel, it might manage to fit. After all, one couldn't completely rule out the rich man from heaven, according to 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.
It also made her happy to realize that in the East, people have to use exaggeration, or else they'll go unnoticed; because Eastern people need to see something either blown up to take up all the space or shrunk down to nothing before they feel impressed. She instantly connected with this Eastern way of thinking.
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.
Yet the words still carried a meaning that wasn’t affected by the understanding of gateways or exaggerations. The historical, local, or psychological significance of the words was different. The mysterious value of the saying remained unchanged. What’s the connection between a needle’s eye, a rich man, and heaven? What kind of needle’s eye, what kind of rich man, what kind of heaven? Who knows? It signifies the Absolute World and can never be fully explained 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.
But does one really have to take the speech literally? Was her father wealthy? Couldn’t he get to heaven? Or was he just somewhat wealthy? Or was he actually poor? Regardless, unless he donated everything to the poor, he would have a much tougher time getting to heaven. The eye of the needle would be too narrow for him. She almost wished he were completely broke. If you think about it, any man is considered rich as long as he’s not as poor as the very 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.
She had her doubts when she imagined her father giving away their piano, the two cows, and their savings at the bank to the local laborers, leaving the Brangwens as poor as the Wherrys. And she didn't want that. She was restless.
“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.
“Alright,” she thought, “we’ll give up that kind of heaven, that’s all—at least the needle’s eye version.” And she let the problem go. She wasn’t going to be as poor as the Wherrys, not for anything anyone could say—the pathetic, shabby 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.
So she returned to a more abstract interpretation of the scriptures. Her father rarely read, but he had collected many books with reproductions, and he would sit and examine them, curiously focused like a child, yet with a fervor that was anything but childish. He adored early Italian painters, especially Giotto, Fra Angelico, and Filippo Lippi. The grand compositions captivated him. How many times had he turned to Raphael’s “Dispute of the Sacrament” or Fra Angelico’s “Last Judgment” or the beautiful, intricate depictions of the Adoration of the Magi? Each time, he experienced the same gradual fulfillment of joy. It was all about creating a mystical, architectural vision that used the human figure as a core element. Sometimes he had to rush home to see Fra Angelico’s “Last Judgment.” The path of open graves, the piled earth on either side, the orderly heaven above, the procession towards paradise on one side, and the jarring descent to hell on the other, all brought him a sense of completion and fulfillment. He didn't care whether he believed in devils or angels. The entire idea brought him the deepest satisfaction, and that was all he wanted.
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!
Ursula, familiar with these images from her childhood, searched for their details. She loved Fra Angelico's flowers, light, and angels; she found the demons interesting and enjoyed the depiction of hell. But the image of God, encircled by all the angels above, suddenly bored her. The figure of the Most High bored her and sparked her irritation. Was this really the peak and meaning of everything, this draped, empty figure? The angels were so beautiful, and the light was so stunning. And just for this, to frame such a bland representation of 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.
She was unhappy, but not yet ready to criticize. There was still so much to marvel at. Winter arrived, pine branches lay broken in the snow, and the green pine needles looked vibrant on the ground. The amazing, starry, straight track of a pheasant’s footprints stood out clearly in the snow; there were the distinct marks of a rabbit, two holes beside each other, followed by two behind; the hare made deeper tracks that slanted, and his two hind feet landed together, creating a big pit; the cat made little holes, and birds left a delicate 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.
Gradually, a feeling of anticipation built up. Christmas was approaching. In the shed at night, a secret candle flickered, and the hushed sounds of voices could be heard. The boys were rehearsing the old mystery play of St. George and Beelzebub. Twice a week, by the light of the lamp, there were choir practices in the church to learn the old carols Brangwen wanted to hear. The girls attended these practices. There was a sense of mystery and excitement everywhere. Everyone was getting ready 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.
The time drew near, and the girls were decorating the church, their fingers cold as they tied holly, fir, and yew around the pillars. A new spirit filled the church as the stone came alive with dark, rich leaves, the arches sprouted buds, and cold flowers began to bloom in the dim, mystical atmosphere. Ursula had to weave mistletoe over the door and across the screen, and hang a silver dove from a yew sprig, until dusk fell and the church resembled 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.
In the cow shed, the boys were painting their faces for a dress rehearsal; the turkey hung dead, with its wings spread open, in the dairy. It was time to make pies to get ready.
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.
The anticipation grew more intense. The star shone brightly in the sky, and the songs and carols were prepared to celebrate it. The star was the sign in the heavens. The Earth should also show a sign. As evening approached, hearts raced with excitement, and hands were filled with gifts. There were the eagerly expected words of the church service; the night had ended, and morning had arrived. The gifts were exchanged, and joy and peace fluttered like wings in every heart. A wave of carols erupted, the Peace of the World had begun, conflict faded away, every hand was joined with another, and every heart sang.
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?
It was disappointing, though, that Christmas Day, as it moved into the evening and night, turned into a kind of dull holiday, lifeless and uneventful. The morning was so amazing, but in the afternoon and evening, the excitement faded away like something that was abruptly cut off, like a bud in an early spring. It’s a shame that Christmas was just a family celebration, a celebration of treats and gifts! Why didn’t the adults also change their everyday attitudes and embrace the joy? Where was the joy?
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?
How intensely the Brangwens longed for it, the joy. The father was troubled, frowning and sad on Christmas night because the excitement was missing, because the day felt like any other day, and hearts were not ignited. The mother seemed distant, as usual, as if she were forever in exile. Where was the burning joy, now that the arrival was complete; where was the star, the Magi’s wonder, the thrill of new life that stirred 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.
Still, it was there, even if it was faint and not enough. The cycle of creation continued in the Church year. After Christmas, the excitement gradually faded and transformed. Sunday followed Sunday, leaving a gentle movement, a finely tuned change over the family's heart. The heart that was full of joy, that had seen the star and followed to the inner walls of the Nativity, that had swooned in the great light, must now feel the light slowly fading, a shadow falling, darkening. The chill crept in, silence covered the earth, and then everything was darkness. The veil of the temple was torn, each heart gave up the ghost, and sank lifeless.
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.
They moved quietly, a slight pallor on the children's lips, on Good Friday, feeling a heaviness in their hearts. Then, pale with a ghostly fragrance, the lilies of resurrection appeared, shining coldly until 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.
But why remember the wounds and the death? Surely Christ rose with healed hands and feet, whole and strong and happy? Surely the journey from the cross to the tomb was forgotten? But no—always the memory of the wounds, always the scent of grave clothes? The Resurrection was a small thing compared to 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.
So the children experienced the year of Christianity, the epic of the human soul. Year after year, the inner, unseen struggle continued within them; their hearts were created and grew rich, endured suffering, let go of life, and rose again to countless days, tireless, having at least this rhythm of eternity in a chaotic, 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.
But it was turning into a routine now, this drama: birth at Christmas for death at Good Friday. By Easter Sunday, the life-drama was pretty much done. The Resurrection felt vague and overshadowed by death, and the Ascension hardly got any attention, just a simple 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.
What was the hope and the fulfillment? No, was it all just a pointless afterlife, a pale, soulless afterlife? Oh, how tragic it is for the human heart to have to die long before the body does.
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.”
For from the grave, after the suffering and the trial of pain, the body rose, broken and cold and colorless. Did Christ not say, “Mary!” and when she turned with open hands to him, did he not quickly add, “Do not touch me; for I have 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.
Then how could the hands celebrate, or the heart feel joy, when they see themselves rejected? Oh, the resurrection of the dead body! Oh, the flickering, uncertain presence of the risen Christ. Oh, the Ascension into heaven, which is just a shadow within death, a total disappearance.
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!
Alas, it’s sad how quickly the drama is over; how life ended at thirty-three; how half of the soul's year is cold and without history! Alas, that a risen Christ has no place among us! Alas, that the memory of the suffering of Pain, Death, and the Grave still triumphs over the pale reality 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?
But why? Why shouldn’t I rise with my body whole and perfect, shining with strong life? Why, when Mary says: Rabboni, shouldn’t I take her in my arms, kiss her, and hold her to my chest? Why is the resurrected body lifeless and repulsive 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?
The Resurrection means life, not death. Will I not see those who have come back to life walking among us, fully complete in body and spirit, whole and joyful in the flesh, living fully, loving deeply, having children, finally reaching wholeness, perfect without scars or flaws, healthy without the fear of sickness? Isn’t this the time of maturity, joy, and fulfillment after the Resurrection? Who will be overshadowed by Death and the Cross, now that they have risen, and who will fear the mystical, perfect body 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?
Can I not walk this earth happily, having risen from sorrow? Can I not eat joyfully with my brother and kiss my beloved with joy after my resurrection, celebrate my marriage in the flesh with feasting, and go about my business eagerly, sharing in the happiness of my friends? Is heaven so eager for me, so resentful of this earth, that I should rush away, or should I linger here pale and untouched? Has the flesh that was crucified become poison to the crowds in the street, or is it a source of strong joy and hope for them, like the first flower blooming from the earth's soil?
Chapter XI.
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.
As Ursula transitioned from girlhood to womanhood, the weight of self-responsibility slowly settled on her. She became conscious of herself, realizing she was an individual in a world filled with uncertainty, that she needed to go somewhere, that she had to become something. And she felt scared and anxious. Why, oh why, must one grow up? Why must one bear this heavy, numbing burden of living an undiscovered life? To rise from nothingness and blend into the indistinct crowd, to create something of herself! But what? In the haze and chaos, to choose a path! But where to go? How could she take even one step? And yet, how could she stand still? This was truly tormenting—to bear the responsibility of her 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.
The religion that had once been a separate world for her, a wonderful kind of play-world where she lived, climbing the tree with the short man, walking unsteadily on the sea like the disciple, breaking bread into five thousand pieces like the Lord, and hosting a huge picnic for five thousand people, now faded from reality and turned into a story, a myth, an illusion. No matter how much one might claim it as a historical fact, deep down, she knew it wasn’t true—at least not in our everyday life. In this life we know, there could be no Feeding of the Five Thousand. The girl had reached a point where she believed that anything 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.
So, the old division of life, where there used to be a weekday world filled with people, trains, responsibilities, and reports, and alongside that a Sunday world of absolute truth and living mystery—of walking on water, being dazzled by the face of the Lord, following the pillar of cloud through the desert, and watching the bush that crackled but didn’t burn—this old, accepted division was suddenly found to be shattered. The weekday world had won over the Sunday world. The Sunday world wasn’t real, or at least, not actual. And life was lived through 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.
Only the weekday world mattered. She herself, Ursula Brangwen, had to know how to handle weekday life. Her body had to fit into the weekday society's expectations. Her soul needed to hold a weekday worth, recognized by the world’s standards.
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.
Well, then, there was a daily life to lead, filled with actions and accomplishments. And so, it was essential to choose one’s actions and deeds wisely. One was accountable 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.
No, a person is more than just accountable to the world. They are accountable to themselves. There was a confusing, tormenting remnants of the Sunday world inside her, a lingering Sunday self, which demanded a connection with the now abandoned vision of that world. How could someone maintain a relationship with what they rejected? Her mission was now to embrace everyday 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.
How should one act? That was the question. Where to go, how to find oneself? One wasn't truly oneself; one was just a half-formed question. How to become oneself, how to understand both the question and the answer of who you are when you feel like an undefined, shifting thing—nothing, drifting around like the winds of heaven, vague and unexpressed.
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.
She turned to the visions, which had whispered distant words that flowed through her like ripples from an invisible breeze. She heard the words again, she rejected the vision, because she had to be an everyday person, someone to whom visions weren't real, and she only sought the everyday 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.
There were words spoken by the vision: and words need to have a regular meaning, since words were everyday things. Let them speak now: let them express themselves in everyday terms. The vision should translate itself into everyday language.
“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 you have, and give to the poor,” she heard on Sunday morning. That was clear enough, clear enough for Monday morning too. As she walked down the hill to the station, heading to school, she kept the saying with her.
“Sell all thou hast, and give to the poor.”
“Sell everything you have 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.
Did she really want to do that? Did she want to sell her pearl-handled brush and mirror, her silver candlestick, her pendant, her beautiful little necklace, and go dressed in plain clothes like the Wherrys: the unattractive, unkempt Wherrys, who were the “poor” in her eyes? 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.
She walked this Monday morning on the edge of despair. She wanted to do the right thing, but she didn’t want to follow what the gospels said. She didn’t want to be poor—truly poor. The thought terrified her: to live like the Wherrys, so unattractive, and to be at the mercy of everyone.
“Sell that thou hast, and give to the poor.”
“Sell what you have and give to the poor.”
One could not do it in real life. How dreary and hopeless it made her!
One couldn't do that in real life. It made her feel so bleak and hopeless!
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.
Nor could one turn the other cheek. Theresa slapped Ursula on the face. Ursula, in a mood of Christian humility, silently offered the other side of her face. Which Theresa, frustrated by the challenge, also hit. Whereupon Ursula, with a boiling heart, went away quietly.
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.
But anger and deep, twisting shame tortured her, so she wasn’t at ease until she had fought with Theresa again and had nearly shaken her sister’s head off.
“That’ll teach you,” she said, grimly.
“That'll teach you,” she said, grimly.
And she went away, unchristian but clean.
And she walked away, unrefined but pure.
There was something unclean and degrading about this humble side of Christianity. Ursula suddenly revolted to the other extreme.
There was something filthy and humiliating about this lowly aspect of Christianity. Ursula suddenly reacted by swinging to the opposite 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.”
“I hate the Wherrys, and I wish they were dead. Why does my father abandon us like this, leaving us poor and insignificant? Why isn’t he more? If we had a father like we should, he would be Earl William Brangwen, and I would be Lady Ursula. What right do I have to be poor, crawling along the lane like pests? If I had what was rightfully mine, I would be riding on horseback in a green riding habit, with my groom behind me. I would stop at the gates of the cottages and ask the woman who came out with a baby in her arms how her husband was doing after hurting his foot. I would bend down from my horse to pat the flaxen-haired child and give her a shilling from my purse, then I would 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.
So she rode with confidence. And sometimes, she rushed into danger to save a lost child; or she jumped into the canal locks to help a boy who was cramping up; or she picked up a little toddler from the path of a runaway horse: always with creativity, 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:
But in the end, the deep longing from the Sunday world came back. As she descended in the morning from Cossethay and saw Ilkeston softly smoking blue on its hill, her heart swelled with distant 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—”
“Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem—how often I wanted to gather your children together as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing—”
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.
The passion grew inside her for Christ, for the community that offered safety and comfort. But how did that fit into her everyday life? What could it mean, other than wanting Christ to hold her close, just like a mother holds her child? And oh, for Christ, the one who could wrap her in his embrace and keep her there. Oh, for the embrace of a man, where she could find shelter and happiness forever! All her senses buzzed with intense longing.
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.
Vaguely, she understood that Christ represented something different: in the world of visions, He spoke of Jerusalem, something that didn't exist in everyday life. It wasn't the houses and factories He would cherish, nor the homeowners, factory workers, or the poor, but something that had no place in the ordinary world, unseen and untouched by daily 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.
Yet she must have it in everyday terms—she must. Her entire life was an ordinary life; that was everything now. So he had to pull her body to his chest, strong and broad, which thumped with the heartbeat and was warm with the life she shared, the life of the flowing 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.
So she longed for the embrace of the Son of Man, to rest there. And she felt deep shame in her soul, ashamed. While Christ spoke for the Vision to respond, she replied from everyday reality. It was a betrayal, a shift of meaning, from the world of visions to the practical world. So she was ashamed of her spiritual ecstasy and feared that anyone might witness 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.
Early in the year, when the lambs arrived and shelters were made of straw, and on her uncle’s farm the men sat at night with a lantern and a dog, she once again felt that intense mix of the visionary world and everyday life. She felt the presence of Jesus in the countryside. Ah, he would hold the lambs in his arms! And she was the lamb. Then, in the morning, walking down the lane, she heard the ewe call, and the lambs came running, shaking and sparkling with newborn joy. She watched as they leaned down, nuzzling, searching for the udder to find the teats, while the mother turned her head seriously and sniffed at her own. They were sucking, vibrating with happiness on their little, long legs, their throats reaching up, their new bodies trembling with the 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.
Oh, and the joy, the joy! She could hardly pull herself away to go to school. The tiny noses nuzzling at the udder, the little bodies so happy and content, the small crooked black legs, the mother standing still, giving in to their eager affection—then the mother walked away calmly.
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.
Jesus—the vision world—the everyday world—all tangled together in a mix of pain and joy. The confusion was almost unbearable, the entanglement. Jesus, the vision, talking to her, who wasn't able to see! And she would twist his spiritual words to satisfy her own earthly desires.
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.
This was a shame for her. Mixing up the spirit world with the material world in her own soul brought her down. She responded to the call of the spirit through immediate, everyday desires.
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.”
“Come to me, all of you who are struggling and overwhelmed, 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!
It was a fleeting answer she gave. She jumped with longing to respond to Christ. If she could truly go to him and rest her head on his chest, to find comfort, to be cherished, and hugged 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.
All the time, she walked in a confusing heat of spiritual longing. She wanted Jesus to love her deeply, to accept her passionate offering, to give her a passionate response. For weeks, she was lost in a state 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?
And all along she knew deep down that she was being dishonest, taking Jesus' passion for her own physical gratification. But she was so confused, so caught up in a mess. How could she break 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.
She hated herself; she wanted to crush herself, wipe herself out. How could someone become free? She loathed religion because it only added to her confusion. She rejected everything. She wanted to be tough, indifferent, completely heartless to everything except her immediate needs and desires. Wanting to feel something for Jesus, just to use him to indulge her own weak feelings, drove her crazy in the end. There was no Jesus, no sentimentality. With all the bitter hatred of feeling powerless, she despised 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.
At this time, the young Skrebensky arrived. She was almost sixteen, a slender, smoldering girl who was very reserved but would occasionally open up completely, as if pouring out her entire soul. However, she was really just creating another façade of her soul for others to see. She was extremely sensitive, always feeling tortured, and constantly trying to appear indifferent as a way to protect 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.
She was, at that moment, a pain in the neck, filled with wild passion and deep anguish. It felt like she put all her emotions into her hands, longing for the other person. Yet, deep down, she harbored a childish distrust. She believed she loved everyone and had faith in everyone. But because she couldn’t love or believe in herself, she looked at everyone with the suspicion of a snake or a trapped bird. Her sudden feelings of disgust and hatred were more instinctive than her urges to love.
So she wrestled through her dark days of confusion, soulless, uncreated, unformed.
So she struggled through her dark days of confusion, feeling empty, unreal, and formless.
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.
One evening, while she was studying in the living room, her head resting in her hands, she heard new voices coming from the kitchen. Instantly, her bored mind perked up and tried to listen. It felt like it was hiding, tense and peering out, not wanting to be discovered.
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.
There were two strange men's voices, one soft and sincere, cloaked in gentle honesty, the other smooth and agile, moving quickly. Ursula sat tense, pulled out of her studies, feeling lost. She continuously listened to the sound of the voices, hardly paying attention to the words.
The first speaker was her Uncle Tom. She knew the naïve 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.
The first speaker was her Uncle Tom. She recognized the simple honesty that masked the deep and brutal pain of his soul. Who was the other speaker? Whose voice flowed so smoothly, yet had an intense energy? That other voice seemed to push her forward.
“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.”
“I remember you,” the young man said. “I remember you from the first time I saw you because of your dark eyes and fair face.”
Mrs. Brangwen laughed, shy and pleased.
Mrs. Brangwen laughed, feeling shy and happy.
“You were a curly-headed little lad,” she said.
“You were a curly-haired little kid,” she said.
“Was I? Yes, I know. They were very proud of my curls.”
“Was I? Yeah, I know. They were really proud of my curls.”
And a laugh ran to silence.
And a laugh quickly turned into silence.
“You were a very well-mannered lad, I remember,” said her father.
“You were a really polite kid, I remember,” said her dad.
“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.”
“Oh! did I ask you to stay the night? I used to always invite people to stay over. I think it was pretty tough on my mom.”
There was a general laugh. Ursula rose. She had to go.
There was a collective laugh. Ursula got up. She had to leave.
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.
At the sound of the latch clicking, everyone turned to look. The girl stood in the doorway, caught in a moment of intense confusion. She was about to be beautiful. Right now, she had an appealing awkwardness as she paused, unsure of how to hold her shoulders. Her dark hair was tied back, and her yellow-brown eyes sparkled with uncertainty. Behind her, in the living room, the soft glow of a lamp lit up the 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.
A fake eagerness led her to her Uncle Tom, who kissed her warmly, making a show of being close to her, while also clearly showing his complete emotional distance.
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.
But she wanted to turn to the stranger. He was standing back a little, waiting. He was a young man with very clear grayish eyes that seemed to wait until they were called upon before showing any emotion.
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.
Something about his calm waiting touched her, and she burst into a confused, somewhat beautiful laugh as she offered him her hand, catching her breath like an excited child. His hand wrapped around hers, very close, very near; he bowed, and his eyes were fixed on her with genuine interest. She felt proud—her spirit came alive.
“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.
“You don’t know Mr. Skrebensky, Ursula,” came her Uncle Tom’s familiar voice. She lifted her face in a sudden burst towards the stranger, as if to express a sense of familiarity, laughing her quick, 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.
His eyes filled with a mix of bright lights, and his distracted focus shifted to being attentive to her. He was a twenty-one-year-old young man, with a slim build and soft brown hair styled in the German fashion, swept back from his forehead.
“Are you staying long?” she asked.
“Are you staying for a while?” 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.”
“I’ve got a month off,” he said, looking at Tom Brangwen. “But I have a few places I need to visit—spend 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.
He gave her a strong awareness of the outside world. It was like she was on a hill and could vaguely sense the entire world laid out before her.
“What have you a month’s leave from?” she asked.
“What do you have a month’s leave from?” she asked.
“I’m in the Engineers—in the Army.”
“I’m in the Engineers—in the Army.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, glad.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, happy.
“We’re taking you away from your studies,” said her Uncle Tom.
“We’re taking you away from your studies,” said Uncle Tom.
“Oh, no,” she replied quickly.
“Oh, no,” she said quickly.
Skrebensky laughed, young and inflammable.
Skrebensky laughed, youthful and impulsive.
“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.
“She won’t wait to be taken away,” her father said. But that felt awkward. She wished he would let her speak for herself.
“Don’t you like study?” asked Skrebensky, turning to her, putting the question from his own case.
“Don’t you like studying?” asked Skrebensky, turning to her, reflecting his own feelings.
“I like some things,” said Ursula. “I like Latin and French—and grammar.”
“I like some things,” Ursula said. “I like Latin and French—and grammar.”
He watched her, and all his being seemed attentive to her, then he shook his head.
He watched her, and it felt like every part of him was focused on 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.”
“I don’t,” he said. “They say all the smart people in the army are in the Engineers. I think that's why I joined them—to take credit for other people's ideas.”
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.
He said this with a curious look and a bit of embarrassment. She became attentive to him. It caught her interest. Regardless of whether he was smart or not, he was fascinating. His straightforwardness drew her in, his independence was appealing. She noticed how his life was moving alongside hers.
“I don’t think brains matter,” she said.
“I don’t think brains are important,” she said.
“What does matter then?” came her Uncle Tom’s intimate, caressing, half-jeering voice.
“What matters then?” came her Uncle Tom’s close, affectionate, half-mocking voice.
She turned to him.
She faced him.
“It matters whether people have courage or not,” she said.
“It matters if people have courage or not,” she said.
“Courage for what?” asked her uncle.
“Courage for what?” her uncle asked.
“For everything.”
"For all the things."
Tom Brangwen gave a sharp little laugh. The mother and father sat silent, with listening faces. Skrebensky waited. She was speaking for him.
Tom Brangwen let out a quick, sharp laugh. The mother and father sat quietly, their faces showing they were listening. Skrebensky waited. She was speaking for him.
“Everything’s nothing,” laughed her uncle.
“Everything’s nothing,” her uncle laughed.
She disliked him at that moment.
She didn't like 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.”
“She doesn’t practice what she preaches,” said her father, shifting in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. “She has courage for very 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.
But she still wouldn't answer. Skrebensky sat there, waiting. His face was uneven, almost unattractive, flat with a somewhat thick nose. But his eyes were clear, surprisingly bright, and his brown hair was soft and thick like silk, and he had a slight mustache. His skin was smooth, and his build was slender and attractive. Next to him, her Uncle Tom looked robust, while her father seemed rough around the edges. Yet he reminded her of her dad, just finer, and he seemed to glow. And his face was almost unattractive.
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.
He seemed completely at peace with his existence, as if he were beyond any change or doubt. He was just himself. There was something inevitable about him that intrigued her. He didn't try to prove anything to others. It simply existed as it was, his own self. In its solitude, it made no excuses or explanations for itself.
So he seemed perfectly, even fatally established, he did not ask to be rendered before he could exist, before he could have relationship with another person.
So he seemed completely, even tragically secure; he didn't ask to be made visible before he could actually exist, before he could connect 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.
This fascinated Ursula a lot. She was so accustomed to people who constantly changed with every new influence. Her Uncle Tom always seemed to be whatever the other person wanted him to be. As a result, you could never really know the true Uncle Tom, just a vague, unsatisfactory version of him with a somewhat consistent look.
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.
But, let Skrebensky do whatever he wanted, completely betray himself; he always betrayed himself on his own terms. He allowed no questions about himself. He was unchangeable in his loneliness.
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.
So Ursula thought he was amazing; he was so well put together and so unique, self-sufficient, and independent. This, she told herself, was a gentleman; he had a nature like destiny, 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 immediately grasped him for her dreams. Here was one like those Sons of God who saw the daughters of men and thought they were beautiful. He wasn't just an ordinary man. Adam was subservient. Hadn’t Adam been forced to leave his own home, and hasn’t humanity been begging ever since, trying to find its own identity? But Anton Skrebensky couldn’t beg. He had a strong sense of self, and that was all. Other people couldn't truly give him anything or take anything away from him. His soul was independent.
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.
She knew that her mom and dad recognized him. The house was different now. Someone had visited the house. Once, three angels stood at Abraham’s doorstep, greeted him, and stayed to eat with him, leaving his household forever changed when they left.
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.
The next day she went down to the Marsh as invited. The two men hadn't come home yet. Then, looking through the window, she saw the dogcart arrive, and Skrebensky jumped down. She noticed him pulling himself together, jumping, laughing at her uncle, who was driving, and then heading toward the house. He was so lively and open in his movements. He seemed completely at ease in his own clear, fine atmosphere, as if he was meant to be there.
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.
His acceptance of his own fate made him look lazy, almost weak; he didn’t move energetically at all. When he sat down, he appeared to relax completely, almost listless.
“We are a little late,” he said.
“We're a bit late,” he said.
“Where have you been?”
"Where have you been?"
“We went to Derby to see a friend of my father’s.”
“We went to Derby to visit a friend of my dad’s.”
“Who?”
“Who’s there?”
It was an adventure to her to put direct questions and get plain answers. She knew she might do it with this man.
It was an adventure for her to ask direct questions and get straightforward answers. She knew she could do that with this man.
“Why, he is a clergyman too—he is my guardian—one of them.”
“Why, he’s a clergyman too—he’s my guardian—one of them.”
Ursula knew that Skrebensky was an orphan.
Ursula knew that Skrebensky was an orphan.
“Where is really your home now?” she asked.
“Where is 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.”
“My home?—I wonder. I really like my colonel—Colonel Hepburn: then there are my aunts; but I guess my true home is the army.”
“Do you like being on your own?”
“Do you enjoy being by yourself?”
His clear, greenish-grey eyes rested on her a moment, and, as he considered, he did not see her.
His clear, greenish-gray eyes focused on her for a moment, and as he thought, he didn’t really 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.”
“I guess so,” he said. “You see, my father—well, he never really fit in here. He wanted—I’m not sure what he wanted—but it was hard on him. And my mother—I always felt she was too good to me. I could sense her being too kind to me—my mom! Then I went away to school really early. I must say, the outside world has always felt more like 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.
“Do you feel like a bird blown away from its own place?” she asked, using a phrase she had come across.
“No, no. I find everything very much as I like it.”
“No, no. I think everything is just the way I want 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.
He increasingly made her feel the immense world around her, a feeling of distances and large groups of people. It attracted her like a scent attracts a bee from far away. But it also pained 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.
It was summer, and she wore cotton dresses. The third time he saw her, she was in a dress with nice blue-and-white stripes, a white collar, and a big white hat. It looked great with her warm, golden 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.
“I like you the most in that dress,” he said, standing with his head slightly tilted, looking at her in a thoughtful, critical way.
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.
She was excited about her new life. For the first time, she was in love with the idea of herself: she saw a lovely little reflection of herself in his eyes. And she felt the need to live up to this: she had to be beautiful. Her thoughts quickly shifted to clothes; her passion was to look good. Her family watched in amazement as Ursula transformed. She became elegant, truly elegant, in patterned cotton dresses she made for herself, and hats she shaped to her liking. Inspiration struck 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.
He sat with a kind of weariness in her grandmother’s rocking chair, rocking slowly and lazily, back and forth, as Ursula talked to him.
“You are not poor, are you?” she said.
“You're not broke, 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.”
“Short on cash? I have around one hundred and fifty a year of my own—so I’m either poor or rich, depending on how you see it. In reality, I’m pretty poor.”
“But you will earn money?”
"But you'll make money?"
“I shall have my pay—I have my pay now. I’ve got my commission. That is another hundred and fifty.”
“I’ll get my pay—I have my pay now. I’ve got my commission. That’s another one hundred fifty.”
“You will have more, though?”
"Will you have more, though?"
“I shan’t have more than £ 200 a year for ten years to come. I shall always be poor, if I have to live on my pay.”
“I won’t have more than £200 a year for the next ten years. I’ll always be broke if I have to live on my salary.”
“Do you mind it?”
"Do you care?"
“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.”
“Being poor? Not right now—not really. I might be later. The people—the officers, are nice to me. Colonel Hepburn seems to have a kind of affection for me—he's probably a wealthy man.”
A chill went over Ursula. Was he going to sell himself in some way?
A chill ran over Ursula. Was he going to sell himself in some way?
“Is Colonel Hepburn married?”
"Is Colonel Hepburn married?"
“Yes—with two daughters.”
"Yes—I've got two daughters."
But she was too proud at once to care whether Colonel Hepburn’s daughter wanted to marry him or not.
But she was too proud 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.
There was a silence. Gudrun walked in, and Skrebensky continued to rock lazily in the chair.
“You look very lazy,” said Gudrun.
“You look really lazy,” said Gudrun.
“I am lazy,” he answered.
“I'm lazy,” he answered.
“You look really floppy,” she said.
“You look really loose,” she said.
“I am floppy,” he answered.
"I'm floppy," he replied.
“Can’t you stop?” asked Gudrun.
"Can’t you just stop?" asked Gudrun.
“No—it’s the perpetuum mobile.”
“No—it’s the perpetual motion machine.”
“You look as if you hadn’t a bone in your body.”
“You look like you don’t have a bone in your body.”
“That’s how I like to feel.”
"That's how I want to feel."
“I don’t admire your taste.”
"I don't like your taste."
“That’s my misfortune.”
"That's my bad luck."
And he rocked on.
And he kept going.
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.
Gudrun sat down behind him, and as he leaned back, she grabbed his hair between her fingers, pulling it as he swung forward again. He didn’t react. All that could be heard was the sound of the rockers on the floor. Quietly, like a crab, Gudrun snatched a strand of his hair each time he leaned back. Ursula felt embarrassed and sat awkwardly. She noticed the irritation building on his forehead.
At last he leapt up, suddenly, like a steel spring going off, and stood on the hearthrug.
At last, he suddenly jumped up like a steel spring being released and stood on the rug by the fireplace.
“Damn it, why can’t I rock?” he asked petulantly, fiercely.
“Damn it, why can’t I rock?” he asked irritably, 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.
Ursula loved him for his sudden, intense energy that broke through the laziness. He stood on the rug by the fireplace, seething, his eyes shining with rage.
Gudrun laughed in her deep, mellow fashion.
Gudrun laughed in her rich, warm way.
“Men don’t rock themselves,” she said.
“Men don’t rock themselves,” she said.
“Girls don’t pull men’s hair,” he said.
“Girls don’t pull guys’ hair,” he said.
Gudrun laughed again.
Gudrun laughed once more.
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.
Ursula sat there, entertained but patient. And he knew that Ursula was waiting for him. It stirred something inside him. He had to go to her, to answer 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:
Once he drove her to Derby in a horse-drawn cart. He was part of the horse-loving crowd among the sappers. They had lunch at a pub and strolled through the market, enjoying everything. He got her a copy of Wuthering Heights from a bookstand. Then they came across a small fair happening and she said:
“My father used to take me in the swingboats.”
“My dad used to take me on the swingboats.”
“Did you like it?” he asked.
“Did you like it?” he asked.
“Oh, it was fine,” she said.
“Oh, it was good,” she said.
“Would you like to go now?”
“Do you want to go now?”
“Love it,” she said, though she was afraid. But the prospect of doing an unusual, exciting thing was attractive to her.
“Love it,” she said, even though she was scared. But the idea of doing something different and thrilling was appealing 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.
He went straight to the stand, paid, and helped her onto the ride. He seemed to focus only on what he was doing, ignoring everyone else around him. She wanted to hang back, but she felt more embarrassed to back away from him than to face the crowd or take on the swingboat. His eyes were full of laughter, and as he stood in front of her with his sharp, sudden figure, he made the boat swing. She wasn't scared; she was excited. His cheeks flushed, and his eyes sparkled with energy as she looked up at him, her face bright and beautiful like a flower in the sun. They soared through the bright air, flying up towards the sky as if launched from a catapult, then plunging back down. She loved it. The motion felt like it ignited their blood, and they laughed, feeling the heat.
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.
After the swing boats, they hopped on the carousel to chill out, him bouncing on his bumpy wooden horse towards her, always looking relaxed and having a good time. A spark of rebellion against the usual made him completely himself. As they sat on the spinning carousel, with the music blaring, she noticed the people on the ground outside, and it felt like they were riding carefree over the faces of the crowd, riding endlessly with a sense of pride and confidence above the upturned faces, moving at a higher level, looking down on the ordinary 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.
When they had to step down and walk away, she felt unhappy, like a giant suddenly reduced to an ordinary size, vulnerable to the crowd.
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.
They left the fair to go back for the dog cart. As they passed the big church, Ursula felt she had to take a look inside. But the entire interior was packed with scaffolding, debris of fallen stone was piled on the floor, pieces of plaster crunched underfoot, and the place echoed with the sounds of voices and hammering.
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.
She had come to dive into complete darkness and peace for a moment, bringing all her longing that had surged back uncontrollably after the wild riding through the crowd at the fair. After experiencing pride, she sought comfort and solace, as pride and scorn seemed to hurt her the most.
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.
And she found the ancient darkness filled with bits of falling plaster and dust floating around, smelling of old lime, with scaffolding and trash piled up, dust cloths covering the altar.
“Let us sit down a minute,” she said.
“Let’s sit down for 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:
They sat unnoticed in the back pew, in the dim light, and she watched the messy, chaotic work of bricklayers and plasterers. Workers in heavy boots tramping down the aisles, shouting in a rough accent:
“Hi, mate, has them corner mouldin’s come?”
“Hey, buddy, have the corner moldings arrived?”
There were shouts of coarse answer from the roof of the church. The place echoed desolate.
There were loud, harsh replies coming from the church roof. The place felt empty and lonely.
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.
Skrebensky sat next to her. Everything felt amazing, yet terrifying to her, the world collapsing around them, and she and he navigating through it all unscathed and without rules. He sat close, touching her, and she felt his impact on her. But she was happy. It thrilled her to feel his presence against her, as if his essence was pushing her toward 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.
As they drove home, he sat close to her. When he swayed in the cart, it was in a sensual, lingering way against her, lingering as he swung back to regain his balance. Without saying a word, he took her hand from underneath the wrap, and with his unseeing face turned toward the road, deeply focused, he started to unbutton her glove with one hand, pushing it back from her hand and carefully exposing it. The delicate, instinctive way his fingers moved over her hand sent the young girl into a frenzy of pleasure. His hand was amazing, focused like a living creature skillfully working in the dark, as he removed her glove and revealed her palm and fingers. Then his hand held hers tightly, so firmly, as if their flesh were woven together as one. Meanwhile, his attention was on the road and the horse's ears; he drove steadily through the villages, while she sat beside him, captivated, glowing, overwhelmed with a new sense of light. Neither of them spoke. Outwardly, they seemed completely separate. But between them was the connection of his flesh with hers in their handclasp.
Then, in a strange voice, affecting nonchalance and superficiality he said to her:
Then, in a strange voice, trying to sound casual and shallow, he said to her:
“Sitting in the church there reminded me of Ingram.”
“Sitting in that church made me think of Ingram.”
“Who is Ingram?” she asked.
"Who's Ingram?" she asked.
She also affected calm superficiality. But she knew that something forbidden was coming.
She also pretended to be calm and carefree. But she knew that something forbidden was approaching.
“He is one of the other men with me down at Chatham—a subaltern—but a year older than I am.”
“He's one of the other guys with me down at Chatham—a junior officer—but a year older than I am.”
“And why did the church remind you of him?”
“And why did the church make you think of him?”
“Well, he had a girl in Rochester, and they always sat in a particular corner in the cathedral for their love-making.”
“Well, he had a girlfriend in Rochester, and they always sat in a specific corner of the cathedral for their intimate moments.”
“How nice!” she cried, impulsively.
"How great!" she exclaimed, impulsively.
They misunderstood each other.
They got each other wrong.
“It had its disadvantages though. The verger made a row about it.”
“It had its downsides, though. The verger caused a fuss about it.”
“What a shame! Why shouldn’t they sit in a cathedral?”
“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 guess they all see it as a curse—except for you, Ingram, and the girl.”
“I don’t think it a profanity—I think it’s right, to make love in a cathedral.”
“I don’t see it as a sin—I think it’s perfectly okay to make love in a cathedral.”
She said this almost defiantly, in despite of her own soul.
She said this almost boldly, despite her own feelings.
He was silent.
He didn't say anything.
“And was she nice?”
"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.”
“Who? Emily? Yeah, she was pretty nice. She was a hat maker, and she wouldn’t be caught dead in the streets with Ingram. It was kind of sad, actually, because the verger watched them, learned their names, and then made a big fuss. It became quite the story afterwards.”
“What did she do?”
“What did she do?”
“She went to London, into a big shop. Ingram still goes up to see her.”
“She went to London, into a large store. Ingram still goes to visit her.”
“Does he love her?”
“Does he love her?”
“It’s a year and a half he’s been with her now.”
“It’s been a year and a half since he’s been with her now.”
“What was she like?”
“What was she like?”
“Emily? Little, shy-violet sort of girl with nice eyebrows.”
“Emily? She's a small, shy girl with nice eyebrows.”
Ursula meditated this. It seemed like real romance of the outer world.
Ursula thought about this. It felt like true romance from the outside 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.
“Do all men have lovers?” she asked, surprised by her own boldness. But her hand was still held in his, and his face still showed the same steady calmness.
“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.”
"They're always talking about some incredible woman or another and getting drunk to chat about her. Most of them rush up to London as soon as they have the chance."
“What for?”
“Why?”
“To some amazing fine woman or other.”
“To some amazing woman or another.”
“What sort of woman?”
"What kind 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.”
“Various. Her name changes pretty often, as a rule. One of the guys is a complete maniac. He always has a suitcase ready, and the moment he's free, he rushes to the station and changes on the train. It doesn't matter who's in the carriage; he whips off his tunic and at least finishes the top half of his grooming.”
Ursula quivered and wondered.
Ursula trembled and wondered.
“Why is he in such a hurry?” she asked.
“Why is he in such a rush?” she asked.
Her throat was becoming hard and difficult.
Her throat was getting tight and difficult.
“He’s got a woman in his mind, I suppose.”
"He's got a woman on his mind, I guess."
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.
She felt cold and tough. And yet this chaotic world of desires and freedom fascinated her. It appeared to her as an amazing boldness. Her journey in life was just starting. It felt truly incredible.
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.
That evening, she stayed at the Marsh until after dark, and Skrebensky walked her home. She couldn’t bring herself to leave him. 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.
In the warmth of the early night, with fresh shadows around them, she felt like she was in another, tougher, more beautiful, less personal world. A new era should begin.
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.
He walked closer to her, and with the same quiet, focused approach, wrapped his arm around her waist and gently pulled her to him until his arm was firm and pressed against her. She felt like she was being carried along, floating, her feet barely touching the ground, resting on the solid, moving surface of his body, as if she was lying in a blissful state of motion. While she was lost in this feeling, his face moved closer to hers, her head resting on his shoulder, and she felt his warm breath on her face. Then softly, oh so softly, as if she might faint, his lips brushed against her cheek, and she drifted through waves of warmth 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.
Still she waited, in her daze and drifting, waited, like Sleeping Beauty in the story. She waited, and again his face was leaning toward hers, his warm lips brushed against her face, their footsteps lingered and stopped, they stood still under the trees, while his lips hovered on her face, waiting like a butterfly that doesn’t move on a flower. She pressed her chest a little closer to him, he moved, wrapped both his arms around her, and pulled 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.
And then, in the darkness, he leaned in to her mouth gently and kissed her. She was scared, lying still on his arm, feeling his lips on hers. She stayed still, feeling helpless. Then his mouth came closer, gently opening her lips, and a warm, overwhelming wave surged within her. She opened her lips to him, pulling him closer with a mix of pain and intensity, allowing him to come deeper. His lips pressed against hers, surging softly, oh so soft, yet like the forceful rush of water, irresistible, until with a small, instinctive cry, she pulled 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.
She could hear him breathing heavily and oddly next to her. A mix of fear and fascination filled her. Yet, she felt herself pull back a bit. They hesitated but kept walking, trembling like shadows beneath the ash trees on the hill where her grandfather had once walked with his daffodils to propose, and where her mother had walked closely with her young husband, just like Ursula was now walking beside 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.
Ursula noticed the dark branches of the trees reaching up above her, covered in leaves, and the delicate ash leaves scattered across 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.
They walked with their bodies in sync, staying close together. He held her hand, and they took the long way around by the road to keep their distance. She always felt like she was floating, as if her feet were as 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.
He would kiss her again—but not that night with the same deep kiss. She was now aware of what a kiss could mean. So, it was harder to approach 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.
She went to bed feeling warm and energized, as if the light of dawn was within her, supporting her. And she slept deeply, sweetly, oh, so sweetly. In the morning she felt strong and healthy, 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.
They kept being lovers, in that initial state of disbelief. Ursula didn't tell anyone; she was completely absorbed 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.
Yet a strange need drove her to seek false confidence. At school, she had a quiet, reflective, serious friend named Ethel, and to Ethel, Ursula had to share her story. Ethel listened intently, with her head bowed and expression unreadable, while Ursula revealed her secret. Oh, it was so wonderful, his gentle, tender way of showing affection! Ursula spoke like someone experienced in love.
“Do you think,” asked Ursula, “it is wicked to let a man kiss you—real kisses, not flirting?”
“Do you think,” asked Ursula, “it's wrong to let a man kiss you—real kisses, not just flirting?”
“I should think,” said Ethel, “it depends.”
“I guess,” said Ethel, “it depends.”
“He kissed me under the ash trees on Cossethay hill—do you think it was wrong?”
“He kissed me under the ash trees on Cossethay Hill—do you think that was wrong?”
“When?”
“When?”
“On Thursday night when he was seeing me home—but real kisses—real—. He is an officer in the army.”
“On Thursday night when he was walking me home—but real kisses—real—. He’s an officer in the army.”
“What time was it?” asked the deliberate Ethel.
“What time is it?” asked the thoughtful Ethel.
“I don’t know—about half-past nine.”
"I don't know—around 9:30."
There was a pause.
There was a break.
“I think it’s wrong,” said Ethel, lifting her head with impatience. “You don’t know him.”
“I think it’s wrong,” Ethel said, lifting her head with impatience. “You don’t know him.”
She spoke with some contempt.
She spoke with disdain.
“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.”
“Yes, I do. He’s half Polish and a baron as well. In England, he’s like a lord. My grandmother was friends with his father.”
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.
But the two friends were unfriendly. It was as if Ursula wanted to separate herself from her acquaintances, by emphasizing her connection with Anton, as she now referred to 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.
He visited Cossethay often because her mother liked him. Anna Brangwen became somewhat of a grande dame with Skrebensky, very composed, taking things as they were.
“Aren’t the children in bed?” cried Ursula petulantly, as she came in with the young man.
“Aren’t the kids in bed?” Ursula exclaimed irritably as she walked in with the young man.
“They will be in bed in half an hour,” said the mother.
“They’ll be in bed in half an hour,” said the mother.
“There is no peace,” cried Ursula.
“There is no peace,” cried Ursula.
“The children must live, Ursula,” said her mother.
“The kids have to live, Ursula,” her mom said.
And Skrebensky was against Ursula in this. Why should she be so insistent?
And Skrebensky was opposed to Ursula on this. Why was she being so adamant?
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.
But then, as Ursula knew, he didn’t have the constant demands of young children around him. He treated her mother with great respect, to which Mrs. Brangwen responded with easy, warm hospitality. Something about her mother’s calm sense of dignity pleased the girl. It seemed impossible to diminish Mrs. Brangwen’s status. She could never be beneath anyone in a public setting. There was an unbridgeable silence between Brangwen and Skrebensky. Sometimes the two men made small talk, but there was no real exchange. Ursula was glad to see her father retreating into himself around 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 laisser-aller combined with profound young vitality. Yet it irritated her deeply.
She felt proud of Skrebensky in the house. His relaxed, laid-back attitude annoyed her but also captivated her. She realized it came from a carefree spirit mixed with intense youthful energy. Still, it frustrated her greatly.
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.
Still, she felt proud of him as he relaxed in his warm, glowing way in her home; he was always so attentive and polite to her mother and to her. It was amazing to have his presence in the room. She felt rich and uplifted by it, as if she were the positive force and he was drawn to her. His politeness and agreement might be directed at her mother, but the radiant energy of his being was meant for her. She embraced it.
She must ever prove her power.
She always has to prove her strength.
“I meant to show you my little wood-carving,” she said.
“I wanted to show you my little wood carving,” she said.
“I’m sure it’s not worth showing, that,” said her father.
“I’m sure it’s not worth showing, that,” her father said.
“Would you like to see it?” she asked, leaning towards the door.
“Do you want 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.
And his body had gotten up from the chair, though his face looked like it wanted to side with her parents.
“It is in the shed,” she said.
“It’s in the shed,” she said.
And he followed her out of the door, whatever his feelings might be.
And he followed her out the door, no matter how he felt.
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.
In the shed, they played at kisses, really played at kisses. It was a thrilling, exciting game. She turned to him, her face full of laughter, like it was a challenge. And he accepted the challenge right away. He tangled his hand in her hair, and gently, with his hand wrapped around her hair behind her head, gradually pulled her face closer to his, while she laughed breathlessly with defiance, and his eyes sparkled with a response, enjoying the game. He kissed her, asserting his will over her, and she kissed him back, claiming her enjoyment of him. They both knew it was daring, reckless, and dangerous—their game, each playing with fire, not with love. A kind of defiance against the whole world filled her—she wanted to kiss him just because she could. And a kind of reckless cynicism in him was like a jab at everything he pretended to serve, pushing back against it.
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.
She was incredibly beautiful then, so open, so radiant, so alive, exquisitely vulnerable and, in a haunting way, carelessly putting herself at risk. It ignited a kind of madness in him. Like a flower dancing freely in the sun, she tempted him and challenged him, and he accepted that challenge; something clicked in him. Beneath all her laughter and poignant recklessness was the tremble of tears. That almost drove him crazy—crazy with desire, with pain, whose only release was through possessing 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.
So, feeling shaken and scared, they returned to her parents in the kitchen and pretended everything was fine. But something had awakened in both of them that they couldn’t ignore now. It heightened their senses; they felt more alive and powerful. Yet beneath it all was a deep awareness of how fleeting it all was. It was a magnificent act of self-assertion from both of them: he asserted himself in front of her, feeling infinitely masculine and irresistible, while she asserted herself in front of him, knowing she was infinitely desirable, and therefore infinitely strong. Ultimately, what could either of them gain from such a passion except an awareness of their own maximum selves, in contrast to everything else in life? There was something finite and sad in that, because the human soul at its peak craves 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.
Nevertheless, this passion had started now and had to continue—the passion of Ursula to discover her fullest self, limited and clearly defined in contrast to him. She could define herself against him, the male; she could embrace her full self, female, oh female, triumphant for a moment in beautiful assertion against the male, in complete contrast 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.
The next afternoon, when he arrived, lurking, she went with him to the church. Her father was slowly building up anger towards him, and her mother was growing resentful towards her. However, the parents were naturally patient in their behavior.
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.
They walked together through the churchyard, Ursula and Skrebensky, and quickly found refuge in the church. It was darker inside than the sunny afternoon outside, but the soft light among the curved stone was very lovely. The windows shone in red and blue, creating a beautiful backdrop for their hidden sanctuary of stone.
“What a perfect place for a rendezvous,” he said, in a hushed voice, glancing round.
“What a perfect place for a meetup,” he said in a low voice, looking around.
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.
She also looked around the familiar room. The dimness and silence gave her a chill. But her eyes sparkled with confidence. Here, she would embrace her unstoppable beautiful self. Here, she would bloom like a flame in this darkness that felt more intense 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.
They stayed apart for a moment, then intentionally turned to each other for the connection they wanted. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her body against his, and as her hands rested on his shoulders and back, it felt like she could sense him completely, aware of his young, tense body in its entirety. It was so strong, yet so beautifully soft and under her influence. She offered him her mouth and savored his kiss, taking it deeper and deeper.
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.
And it was amazing, really amazing. She seemed to be filled with his kiss, like she had consumed strong, warm sunshine. She radiated from within, the sunlight felt like it was warming her heart, she had absorbed it so beautifully.
She drew away, and looked at him radiant, exquisitely, glowingly beautiful, and satisfied, but radiant as an illumined cloud.
She pulled back and looked at him, radiant, stunningly beautiful, and satisfied, glowing like a lit-up 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.
To him, it was painful that she was so bright and content. She laughed at him, unaware of him, so wrapped up in her own happiness, never questioning that he felt the same way. And shining like an angel, she walked with him out of the church, as if her feet were beams of light stepping on flowers.
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.
He walked next to her, his heart tight, his body unfulfilled. Was she really going to have an easy victory over him? For him, there was no happiness left, only hurt and mixed 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.
It was the peak of summer, and the hay harvest was almost done. It would wrap up on Saturday. However, Skrebensky was leaving on Saturday. He couldn't 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.
Having made up his mind to leave, he became very affectionate towards her, kissing her softly, in such a sweet and intimate way that they both felt mesmerized.
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.
The very last Friday of his stay, he ran into her as she was leaving school and took her out for tea in town. Afterward, he got a 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.
Her excitement about riding in a car was the highest of all. He was also very proud of this latest accomplishment. He watched as Ursula lit up with the thrill of the moment. She lifted her head like a young horse sniffing the air with pure joy.
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 car turned sharply around a corner, and Ursula was pushed against Skrebensky. The contact made her notice him. With a quick, searching instinct, she reached for his hand and held it tightly in hers, so close, so connected, 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.
The wind hit Ursula’s face, the mud sprayed up in a soft, wild rush from the wheels, the countryside was a dark green, with glimmers of new hay scattered around, and clusters of trees under a shiny silver 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.
Her hand gripped his more firmly, feeling uneasy. They didn't talk for a while; instead, they sat together, holding hands, with their faces turned away and glowing.
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.
And every now and then the car bumped her against him. They waited for the movement to bring them together. Still, they looked out of the windows, silent.
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.
She watched the familiar countryside speed past. But now, it wasn't just familiar; it felt like a wonderland. There was the Hemlock Stone perched on its grassy hill. It looked odd on this damp, early summer evening, distant, in a magical place. A few 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!
Ah, if only she and Skrebensky could escape and step into this magical land where no one had ever been before! Then they would truly be enchanted, shedding their boring, everyday selves. If she could roam there, on that hillside under a shifting, silvery sky, where rooks disappeared like rushing bursts of ink! If they could stroll past the damp hay, taking in the scent of early evening, and move into the woods where the honeysuckle fragrance lingered sweetly against the crispness in the air, with droplets falling onto them when they brushed against a branch, cold and beautiful on their skin!
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.
But she was here with him in the car, close to him, and the wind was rushing on her uplifted, eager face, blowing back her hair. He turned and looked at her, at her face smooth as a sculpted piece, her hair pushed back by the wind, her delicate nose sharp and elevated.
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.
It was torture for him to see her so quick, sharp, and innocent. He wanted to end his life and throw his loathed body at her feet. His urge to turn on himself and tear himself apart was unbearable.
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.
Suddenly, she looked at him. He appeared to be crouching toward her, reaching out, and he seemed to wince in thought. But immediately, when he saw her bright eyes and beaming face, his expression shifted, and his familiar carefree laugh returned to her. She squeezed his hand in pure joy, and he stayed still. Then, without warning, she leaned down and kissed his hand, lowering her head and pressing it to her lips in a gesture of deep respect. And the blood rushed to his face. Yet he remained still, not making a 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.
She started. They were swinging into Cossethay. Skrebensky was going to leave her. But it was all so magical, 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, naïve 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.
He tapped and talked to the man. The car pulled up by the yew trees. She held out her hand and said goodbye, innocent and quick like a schoolgirl. And she stood there watching him leave, her face glowing. His driving away didn’t matter to her; she was so overwhelmed by her own joyous excitement. She didn’t notice him leave because she was filled with light that came from him. Bright with an incredible light as she was, how could she possibly 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.
In her bedroom, she raised her arms in the air, overwhelmed by a mix of emotions. Oh, it was her transformation; she felt like she was beyond herself. She longed to dive into all the hidden brightness around her. It was there, it was there, if only she could reach 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.
But the next day she realized he was gone. Her joy had faded a bit—but never from her memory. It felt too real. Still, it was over, leaving a lingering sadness. A deeper longing settled in her soul, a new sense of restraint.
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 recoiled from any touch or inquiry. She was incredibly proud, but also inexperienced and quite sensitive. Oh, that no one should lay a hand 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.
She was happier running alone. Oh, it was a joy to run along the paths without actually seeing things, yet still being with them. It was such a joy to be alone with all of one’s treasures.
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.
The holidays arrived, and she was free. She spent most of her time running around by herself, curled up in a cozy spot in the garden, lying in a hammock in the woods, while the birds came close—so close. Oh, in rainy weather, she would rush to the marsh and hide with her book in a hayloft.
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.
All the time, she dreamed about him, sometimes clearly, but when she felt the happiest, only vaguely. He was the warm hues in her dreams; he was the intense passion pulsing 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.
When she was feeling unhappy and off, she thought about how he looked, his clothes, the buttons with his regimental badge that he had given her. Or she tried to picture his life in the barracks. Or she imagined how 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.
His birthday was in August, and she put in some effort to make him a cake. She thought it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to give him a gift.
Their correspondence was brief, mostly an exchange of post-cards, not at all frequent. But with her cake she must send him a letter.
Their correspondence was short, mostly exchanging postcards, and not very frequent. But with her cake, she had to 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.
“Dear Anton. The sun is shining again just for your birthday, I think.
I baked the cake myself, and I wish you many happy returns of the day. Don’t eat it if it doesn’t taste good. Mom hopes you’ll come and visit us when you’re close enough.
“I am
“Your Sincere Friend,
“Ursula Brangwen.”
"I am Your True 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.
It bored her to write a letter even to him. After all, putting 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.
The nice weather had settled in, the cutting machine operated from morning till evening, buzzing around the fields. She heard from Skrebensky; he was also on duty in the countryside, on Salisbury Plain. He was now a second lieutenant in a Field Troop. He would have a few days off soon 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.
Fred Brangwen was going to marry a schoolteacher from Ilkeston as soon as the corn harvest was over.
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.
The dim blue-and-gold of a hot, sweet autumn marked the end of the corn harvest. To Ursula, it felt like 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 looked like free, wandering flowers as they rustled around her feet, creating a sharp, emotional, almost overwhelming music to her heart. The scents of autumn felt like a summer madness to her. She ran away from the little purple-red button chrysanthemums like a scared dryad, the bright yellow chrysanthemums smelled so strong that her feet seemed to stumble in a dizzy 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.
Then her Uncle Tom showed up, always like the snarky Bacchus in the painting. He planned to throw a fun wedding, a harvest party, and a wedding feast all at once: a tent in the backyard, a band for dancing, and a big feast outside.
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.
Fred hesitated, but Tom had to be pleased. And Laura, a beautiful and smart girl, the bride, also deserved a great and fun celebration. It appealed to her educated taste. She had attended Salisbury Training College and was familiar with 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.
So the preparations started, led by Tom Brangwen. A tent was put up in the yard, two big bonfires were built. Musicians were hired, and the feast was prepared.
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.
Skrebensky was coming, arriving in the morning. Ursula had a new white dress made of soft crepe and a white hat. She loved wearing white. With her black hair and clear golden skin, she looked southern, or more like tropical, like a Creole. She wore no other colors at all.
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.
She shook that day as she got ready to go to the wedding. She was going to be a bridesmaid. Skrebensky wouldn't arrive until the 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.
As the wedding party headed home, Skrebensky stood in the living room at the Marsh. He saw Tom Brangwen, the best man, walking up the garden path looking sharp in a cutaway coat and white gloves with spats, while Ursula laughed on his arm. Tom Brangwen was handsome, with his delicate complexion and dark eyes, plus a neatly trimmed black mustache. But there was something subtly rough and suggestive about him despite his looks; his strange, animal-like nostrils flared widely, and his well-shaped head, almost unsettling in its baldness from the front, revealed all its soft fullness.
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.
Skrebensky noticed the man instead of the woman. She could only see the slim, unchanging young man standing there, mysterious, like her destiny. He was beyond her, with his relaxed, slightly horsey look that made him seem very masculine and exotic. Yet his face was smooth, soft, and sensitive. She shook hands with him, and her voice was as sudden and lively as a bird stirred by the morning light.
“Isn’t it nice,” she cried, “to have a wedding?”
“Isn’t it great,” she exclaimed, “to have a wedding?”
There were bits of coloured confetti lodged on her dark hair.
There were pieces of colorful confetti stuck in 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.
Again, confusion washed over him, as if he were losing himself and becoming all vague, unclear, and disorganized. Yet he wanted to be tough, masculine, and rugged. 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.
There was a small tea, and the guests dispersed. The real feast was set 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 form loosened, and another self, grey, vague, drifting out as from a bud. They talked lightly, of nothing.
The new corn stacks were big and golden as they passed by, an army of white geese marched alongside in a boastful protest. Ursula was as light as a fluffy white ball. Skrebensky drifted next to her, vague, his old self loosened, and another version of himself, grey and unclear, emerging like from a bud. They chatted casually, about nothing in particular.
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.
The blue path of the canal gently curved between the autumn hedges, heading towards the greenery of a small hill. On the left was the bustling activity of the coal mine and railway, along with the town that climbed the hill, with the church tower standing tall above everything. The round white face of the clock on the tower was clear 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.
That way, Ursula thought, was the route to London, through the dark, enticing hustle of the city. On the other side was the evening, warm over the lush water meadows and the winding alder trees by the river, with the light stubble fields beyond. There, the evening shone gently, and even a lapwing was flying alone in tranquility.
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.
Ursula and Anton Skrebensky walked along the edge of the canal. The berries on the hedges were vibrant crimson and bright red, above the leaves. The evening light and the flight of the solitary lapwing, along with the soft calls of the birds, mixed with the shuffling sounds from the pits, the dark, smoky tension of the town across the way, as they strolled along the blue strip of water, the ribbon of sky above.
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.
He looked, Ursula thought, really beautiful because of a tan on his hands and face. He was telling her how he learned to shoe horses and pick cattle ready for slaughter.
“Do you like to be a soldier?” she asked.
“Do you like being a soldier?” she asked.
“I am not exactly a soldier,” he replied.
"I’m not really a soldier," he replied.
“But you only do things for wars,” she said.
"But you only do things for wars," she said.
“Yes.”
"Yeah."
“Would you like to go to war?”
“Do you want to go to war?”
“I? Well, it would be exciting. If there were a war I would want to go.”
“I? Well, that would be thrilling. If there was a war, I would want to go.”
A strange, distracted feeling came over her, a sense of potent unrealities.
A strange, distracted feeling washed over her, a sense of powerful unrealities.
“Why would you want to go?”
“Why do you want to go?”
“I should be doing something, it would be genuine. It’s a sort of toy-life as it is.”
“I should be doing something; it would be real. It’s kind of a fake life as it is.”
“But what would you be doing if you went to war?”
“But what would you be doing if you went to battle?”
“I would be making railways or bridges, working like a nigger.”
“I would be building railways or bridges, working really hard.”
“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.”
“But you’d just have them built up only to be torn down again once the armies were finished with them. It feels just as much like a game.”
“If you call war a game.”
“If you call war a game.”
“What is it?”
"What's going on?"
“It’s about the most serious business there is, fighting.”
“It’s the most serious business there is, fighting.”
A sense of hard separateness came over her.
A feeling of strong isolation washed over her.
“Why is fighting more serious than anything else?” she asked.
“Why is fighting more serious than anything else?” she asked.
“You either kill or get killed—and I suppose it is serious enough, killing.”
“You either kill or get killed—and I guess that’s serious enough, killing.”
“But when you’re dead you don’t matter any more,” she said.
“But when you’re dead, you don’t matter anymore,” she said.
He was silenced for a moment.
He fell silent for a moment.
“But the result matters,” he said. “It matters whether we settle the Mahdi or not.”
“But the outcome is important,” he said. “It’s important whether we settle the Mahdi or not.”
“Not to you—nor me—we don’t care about Khartoum.”
“Not to you—or me—we don’t care about Khartoum.”
“You want to have room to live in: and somebody has to make room.”
“You want space to live in, and someone has to create that space.”
“But I don’t want to live in the desert of Sahara—do you?” she replied, laughing with antagonism.
“But I don’t want to live in the Sahara Desert—do you?” she said, laughing with defiance.
“I don’t—but we’ve got to back up those who do.
“I don’t—but we need to support those who do.
“Why have we?”
“Why do we have?”
“Where is the nation if we don’t?”
“Where is the nation if we don’t?”
“But we aren’t the nation. There are heaps of other people who are the nation.”
"But we aren't the whole nation. There are a ton of other people who make up the nation."
“They might say they weren’t either.”
“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.
“Well, if everyone said it, there wouldn’t be a nation. But I should still be myself,” she stated confidently.
“You wouldn’t be yourself if there were no nation.”
“You wouldn’t be you if there were no nation.”
“Why not?”
"Why not?"
“Because you’d just be a prey to everybody and anybody.”
“Because you’d just be a target for everyone and anyone.”
“How a prey?”
"How's the prey?"
“They’d come and take everything you’d got.”
“They’d come and take everything you have.”
“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.”
“Well, they couldn’t take much back then anyway. I don’t care what they take. I’d rather have a thief who took me away than a millionaire who gave me everything you can buy.”
“That’s because you are a romanticist.”
"That's because you're a dreamer."
“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?”
“Yes, I am. I want to be romantic. I hate houses that never leave, and people just staying in them. It’s all so rigid and foolish. I hate soldiers; they are rigid and lifeless. What do you even fight for?”
“I would fight for the nation.”
“I would fight for the country.”
“For all that, you aren’t the nation. What would you do for yourself?”
“For all that, you’re not the nation. What would you do for yourself?”
“I belong to the nation and must do my duty by the nation.”
“I belong to my country and must do my duty by it.”
“But when it didn’t need your services in particular—when there is no fighting? What would you do then?”
“But when it doesn’t need your help specifically—when there’s no fighting? What would you do then?”
He was irritated.
He was annoyed.
“I would do what everybody else does.”
"I would do what everyone else does."
“What?”
"What?"
“Nothing. I would be in readiness for when I was needed.”
"Nothing. I would be ready for when I was needed."
The answer came in exasperation.
The answer came in frustration.
“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.”
“It seems to me,” she replied, “like you’re nobody—like there’s no one there, where you are. Are you really anybody? 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.
They had walked until they reached a dock, just above a lock. There, an empty barge with a red and yellow cabin roof, but a long, coal-black hold, was tied up. A thin, dirty man was sitting on a box by the door, smoking and holding a baby wrapped in a dull shawl, gazing at the evening light. A woman hurried out, sent a bucket splashing into the canal, filled it with water, and hurried back inside. Children’s voices could be heard. A thin blue smoke rose from the cabin’s chimney, and there was a smell of food cooking.
Ursula, white as a moth, lingered to look. Skrebensky lingered by her. The man glanced up.
Ursula, pale as a moth, stayed to watch. Skrebensky remained next to her. The man looked up.
“Good evening,” he called, half impudent, half attracted. He had blue eyes which glanced impudently from his grimy face.
“Good evening,” he called, half cheeky, half charming. He had blue eyes that glinted boldly from his dirty face.
“Good evening,” said Ursula, delighted. “Isn’t it nice now?”
“Good evening,” Ursula said, pleased. “Isn’t it nice now?”
“Ay,” said the man, “very nice.”
“Ay,” said the man, “really nice.”
His mouth was red under his ragged, sandy moustache. His teeth were white as he laughed.
His mouth was red beneath his messy, sandy mustache. His teeth were as white as he laughed.
“Oh, but—” stammered Ursula, laughing, “it is. Why do you say it as if it weren’t?”
“Oh, but—” stammered Ursula, laughing, “it is. Why do you say it like it’s not?”
“’Appen for them as is childt-nursin’ it’s none so rosy.”
“Applying for those who are child-rearing isn’t so great.”
“May I look inside your barge?” asked Ursula.
“Can I take a look inside your barge?” asked Ursula.
“There’s nobody’ll stop you; you come if you like.”
“There’s no one who will stop you; you can come if you want.”
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.
The barge was at the other side of the river, at the dock. It was the Annabel, owned by J. Ruth of Loughborough. The man kept a close eye on Ursula with his sharp, twinkling eyes. His light hair was unkempt on his dirty forehead. Two messy kids came over 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.
Ursula looked at the large lock gates. They were closed, and the water was making sounds, splashing and trickling in the darkness beyond. On this side, the clear water was nearly at the top of the gate. She walked confidently across and around to the dock.
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.
Stooping from the bank, she looked into the cabin, where there was a warm glow from the fire and the shadowy figure of a woman. She did want to go down.
“You’ll mess your frock,” said the man, warningly.
“You’ll ruin your dress,” said the man, warningly.
“I’ll be careful,” she answered. “May I come?”
“I’ll be careful,” she replied. “Can I come?”
“Ay, come if you like.”
"Yeah, come if you want."
She gathered her skirts, lowered her foot to the side of the boat, and leapt down, laughing. Coal-dust flew up.
She gathered her skirts, placed her foot on the side of the boat, and jumped down, laughing. Coal dust puffed up.
The woman came to the door. She was plump and sandy-haired, young, with an odd, stubby nose.
The woman came to the door. She was curvy and had sandy-colored hair, young, with a strangely short nose.
“Oh, you will make a mess of yourself,” she cried, surprised and laughing with a little wonder.
“Oh, you are going to make a mess of yourself,” she exclaimed, surprised and laughing with a hint of wonder.
“I did want to see. Isn’t it lovely living on a barge?” asked Ursula.
“I really wanted to see. Isn’t it nice living on a barge?” asked Ursula.
“I don’t live on one altogether,” said the woman cheerfully.
“I don’t live on one at all,” said the woman cheerfully.
“She’s got her parlour an’ her plush suite in Loughborough,” said her husband with just pride.
“She's got her parlor and her nice living room in Loughborough,” her husband said with 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.
Ursula glanced into the cabin, where pots were bubbling and some dishes were on the table. It was really hot. Then she stepped back outside. The man was talking to the baby, who had blue eyes and a cute face with wisps of red-gold hair.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked.
“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.
“It’s a girl—aren’t you a girl, huh?” he shouted at the baby, shaking his head. Her tiny face scrunched up into the strangest, funniest smile.
“Oh!” cried Ursula. “Oh, the dear! Oh, how nice when she laughs!”
“Oh!” exclaimed Ursula. “Oh, how sweet! Oh, it’s so nice when she laughs!”
“She’ll laugh hard enough,” said the father.
“She’ll laugh really hard,” said the father.
“What is her name?” asked Ursula.
"What's her name?" Ursula asked.
“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.
“She doesn’t have a name, she’s not worth one,” said the man. “Are you, you worthless piece of nothing?” he shouted at 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.”
“No, we've been that busy, we’ve never taken her to the registry office,” the woman said. “She was born on the boat here.”
“But you know what you’re going to call her?” asked Ursula.
“But do you know what you’re going to call her?” asked Ursula.
“We did think of Gladys Em’ly,” said the mother.
“We did think of Gladys Em’ly,” said the mom.
“We thought of nowt o’ th’ sort,” said the father.
“We didn’t think of anything like that,” said the father.
“Hark at him! What do you want?’ cried the mother in exasperation.
“Listen to him! What do you want?” the mother exclaimed in frustration.
“She’ll be called Annabel after th’ boat she was born on.”
“She’ll be called Annabel after the boat she was born on.”
“She’s not, so there,” said the mother, viciously defiant.
“She’s not, so there,” the mother said, defiantly.
The father sat in humorous malice, grinning.
The father sat with a playful grin, looking mischievous.
“Well, you’ll see,” he said.
“Well, you’ll see,” he stated.
And Ursula could tell, by the woman’s vibrating exasperation, that he would never give way.
And Ursula could tell, by the woman's vibrating frustration, that he would never back down.
“They’re all nice names,” she said. “Call her Gladys Annabel Emily.”
“They're all nice names,” she said. “Call her Gladys Annabel Emily.”
“Nay, that’s heavy-laden, if you like,” he answered.
“Nah, that’s burdensome, if you think so,” he replied.
“You see!” cried the woman. “He’s that pig-headed!”
“You see!” the woman exclaimed. “He’s that stubborn!”
“And she’s so nice, and she laughs, and she hasn’t even got a name,” crooned Ursula to the child.
“And she's so nice, and she laughs, and she doesn't even have a name,” Ursula said sweetly to the child.
“Let me hold her,” she added.
“Let me hold her,” she said.
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.
He handed her the baby, who smelled like a newborn. But it had such bright, wide, blue eyes, and it laughed in such a peculiar way, with an adorable expression that Ursula loved it. She cooed and chatted with it. It was such a strange, thrilling baby.
“What’s your name?” the man suddenly asked of her.
“What’s your name?” the man suddenly asked her.
“My name is Ursula—Ursula Brangwen,” she replied.
“My name is Ursula—Ursula Brangwen,” she said.
“Ursula!” he exclaimed, dumbfounded.
“Ursula!” he exclaimed, stunned.
“There was a Saint Ursula. It’s a very old name,” she added hastily, in justification.
“There was a Saint Ursula. It’s a really old name,” she added quickly, to explain herself.
“Hey, mother!” he called.
“Hey, Mom!” he called.
There was no answer.
No response.
“Pem!” he called, “can’t y’hear?”
“Pem!” he called, “can’t you hear?”
“What?” came the short answer.
“What?” was the brief reply.
“What about ‘Ursula’?” he grinned.
“What about ‘Ursula’?” he smiled.
“What about what?” came the answer, and the woman appeared in the doorway, ready for combat.
“What about what?” came the answer, and the woman appeared in the doorway, ready for a fight.
“Ursula—it’s the lass’s name there,” he said, gently.
“Ursula—that’s the girl’s name,” 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.
The woman assessed the young girl from head to toe. Clearly, she was drawn to her slim, graceful, fresh beauty, her air of white elegance, and the gentle way she held 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.
“Why, how do you write it?” the mother asked, feeling a bit awkward since she was touched. Ursula spelled out her name. The man looked at the woman. A bright, confused blush spread across the mother’s face, a kind of glowing shyness.
“It’s not a common name, is it!” she exclaimed, excited as by an adventure.
“It’s not a common name, is it?” she exclaimed, excited like she was on an adventure.
“Are you goin’ to have it then?” he asked.
“Are you going to have it then?” he asked.
“I’d rather have it than Annabel,” she said, decisively.
“I’d rather have it than Annabel,” she said firmly.
“An’ I’d rather have it than Gladys Em’ler,” he replied.
“Then I’d rather have it than Gladys Em’ler,” he answered.
There was a silence, Ursula looked up.
There was silence as Ursula looked up.
“Will you really call her Ursula?” she asked.
“Are you really going to call her Ursula?” she asked.
“Ursula Ruth,” replied the man, laughing vainly, as pleased as if he had found something.
“Ursula Ruth,” the man replied, laughing futilely, as happy as if he had discovered something.
It was now Ursula’s turn to be confused.
It was now Ursula’s turn to feel confused.
“It does sound awfully nice,” she said. “I must give her something. And I haven’t got anything at all.”
“It does sound really nice,” she said. “I have to give her something. And I don’t have 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.
She stood in her white dress, wondering, down there in the barge. The thin man sitting next to her looked at her as if she were an unusual being, as if she brightened his face. His eyes smiled at her, confidently, yet filled with deep admiration underneath.
“Could I give her my necklace?” she said.
“Can I give her my necklace?” she asked.
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.
It was the small necklace made of amethyst, topaz, pearl, and crystal, spaced out on a little gold chain, that her Uncle Tom had given her. She loved it dearly. She admired it with affection after she took it off her neck.
“Is it valuable?” the man asked her, curiously.
“Is it valuable?” the man asked her, intrigued.
“I think so,” she replied.
“I believe 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.
“The stones and pearl are real; they’re 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.
“I have to give it to your baby—can I?” she said to the bargee.
He flushed, and looked away into the evening.
He blushed and looked away into the evening.
“Nay,” he said, “it’s not for me to say.”
“Nah,” he said, “it’s not my place to say.”
“What would your father and mother say?” cried the woman curiously, from the door.
“What would your mom and dad say?” the woman called out 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.
“It’s mine,” said Ursula, and she dangled the little shiny string in front of the baby. The infant spread its little fingers. But it couldn’t grasp it. Ursula closed the tiny hand around the jewel. The baby waved the bright ends of the string. Ursula had given her necklace away. She felt sad. But she didn’t 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.
The jewel swung from the baby’s hand and fell in a small pile on the coal-dusty bottom of the barge. The man reached for it, with a kind of careful respect. Ursula noticed his rough, blunt fingers searching through the little jeweled pile. The skin on the back of his hand was red, and the fine hairs glistened stiffly. It was a thin, sinewy, capable hand, though, and Ursula liked it. He picked up the necklace carefully and blew the coal dust off it as it rested in the palm of his hand. He seemed still and focused. He held out his hand, the necklace glinting brightly in its deep, black hollow.
“Take it back,” he said.
"Take it back," he said.
Ursula hardened with a kind of radiance.
Ursula became hardened with a kind of glow.
“No,” she said. “It belongs to little Ursula.”
“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.
And she went to the baby and put the necklace around its warm, soft, fragile little neck.
There was a moment of confusion, then the father bent over his child:
There was a moment of confusion, then the father leaned over his child:
“What do you say?” he said. “Do you say thank you? Do you say thank you, Ursula?”
“What do you think?” he asked. “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.
“Her name’s Ursula now,” the mother said, smiling a bit more than necessary from the doorway. Then she stepped out to check out the jewel on the child’s neck.
“It is Ursula, isn’t it?” said Ursula Brangwen.
“It’s Ursula, right?” 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.
The father looked up at her, with a familiar, slightly charming, slightly cheeky, yet longing gaze. His trapped heart loved her: but he knew his heart was always trapped.
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.
She wanted to leave. He set up a small ladder for her to climb to the dock. She kissed the child, who was in its mother’s arms, then she turned away. The mother was very emotional. The man stood quietly by the ladder.
Ursula joined Skrebensky. The two young figures crossed the lock, above the shining yellow water. The barge-man watched them go.
Ursula joined Skrebensky. The two young people crossed the lock, above the bright yellow water. The barge operator watched them leave.
“I loved them,” she was saying. “He was so gentle—oh, so gentle! And the baby was such a dear!”
“I loved them,” she was saying. “He was so gentle—oh, so gentle! And the baby was such a sweetheart!”
“Was he gentle?” said Skrebensky. “The woman had been a servant, I’m sure of that.”
“Was he gentle?” Skrebensky asked. “I’m sure the woman had been a servant.”
Ursula winced.
Ursula grimaced.
“But I loved his impudence—it was so gentle underneath.”
“But I loved his boldness—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.
She hurried on, feeling happy about having met the dirty, thin man with the scruffy mustache. He made her feel warm inside. He helped her appreciate the richness of her own life. Skrebensky had somehow made her feel lifeless, as if the world were just 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.
They said very little as they hurried home for the big dinner. He envied the thin father of three kids for his boldness and his admiration for Ursula, a genuine admiration of both body and soul. The man, wishing and admiring, longed for the girl’s body and spirit, aware that she was out of reach but just happy to know that such a perfect person existed, grateful for that brief moment of connection.
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.
Why couldn't he himself desire a woman like that? Why did he never truly want a woman, not fully: never loved, never worshiped, only just physically desired 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.
But he would want her physically, letting his soul do what it wanted. A kind of flame of desire was slowly growing in the Marsh, ignited by Tom Brangwen and by the wedding of Fred, the shy, fair, reserved farmer, and the attractive, half-educated girl. Tom Brangwen, with all his hidden strength, seemed to stoke the rising fire. The bride felt a strong attraction to him, and he was also influencing another beautiful, fair girl, cool and intense like the sea, who said clever things that he admired, making her sparkle even more, like phosphorescence. Her greenish eyes held a secret, and her mother-of-pearl-like hands seemed bright and transparent, as if the secret were burning visibly within 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.
At the end of dinner, during dessert, the music started playing, with violins and flutes. Everyone's face was glowing. There was a buzz of excitement. After the short speeches wrapped up, and the port was untouched for longer, those who wanted to were invited outside 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.
Bright stars were shining, and the moon wasn't up yet. Under the stars, two large, red, flameless fires were blazing, and around these lights hung lanterns. The marquee stood open in front of a fire, with its lights on 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.
The young people spilled out into the mysterious night. Laughter and voices filled the air, and the smell of coffee lingered. The farm buildings stood shadowy in the background. Pale and dark figures moved around, blending together. The red fire shimmered on a white or silky skirt, and the lanterns sparkled on the fleeting 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.
To Ursula, it was amazing. She felt like a new person. The darkness seemed to breathe like the sides of a huge beast, the haystacks loomed half-revealed, a crowd of them, a dark, rich den just behind. Waves of ecstatic darkness flowed through her soul. She wanted to let go. She wanted to reach out and be among the flashing stars, she wanted to run with her feet and be beyond the limits of this earth. She was desperate to leave. It was as if a dog were pulling on the leash, ready to leap after an unknown target into the dark. And she was the target, and she was also the dog. The darkness was alive and breathing with immense, unrecognized heaving. It was waiting to welcome her in her flight. And how could she start—and how could she let go? She had to jump from the known into the unknown. Her feet and hands thumped like a frenzy, her chest strained as if bound.
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.
The music started, and the connections started to fade. Tom Brangwen was dancing with the bride, smooth and graceful, as if he were in a different realm, as elusive as the creatures that swim in the water. Fred Brangwen joined in with another partner. The music flowed in waves. One couple after another was swept away and immersed in the depths of the dance.
“Come,” said Ursula to Skrebensky, laying her hand on his arm.
“Come on,” Ursula said to Skrebensky, putting 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.
At the moment her hand touched his arm, he lost all sense of himself. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling the undeniable power of his desire, and they became one fluid movement, a shared dance on the slick grass. This motion could go on forever; it felt endless. Their wills combined in a kind of hypnotic flow, two forces moving together but never merging, never giving in to one another. It was a beautiful, tangled struggle, a delightful blend of motion.
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.
They both fell into a deep silence, surrounded by a powerful, flowing energy that fueled them with endless strength. All the dancers moved together in the rhythm of the music. Dark couples glided back and forth in front of the fire, their dancing feet quietly disappearing into the darkness. It was a glimpse into the depths of the underworld, beneath 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.
There was a beautiful swaying of the darkness, gradually, a slow rocking of the whole night, with the music softly playing on the surface, creating a strange, joyful ripple on the dance floor, but underneath was just one huge wave rolling slowly back to the edge of oblivion, and slowly forward to the other edge, the heart racing each time, tightening with pain as the limit was hit, and at critical moments, the movement turned and rushed 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.
As the dance intensified, Ursula felt a presence watching her. Something was staring at her—an intense, radiant gaze was piercing through her, not just observing her, but connecting with her. From afar, yet alarmingly close, that powerful and dominating scrutiny remained focused on her. Still, she danced endlessly with Skrebensky, while that vast, white observation lingered, holding everything in its illuminating grasp.
“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.
“The moon has risen,” said Anton, as the music stopped, and they suddenly felt stranded, like bits of debris on a shore. She turned and saw a huge white moon watching her from over the hill. Her heart opened to it; she felt like a transparent jewel in its light. She stood full of the moon, offering herself. Her chest opened to make room for it; her body opened wide like a trembling anemone, a soft, inviting space touched by the moon. She wanted the moon to fill her up; she craved more, more connection with the moon, fulfillment. But Skrebensky wrapped his arm around her and led her away. He draped a big, dark cloak around her and held her hand while 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.
She wasn’t there. She sat patiently under the cloak, with Skrebensky holding her hand. But her true self was out there, dancing in the moonlight, connecting with it with her body. She felt a sudden urge to leave, to strip off her clothes and run away from this dark confusion and chaos of people, to the hill and the moon. But the people surrounded her like stones, like magnetic stones, and she couldn’t move. Skrebensky was like a weight pressing down on her, and his presence held her back. She felt the burden of him, the blind, persistent, heavy burden. He was lifeless, and he weighed on her. She sighed in pain. Oh, for the coolness and complete freedom and brightness of the moon. Oh, for the cold freedom to be herself, to do exactly what she wanted. She wanted to escape. She felt like bright metal weighed down by dark, impure magnetism. He was the rubbish, and the people were the rubbish. If only she could 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 tonight?” said his low voice, the voice of the shadow over her shoulder. She clenched her hands in the dewy glow of the moon, as if she were crazy.
“Don’t you like me to-night?” repeated the soft voice.
“Don’t you like me tonight?” 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.
And she knew that if she turned, she would die. A strange anger filled her, a desire to break things apart. Her hands felt destructive, like metal blades of chaos.
“Let me alone,” she said.
"Leave 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.
A darkness and stubbornness settled on him as well, leaving him in a kind of daze. He sat there next to her, unmoving. She shrugged off her cloak and walked toward the moon, which was shining silvery-white. 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.
The music started up again, and they began to dance. He claimed her for himself. A fierce, icy passion filled her heart. But he held her close and danced with her. His body was always there, pressing against her, weighing her down as they moved together. He held her tightly, so she could feel him, the heaviness of him settling over her, draining her life and energy, making her feel helpless alongside him, feeling his hands pressing into her back. Still, deep inside her was that suppressed, cold, unstoppable passion. She enjoyed the dance: it relaxed her, putting her in a kind of trance. But it was just a way to pass the time until she could connect with her true self. She leaned against him, allowing him to use all his strength to weigh her down. She absorbed all his power. She even hoped he would completely overwhelm her. She remained cold and unresponsive, like 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!
His determination was strong, filled with all its energy to surround him and push her. If only he could make her comply. He felt utterly defeated. She was distant and unyielding, radiating brilliance like the moon, and just as unattainable as the moonlight itself—something he could never truly reach or understand. If only he could create a connection with her and make her yield!
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.
So they danced four or five dances, always together, his desire growing stronger, his movements more fluid, interacting with her. But he still hadn't claimed her; she remained as radiant and untouchable as ever. He needed to wrap himself around her, trap her, surround her with a veil of shadow and darkness, so she would appear like a dazzling creature caught in a net of shadows. Then he would have her; he would relish her. Oh, how he would enjoy her once she was trapped.
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.
At last, when the dance ended, she wouldn't sit down; she walked away. He put his arm around her, guiding her along as he walked. And she seemed to go along with it. She was as radiant as a slice of moonlight, as sharp as a steel blade; he felt like he was holding something that could cut him. Still, he would hold onto her, even if it ended up hurting 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.
They walked toward the stackyard. There, he felt a mix of fear and awe as he saw the huge new stacks of corn glowing and shimmering, transformed into silvery silhouettes under the night-blue sky, casting deep, solid shadows while remaining majestic and vaguely present. She, like delicate gossamer, seemed to shine among them, as they stood like cold fires against the silvery-blue sky. Everything felt unreal, a blaze of cold, shimmering, whitish-steel flames. He was terrified by the massive moonlit blaze of the cornstacks looming over him. His heart felt smaller, beginning to harden like a bead. He knew he was going to 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.
She stood for a few moments in the bright glow of the moonlight. She looked like a beam of radiant energy. She was scared of what she had become. Looking at him, at his shadowy, unreal, flickering presence, a sudden desire overtook her to grab him, tear him apart, and reduce him to nothing. Her hands and wrists felt incredibly hard and strong, like blades. He stood next to her like a shadow she wanted to dissolve, destroy like the moonlight disperses darkness, obliterate, and be done with. She gazed at him, and her face shone with brightness and inspiration. She seduced 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 his stubbornness made him wrap his arm around her and pull her into the shade. She went along with it: let him see what he could do. Let him see what he could do. He leaned against the side of the stack, holding her. The stack pricked him sharply with a thousand cold, stinging sensations. Yet, he stubbornly held onto 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:
And nervously, his hands moved over her, over the salty, vibrant beauty of her body. If he could just have her, how much he would enjoy her! If he could just capture her stunning, cold, salt-burning body in the gentle grip of his own hands, trap her, hold her down, how intensely he would enjoy her. He worked subtly, but with all his strength, to envelop her, to possess her. And still, she was burning and radiant and as hard as salt, and dangerous. Yet stubbornly, with all his flesh burning and eroding, as if he were being overtaken by some consuming, corrosive poison, he kept trying, believing he might finally defeat her. In his frenzy, he even sought her lips with his, though it felt like putting his face into some terrible fate. She gave in to him, and he pressed himself against her in desperation, his soul groaning over and over:
“Let me come—let me come.”
"Let me in—let me in."
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.
She pulled him into the kiss, her kiss gripping him tightly, intense and passionate and burning like the moonlight. It felt like she was consuming him. He was dizzy, using all his strength to stay connected to 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.
But she clung to him hard and fiercely, as cold as the moon and as intense as fierce salt. Gradually, his warm, soft iron gave in, and she was there, fierce and corrosive, bubbling with his destruction, like some cruel, corrosive salt around the last remnants of his being, destroying him in that kiss. Her soul crystallized with triumph, while his soul dissolved in agony and annihilation. So she held him there, the victim, consumed and annihilated. She had won: he was no 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.
Slowly, she started to regain her awareness. Gradually, a sense of daytime clarity returned to her. Suddenly, night slipped back into its familiar, gentle reality. She began to realize that the night was normal and ordinary, that the intense, overwhelming night didn’t truly exist. A creeping horror washed over her. Where was she? What was this emptiness she felt? That emptiness was Skrebensky. Was he really there?—who was he? He was quiet, he was absent. What had happened? Had she lost her mind: what terrible thing had taken over her? She was filled with an intense fear of herself, a desperate wish that it wouldn’t be true, that other fiery, corrosive side of herself. She was consumed by a frantic desire for everything that had happened to be forgotten, never thought of, never allowed even for a moment to be possible. She fought against it with all her strength. With all her strength, she turned away from it. She was good, she was loving. Her heart was warm, her blood was dark, warm, and soft. She gently placed her hand 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.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she said softly, invitingly, tenderly. And she started to bring him back to life. Because he was dead. And she wanted him to never know, never realize what had happened. She would revive him without leaving a single trace of the past for him to remember his destruction 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.
She put all of her usual warmth into it, she touched him, and she offered him her loving awareness. Slowly, he came back to her, but as a different man. She was soft, charming, and affectionate. She became his helper, his devoted follower. She brought back all of him. She restored his whole appearance and figure. But the essence was missing. His pride was lifted, and his blood flowed again with pride. But he lacked a core; as a distinct man, he had no essence. His triumphant, intense, overpowering heart of masculinity would never beat again. He would be submissive now, equal, never the unyielding being with a core of overwhelming, relentless passion. She had subdued that passion; she had broken him.
But she caressed him. She would not have him remember what had been. She would not remember herself.
But she touched him gently. She didn’t want him to remember what had happened. She didn’t want to remember either.
“Kiss me, Anton, kiss me,” she pleaded.
“Kiss me, Anton, kiss me,” she begged.
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.
He kissed her, but she knew he couldn't really touch her. His arms were around her, but they hadn't captured her. She could feel his mouth on hers, but she wasn't tempted by it at all.
“Kiss me,” she whispered, in acute distress, “kiss me.”
“Kiss me,” she whispered, desperately, “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.
And he kissed her as she asked, but his heart felt empty. She accepted his kisses on the surface, but deep inside, she was drained and done.
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.
Looking away, she saw the gentle shine of oats hanging from the side of the stack in the moonlight, something majestic and distant. She had felt proud with them, where they were, she had felt that way too. But in this momentary warm world of the ordinary, she was just a nice, good girl. She reached out longingly for kindness and love. She wanted to be nice 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.
They walked home through the night, which was pale and glowing all around, filled with shadows and glimmers and a sense of presence. She could clearly see the flowers in the hedges and the thin, white bundles thrown against 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.
How beautiful, how beautiful it was! She thought with longing about how incredibly happy she was tonight, ever since he kissed her. But as he walked with his arm around her waist, she turned to embrace the stunning night that sparkled brightly, with a magnificent, pure white moon like a bridegroom, and silvery flowers filling 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.
He kissed her again under the yew trees at home, and she walked away. She rushed from the interruption of her parents into her bedroom, where, gazing out at the moonlit countryside, she raised her arms high, feeling both joy and pain, surrendering herself to the charming, golden 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.
But there was a deep sadness; she had hurt herself, as if she had bruised herself, by destroying him. She covered her two young breasts with her hands, shielding them from view; and wrapping herself up, she curled up 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.
In the morning, the sun was shining, and she got up feeling lively and happy. Skrebensky was still at the Marsh, on his way to church. Life felt so beautiful and incredible! On that fresh Sunday morning, she stepped out into the garden, surrounded by the bright yellows and deep reds of autumn. She breathed in the earthy scent and felt the delicate touch of nature; the cornfields stretched out in the distance, looking pale and dreamlike. Everywhere, there was the deep silence of Sunday morning, filled with unfamiliar sounds. She inhaled the essence of the earth, feeling its powerful presence beneath her as she stood still. The cool air carried a strong fragrance, and the serenity was like the peacefulness of deep, weary breaths. The vibrant reds, yellows, and the white glimmer of stubble reflected the last waves of joy and the clear contentment of fulfillment.
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.
The church bells were ringing when he arrived. She looked up with eager anticipation as he entered. But he seemed troubled and his pride was wounded. He appeared very much put together; she noticed his tailored suit.
“Wasn’t it lovely last night?” she whispered to him.
“Wasn’t it nice last night?” she whispered to him.
“Yes,” he said. But his face did not open nor become free.
“Yes,” he said. But his face didn’t soften or become relaxed.
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.
The service and the singing in church that morning went unnoticed by her. She saw the colorful glow of the windows and the shapes of the worshippers. She only paid attention to the book of Genesis, which was her favorite book in the Bible.
“And God blessed Noah and his sons, and said unto them, Be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth.
“And God blessed Noah and his sons and said to them, ‘Be fruitful, multiply, and fill 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.
“And the fear of you and the dread of you will be on every animal on the earth, every bird in the air, all that moves on the ground, and all the fish in the sea; they have been handed over to you.
“Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you; even as the green herb have I given you all things.”
"Everything that moves and is alive will be food for you; just as I have given you all the green plants."
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.
But Ursula was not affected by the history this morning. The idea of multiplying and replenishing the earth bored her. Overall, it felt like just a crude and livestock-raising type of work. She felt completely indifferent to mankind's dominance over animals and fish.
“And you, be ye fruitful and multiply; bring forth abundantly in the earth, and multiply therein.”
“And you, be fruitful and multiply; fill the earth and increase in number.”
In her soul she mocked at this multiplication, every cow becoming two cows, every turnip ten turnips.
In her heart, she scoffed at this multiplication, every cow turning into two cows, every turnip becoming 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;
“And God said: This is the sign of the agreement I’m making between me and you and every living creature with you, for all generations to come;
“I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be a token of a covenant between me and the earth.
“I will set my bow in the clouds, and it will be a sign 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 it will happen that when I bring a cloud over the earth, a rainbow will appear 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.”
“And I will remember my promise, which is between me and you and every living creature, and the waters will no longer become a flood to destroy all living beings.”
“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.
“Destroy all flesh,” but why “flesh” in particular? Who was this lord of flesh? After all, how extensive was the Flood? Maybe a few dryads and fauns had just fled to the hills and the deeper valleys and woods, scared, but most had gone on cheerfully unaware of any flood at all, unless the nymphs informed them. It amused Ursula to think of the naiads in Asia Minor meeting the nereids at the streams' mouths, where the sea mixed with the fresh, sweet tide, and sharing the news of Noah’s Flood with their sisters. They would tell funny stories about Noah and his ark. Some nymphs would recount how they had clung to the side of the ark, peeked inside, and heard Noah, Shem, Ham, and Japheth, sitting in their spot under the rain, saying how they four were the only people left on earth now, because the Lord had drowned everyone else, so they would have everything to themselves and be in charge of everything, 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.
Ursula wished she had been a nymph. She would have laughed through the window of the ark and splashed drops of the flood at Noah before drifting away to people who mattered less in their Owner 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.
What was God, anyway? If maggots in a dead dog are just God kissing decay, then what isn’t God? She was fed up with this idea of God. She was tired of Ursula Brangwen who worried about God. Whatever God was, He simply was, and there was no need for her to worry about Him. She felt she had all the freedom now.
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.
Skrebensky sat next to her, listening to the sermon, to the message of law and order. “The very hairs of your head are all numbered.” He didn’t believe it. He thought his own things were completely in his control. You could do whatever you wanted with your own things, as long as you didn’t interfere with other people’s.
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.
Ursula touched him gently and had physical intimacy with him. Still, he understood that she wanted to influence him and diminish his existence. She wasn’t truly with him; she was against him. However, her love-making and her total admiration for him, in public, pleased 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.
She caught him off guard, and they became lovers in a youthful, romantic, almost magical way. He gave her a small ring. They placed it in Rhine wine in their glass, and she drank, then he drank. They drank until the ring was revealed at the bottom of the glass. Then she took the simple jewel and tied it with a thread around 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 asked her for a photo before he left. She excitedly went to the photographer with five shillings. The outcome was a not-so-great picture of herself with her mouth crooked. She pondered 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.
He could only see the girl’s lively face. The image pained him. He kept it; he always remembered it, but he could hardly stand to look at it. There was an ache in his soul from the clear, fearless face that seemed distant and abstract. That abstraction was definitely apart 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.
Then war was declared with the Boers in South Africa, and everywhere there was a buzz of excitement. He wrote that he might have to go. And he sent her a box of chocolates.
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.
She felt a bit overwhelmed at the thought of him going to war, unsure of how to react. It was a kind of romantic situation that she was so familiar with in stories that she found it hard to grasp in reality. Beneath her excitement lay a profound, gray 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.
However, she hid the candy under her bed and ate it all by herself, both at bedtime and when she woke up in the morning. The whole time, she felt really guilty and ashamed, but she just didn't want to share it.
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?
That box of sweets kept sticking in her mind afterward. Why had she hidden them and eaten them all? Why? She didn't feel guilty—she just knew she should feel guilty. And she couldn't decide what to think. That empty box of sweets loomed large in her thoughts. It was a turning point for her. What was she supposed to make 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.
The idea of war made her feel really uneasy. When men started fighting each other in organized ways, it felt to her like the poles of the universe were cracking, and everything could fall into a bottomless pit. She had a terrible sense of emptiness. Yet, of course, there was a glamorous cover of romance, honor, and even religion surrounding 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.
Skrebensky was busy, so he couldn't come to see her. She didn't ask for any promises or guarantees. What they had was real and couldn't be changed by words. She instinctively understood that and trusted in its inherent 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?
But she felt a deep sense of helplessness. She could do nothing. She vaguely understood the massive forces of the world colliding and crashing together, darkly, awkwardly, and foolishly, yet so powerfully that one was swept along like dust. Helpless, helpless, swirling like dust! Still, she desperately wanted 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.
Could she with her hands battle the ground, push the hills back into place? Yet her heart yearned to fight, to take on the whole world. And these two small hands were all she had to make it happen.
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.
The months passed, and it was Christmas—the snowdrops bloomed. There was a small clearing in the woods near Cossethay where snowdrops grew naturally. She sent him some in a box, and he quickly wrote her a short note of thanks—he seemed very grateful yet a bit nostalgic. Her eyes became innocent and confused. Day by day, she continued feeling puzzled, helpless, swept along by everything that was meant to 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.
He went about his duties, fully committed to them. Deep down in his heart, his true self, the part of him that aspired and genuinely hoped for fulfillment, felt lifeless, like a stillborn weight in his being. Who was he to value his personal connections? Did an individual really matter? He was just a small part of the vast social structure, the nation, modern society. His personal actions were insignificant and wholly secondary. The integrity of the whole had to be preserved, without any disruption for personal reasons, as no individual motivation could justify such a break. What did personal relationships really mean? One had to fulfill their role in the grand design of human civilization, and that was all that mattered. The collective was important—but the individual, the person, held no significance except as a representation of the collective.
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.
So Skrebensky ignored the girl and went on with his life, doing what he had to do and putting up with what he had to put up with, without saying a word. To his own true self, he was dead. And he couldn't come back to life. His soul was trapped. His life was stuck in the way things were. He had his five senses, too. They needed to be satisfied. Other than that, he embodied the great, established, existing idea of life, and as such, he was important and beyond doubt.
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.
The well-being of the majority was what truly mattered. What was best for everyone as a group was also best for each individual. Therefore, everyone had to contribute to support the state and work for the common good. It might be possible to make improvements within the state, but always with the aim of keeping it whole.
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.
No ultimate good of the community would provide him with the vital fulfillment of his soul. He was aware of this. But he didn’t think the soul of the individual was significant enough. He believed a person mattered only to the extent that they represented all of 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.
He couldn’t see, and it wasn’t in him to see, that what’s best for the community now isn’t necessarily what’s best for the average person. He believed that, because the community consists of millions of people, it must be millions of times more important than any individual, forgetting that the community is just an idea made up of many, and not the many themselves. Now that the idea of what’s good for the community has turned into a formula that lacks any inspiration or value to the average person, the “common good” has become a general annoyance, representing low-level, ordinary materialism.
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.
And when we talk about the greatest good for the largest number, we mainly mean the material well-being of all groups. Skrebensky didn’t really care about his own financial situation. If he had been broke—well, he would have just dealt with it. So how could he see his highest good in giving up his life for everyone else's material well-being? What he thought was trivial for himself, he couldn’t see as worth sacrificing everything for others. And what he would consider incredibly important for himself—oh, he said, you shouldn’t view the community that way. No—no—we know what the community needs; it wants something tangible, it wants decent wages, equal opportunities, good living conditions—that’s what the community wants. It doesn’t want anything complex or challenging. Duty is pretty straightforward—focus on the material, the immediate welfare of every person, 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.
So a kind of emptiness settled over Skrebensky, which increasingly terrified Ursula. She sensed something hopeless that she had to accept. She felt a looming sense of disaster. Each day felt weighed down by this impending doom. She grew morbidly sensitive, depressed, and anxious. It was torture for her to see a single rook slowly soaring in the sky. That felt like a bad sign. The dread grew so dark and overwhelming within her that she felt almost crushed by it.
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.
Yet what was the problem? At the worst, he was just leaving. Why did it bother her, what was she scared of? She didn't know. All she felt was a deep, dark fear taking over her. At night, when she looked at the big, shining stars, they seemed frightening, and during the day, she was always bracing herself for some accusation to be directed at 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.
He wrote in March to say that he was heading to South Africa soon, but before he left, he wanted to spend 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:
As if in a painful dream, she waited, stuck and unsure. She didn't know, she couldn't understand. She just felt that all the threads of her destiny were being held tight, in limbo. She only cried occasionally as she went about, saying aimlessly:
“I am so fond of him, I am so fond of him.”
“I really care about him, I really care about 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.
He arrived. But why was he here? She glanced at him for a cue. He offered no cue. He didn't even kiss her. He acted like an easygoing, familiar friend. This felt shallow, but what was beneath it? She waited for him, hoping he would give some indication.
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.
So all day they hesitated and avoided each other, until the evening. Then, laughing, he said he would be back in six months to share everything, shook hands with her mom, 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.
Ursula walked with him down the alley. The night was windy, the yew trees rustled and hissed and shook. The wind seemed to race 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.
The wind whipped across Ursula’s face, and her clothes clung to her body. But it was a powerful, intense wind, filled with a vibrant energy of life. And she seemed to have lost Skrebensky. Out there in the strong, pressing night, she couldn’t find him.
“Where are you?” she asked.
"Where are you?" she asked.
“Here,” came his bodiless voice.
"Here," came his disembodied voice.
And groping, she touched him. A fire like lightning drenched them.
And feeling around, she touched him. A surge of energy like lightning enveloped them.
“Anton?” she said.
“Anton?” she asked.
“What?” he answered.
“What?” he replied.
She held him with her hands in the darkness, she felt his body again with hers.
She held him in the dark, feeling his body close to hers once more.
“Don’t leave me—come back to me,” she said.
"Don't leave me—please come back to me," she said.
“Yes,” he said, holding her in his arms.
“Yes,” he said, wrapping 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.
But the man in him was dampened by the realization that she was not under his control or influence. He wanted to distance himself from her. He found some comfort in knowing that tomorrow he would be leaving, that his true life was somewhere else. His life was somewhere else—his life was somewhere else—the center of his life was not what she desired. She was different—there was a divide between them. They belonged to opposing worlds.
“You will come back to me?” she reiterated.
“You're going to come back to me?” she repeated.
“Yes,” he said. And he meant it. But as one keeps an appointment, not as a man returning to his fulfilment.
“Yes,” he said. And he meant it. But it was like keeping an appointment, not like a man returning to his purpose.
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.
So she kissed him and went inside, feeling lost. He walked down to the marsh, deep in thought. The touch of her hurt him and felt threatening. He felt small and knew he needed to be free from her spirit. Because she would stand in front of him, like the angel in front of Balaam, and push him away with a sword from the path he was on, sending him into the 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.
The next day she went to the station to watch him leave. She looked at him, she turned to him, but he always felt so distant and empty—so empty. He seemed so composed. She thought that was what made him feel empty. In an odd way, he was just nothing.
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.
Ursula stood next to him with a silent, pale face that he would prefer not to look at. There seemed to be a deep sense of shame at the core of her existence, a cold, lifeless shame.
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 three stood out at the station; the girl wore a fur cap and tippet with her olive green outfit, looking pale and tense with youth, withdrawn and stubborn; the young man, dressed in a crush hat and heavy overcoat, had a somewhat pale and reserved face above his purple scarf, his entire demeanor neutral; then there was the older man, wearing a fashionable bowler hat tilted low over his dark brows, his face warm and calm, his overall presence oddly exuding a sense of complete indifference; he was the eternal onlooker, the chorus, the spectator in the drama; in his own life, he would experience no drama.
The train was rushing up. Ursula’s heart heaved, but the ice was frozen too strong upon it.
The train was speeding up. Ursula’s heart raced, but the ice on it was too solid.
“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.
“Goodbye,” she said, raising her hand, her face shining with her unique, carefree, almost dazzling laugh. She wondered what he was doing when he bent down and kissed her. He should be shaking hands and leaving.
“Good-bye,” she said again.
“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.
He grabbed his small bag and turned away from her. There was a rush by the train. Ah, here was his carriage. He took a seat. Tom Brangwen closed the door, and the two men shook hands as the whistle blew.
“Good-bye—and good luck,” said Brangwen.
“Goodbye—and good luck,” said Brangwen.
“Thank you—good-bye.”
“Thank you—goodbye.”
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.
The train pulled away. Skrebensky stood by the carriage window, waving, but not really looking at the two figures— the girl and the man dressed in warm colors who looked almost effeminate. Ursula waved her handkerchief. The train picked up speed, getting smaller and smaller. Yet it kept moving in a straight line. The little white speck disappeared completely. The back of the train was just a tiny dot in the distance. Still, she remained on the platform, feeling a profound emptiness around her. Despite herself, her mouth was trembling: she didn't want to cry; her heart felt dead cold.
Her Uncle Tom had gone to an automatic machine, and was getting matches.
Her Uncle Tom had gone to a vending machine to get some matches.
“Would you like some sweets?” he said, turning round.
“Want some candy?” he asked, turning around.
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.
Her face was covered with tears, and she made strange, downward grimaces with her mouth to regain control. But her heart wasn't crying—it felt cold and heavy.
“What kind would you like—any?” persisted her uncle.
“What kind do you want—any?” her uncle asked insistently.
“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.
“I could really go for some peppermint drops,” she said, with a strange, calm voice, despite her distorted face. But in a few moments, she regained control and became still, distant.
“Let us go into the town,” he said, and he rushed her into a train, moving to the town station. They went to a café 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.
“Let’s go into town,” he said, hurriedly leading her onto a train heading to the town station. They stopped at a café for coffee, and she sat there watching people in the street, while a deep wound lingered in her heart, a cold calmness settling 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.
This cold, unshakeable demeanor was still with her now. It was like some disillusionment had frozen inside her, creating a hard disbelief. A part of her had grown cold and indifferent. She was too young and confused to fully understand, or even realize how much she was suffering. And she was too wounded to give in.
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 experienced her intense pain, craving him, needing him. But the moment he left, he transformed into an imaginary figure of her own. All her awakened torment, passion, and desire she directed toward 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:
She kept a diary where she jotted down her spontaneous thoughts. Looking at the moon in the sky, her heart overflowing, she went and wrote:
“If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down.”
“If I were the moon, I know exactly where I would land.”
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.
That sentence meant everything to her—she poured all the pain of her youth and her intense longing into it. She called to him from her heart no matter where she went; her body ached for him wherever she was, as if the energy of her soul was reaching out to him, endlessly, endlessly, hoping to find him in the depths of her own heart.
But who was he, and where did he exist? In her own desire only.
But who was he, and where did he exist? Only in her desire.
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.
She got a postcard from him, and she tucked it into her dress. It didn't mean much to her, honestly. The next day, she lost it and didn't even realize she had it until several days later.
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.
The long weeks passed. There was a steady stream of bad news about the war. She felt like everything out there in the world was a pain, a pain aimed at her. And something deep inside her remained cold, indifferent, and stagnant.
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.
Her life was always only partial at this time; she never lived fully. There was a cold, lifeless part of her. Yet she was extremely sensitive. She couldn’t stand being herself. When a dirty, red-eyed old woman came begging in the street, she recoiled as if from something unclean. And then, when the old woman yelled bitter insults at her, she flinched, her body trembling with overwhelming distress; she couldn’t stand being herself. Whenever she thought of the red-eyed old woman, a kind of madness surged through her skin and mind, and she almost wanted to end her own life.
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.
And in this state, her sex life became almost like a disease within her. She was so overwhelmed and sensitive that just the feel of rough wool felt like it was tearing at 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.
Ursula had only two more terms left at school. She was preparing for her graduation exams. It was a tedious task, as she felt very little motivation when she was away from happiness. Her stubbornness and awareness of her uncertain future kept her reluctantly focused on her studies. She knew that soon she would want to become independent, and her fear was that she would be held back. A strong desire for complete freedom—socially and personally—kept her trudging through her work. She understood that she always had her own form of leverage—her femininity. She was always a woman, and what she couldn't achieve simply because she was a human being, she felt she could attain because she was female, distinct from men. In her femininity, she sensed a hidden wealth and a backup plan; she always had the means to secure her 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.
However, she was quite hesitant about this last option. The other possibilities should be explored first. There was the mysterious man’s world to be explored, the world of everyday work and responsibility, and living as an active part of the community. She held a subtle resentment against this. She wanted to take control of this man’s world as well.
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.
So she worked hard at her studies, never giving up. There were some subjects she enjoyed. Her classes included English, Latin, French, math, and history. Once she learned to read French and Latin, the grammar bored her. The detailed study of English literature was the most tedious. Why should anyone remember what they read? Some aspects of math fascinated her with their cold certainty, but actually doing the problems felt tedious. Certain people in history intrigued her and made her think, but the political parts frustrated her, and she disliked politicians. Only occasionally did she feel a deep sense of growth and expansion from her studies; one afternoon while reading As You Like It; once when she deeply felt a passage in Latin, and she could sense how a Roman's blood flowed; from then on, she believed she had a connection to the Romans. She enjoyed the quirks of English grammar because it was satisfying to see how words and sentences moved; and math, just seeing the letters in Algebra, really attracted 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.
She felt so much and was so confused at that moment that her face took on a strange, bewildered, half-scared expression, as if she wasn’t sure what might unexpectedly come at her from 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.
Odd little bits of information stirred deep passion in her. When she realized that in the tiny brown buds of autumn were the complete, miniature flowers of the upcoming summer, all folded up and just waiting there, a surge of triumph and love washed over her.
“I could never die while there was a tree,” she said passionately, sententiously, standing before a great ash in worship.
“I could never die while there’s a tree,” she said passionately, standing in front of a great ash, almost 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.
It was the people who, in some way, stood as an upright threat to her. Her life at this moment was formless, pulsating, essentially recoiling from any contact. She offered something to others, but she was never her true self, as she had no sense of identity. She wasn't afraid or ashamed in front of trees, birds, and the sky. But she recoiled intensely from people, feeling ashamed that she wasn't like them—solid, definite—but instead just a flickering, unclear sensitivity, lacking shape or substance.
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.
Gudrun was a great source of comfort and protection for her at this time. The younger girl was a lithe, wild creature who distrusted anyone getting too close and wanted nothing to do with the petty secrets and jealousies of schoolgirl friendships. She wanted nothing to do with the domestic cats, nice or not, because she believed they were all just untamed cats with a nasty, untrustworthy tendency to act tame.
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.
This was a big step back for Ursula, who felt intense pain whenever she thought someone disliked her, even if she couldn't stand that person. How could anyone not like her, Ursula Brangwen? That question scared her and had no answer. She found comfort 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.”
It was found out that Gudrun had a talent for drawing. This fixed the issue of the girl’s lack of interest in all learning. People said of her, “She can draw amazingly.”
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.
Suddenly, Ursula realized there was a strange connection between her and her teacher, Miss Inger. Miss Inger was a beautiful woman of twenty-eight, a brave, confident modern woman whose independence hinted at her pain. She was smart, skilled in her work, precise, fast, and 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.
To Ursula, she had always been a source of joy because of her clear, confident, yet graceful presence. She held her head high, slightly tilted back, and Ursula felt there was an air of nobility in the way she styled her smooth brown hair. She consistently wore clean, stylish, well-fitting blouses and well-tailored skirts. Everything about her was so well put together, reflecting a bright, clear spirit, that it was a delight to be 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.
Her voice was just as resonant and clear, with a steady, finely tuned modulation. Her eyes were bright blue, clear, and proud, giving the impression of a well-bred, meticulously polished person with a strong mind. Yet there was an endless sadness about her, a deep pathos in her solitary, defiantly closed lips.
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.
It was after Skrebensky left that a strange awareness developed between the mistress and the girl, creating an unspoken intimacy that sometimes forms between two people who might never actually meet. Before, they had always been friendly in a typical classroom way, maintaining the professional relationship of teacher and student. However, things changed. When they were in the same room, they were aware of each other, almost ignoring everything else. Winifred Inger felt a surge of joy during lessons when Ursula was there, while Ursula felt like her life truly began when Miss Inger entered the room. With her beloved, subtly intimate teacher present, the girl felt like she was basking in the rays of some enriching sun, whose intoxicating warmth flowed directly 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.
The feeling of happiness that came when Miss Inger was around was overwhelming for the girl, but always filled with anticipation. On her way home, Ursula fantasized about the teacher, imagining countless ways she could impress her and how she might make the older woman fall in love with 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.
Miss Inger had a Bachelor of Arts degree and studied at Newnham. She was the daughter of a clergyman and came from a good family. But what Ursula admired the most was her tall, strong, athletic posture and her fiercely proud spirit. She was as proud and independent as a man, yet beautifully feminine.
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!
The girl’s heart raced in her chest as she headed to school in the morning. She was so eager, and her feet felt so light, excited to go towards the one she loved. Ah, Miss Inger, how straight and lovely her back was, how strong her hips, 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.
Ursula endlessly wanted to know if Miss Inger cared about her. So far, there had been no clear indication shared between the two. But surely, surely Miss Inger loved her too, cared for her, at least liked her more than the other students in the class. Yet she was never sure. It could be that Miss Inger didn't care about her at all. And yet, with a racing heart, Ursula felt that if only she could talk to her or touch her, she would understand.
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 summer term started, bringing the swimming class along with it. Miss Inger would be teaching the swimming class. Ursula felt both nervous and excited. Her hopes were about to come true. She would see Miss Inger in her swimsuit.
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.
The day arrived. In the big pool, the water shone a pale emerald green, a beautiful, sparkling mass of color within the whitish marble-like edges. Above, the light filtered softly, and the vast green expanse of pure water rippled as someone dove in 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.
Ursula, shaking with excitement, quickly took off her clothes, slipped into her tight bathing suit, and opened the door to her cabin. Two girls were already in the water. The mistress hadn’t shown up yet. She waited. A door opened. Miss Inger walked out, wearing a rust-red tunic like something a Greek girl would wear, cinched at the waist, with a red silk scarf around her head. She looked gorgeous! Her knees were so white, strong, and proud, and her body was as fit as Diana. She walked casually to the edge of the pool and, with a carefree movement, leaped in. For a moment, Ursula watched the smooth, strong white shoulders and the relaxed arms swimming. Then she too dove 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.
Now, ah now, she was swimming in the same water as her dear mistress. The girl moved her limbs sensually and swam on her own, joyfully, yet with a sense of longing. She wanted to embrace the other, to connect with her, to feel her.
“I will race you, Ursula,” came the well-modulated voice.
“I'll race you, Ursula,” came the smooth 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.
Ursula jumped in surprise. She turned to see her mistress's warm, open face looking at her. She felt seen. Laughing her own beautiful, startled laugh, she began to swim. The mistress was just ahead, gliding through the water with ease. Ursula could see her head tilted back, the water glistening on her white shoulders, and her strong legs kicking beneath the surface. And she swam, blinded by passion. Ah, the beauty of that firm, cool, white skin! Ah, the wonderful strength of those limbs. Ah, if only she didn’t despise her own thin, dark body, if only she were bold and capable too.
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.
She swam on eagerly, not aiming to win but just wanting to be close to her mistress, to swim alongside her. They approached the end of the bath, the deep end. Miss Inger touched the pipe, spun around, and grabbed Ursula around the waist in the water, holding her for a moment.
“I won,” said Miss Inger, laughing.
“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.
There was a moment of suspense. Ursula’s heart was racing so fast that she clung to the rail and couldn’t move. Her wide, warm, open, 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.
“Goodbye,” said Miss Inger, and she swam over to the other students, showing a genuine 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.
Ursula was in a daze. She could still feel the mistress’s body against hers—only this, only this. The rest of the swim felt like a trance. When it was time to leave the water, Miss Inger walked down the pool toward Ursula. Her rust-red, thin tunic clung to her, and her entire figure was defined, firm, and stunning, as it appeared to the girl.
“I enjoyed our race, Ursula, did you?” said Miss Inger.
“I had fun racing, Ursula, did you?” said Miss Inger.
The girl could only laugh with revealed, open, glowing face.
The girl could only laugh with a bright, 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.
The love was now quietly acknowledged. But it took a while before any real progress was made. Ursula remained in suspense, filled with exhilarated joy.
Then one day, when she was alone, the mistress came near to her, and touching her cheek with her fingers, said with some difficulty.
Then one day, while she was alone, the mistress approached her, and brushing her fingers against her cheek, said with some difficulty.
“Would you like to come to tea with me on Saturday, Ursula?”
“Do you want to have tea with me on Saturday, Ursula?”
The girl flushed all gratitude.
The girl blushed with gratitude.
“We’ll go to a lovely little bungalow on the Soar, shall we? I stay the week-ends there sometimes.”
“We’ll go to a charming little bungalow by the Soar, okay? I stay there on weekends 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.
Ursula was beside herself. She couldn't wait for Saturday to arrive; her thoughts consumed her like a raging 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.
Then Saturday came, and she left. Miss Inger met her in Sawley, and they walked about three miles to the bungalow. It was a humid, 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 bungalow was a small, two-room shack perched on a steep hill. Everything inside was beautiful. In their cozy privacy, the two girls made tea and then chatted. Ursula didn't have to be home until around 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.
The conversation gradually turned to love. Miss Inger was sharing with Ursula about a friend who had died during childbirth and what she had gone through; then she talked about a prostitute and 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.
As they chatted on the small porch of the bungalow, night fell, and a light warm rain began to fall.
“It is really stifling,” said Miss Inger.
“It’s really suffocating,” said Miss Inger.
They watched a train, whose lights were pale in the lingering twilight, rushing across the distance.
They watched a train, its lights dim in the fading twilight, speeding across the landscape.
“It will thunder,” said Ursula.
“It’s going to thunder,” said Ursula.
The electric suspense continued, the darkness sank, they were eclipsed.
The electric tension lingered, the darkness deepened, they were overshadowed.
“I think I shall go and bathe,” said Miss Inger, out of the cloud-black darkness.
“I think I’ll go and take a bath,” said Miss Inger, emerging from the pitch-black darkness.
“At night?” said Ursula.
"At night?" Ursula asked.
“It is best at night. Will you come?”
“It’s best at night. Will you come?”
“I should like to.”
"I'd 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.”
“It’s totally safe—the grounds are private. We should get changed in the bungalow to avoid 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.
Shyly and awkwardly, Ursula walked into the bungalow and started taking off her clothes. The lamp was dimmed, and she stood in the shadows. Winifred Inger was undressing by another chair.
Soon the naked, shadowy figure of the elder girl came to the younger.
Soon, the bare, shadowy figure of the older girl approached the younger one.
“Are you ready?” she said.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“One moment.”
“One sec.”
Ursula could hardly speak. The other naked woman stood by, stood near, silent. Ursula was ready.
Ursula could barely speak. The other naked woman stood close by, silent. Ursula was ready.
They ventured out into the darkness, feeling the soft air of night upon their skins.
They stepped out into the darkness, feeling the cool night air on their skin.
“I can’t see the path,” said Ursula.
“I can’t see the way,” 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:
“It’s here,” said the voice, and the shaky, pale figure was next to her, a hand gripping her arm. The older one held the younger one tightly against her as they walked down, and by the water’s edge, she wrapped her arms around her and kissed her. Then she lifted her into her arms, holding her close, saying gently:
“I shall carry you into the water.”
“I will carry you into the water.”
[Ursula lay still in her mistress’s arms, her forehead against the beloved, maddening breast.
[Ursula lay still in her mistress’s arms, her forehead against the beloved, maddening breast.
“I shall put you in,” said Winifred.
“I'll put you in,” said Winifred.
But Ursula twined her body about her mistress.]
But Ursula wrapped her body around 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.
After a while, the rain poured down on their flushed, warm skin, surprising and refreshing. A sudden, icy shower drenched them heavily. They faced it with enjoyment. Ursula let the water hit her chest and limbs. It chilled her, and a deep, infinite silence filled her, as if an endless darkness was washing over 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.
So the warmth faded, and she felt cold, as if she had just woken up. She rushed inside, a ghostly figure, wanting to escape. She craved the light, the company of others, that connection with the crowd. Above all, she longed to lose herself in nature.
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.
She said goodbye to her boss and went home. She was happy to be at the station with a crowd of Saturday-night people, happy to sit in the bright, busy train carriage. She just didn't want to run into anyone she knew. She didn't want to chat. She was on her own, unaffected.
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.
All this excitement and movement of lights and people was just the edge, the borders of a vast inner darkness and emptiness. She really wanted to be on that bustling, partially lit shore, because inside her was the real emptiness 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.
For a while, Miss Inger, her boss, was absent; she was just a dark emptiness, and Ursula felt free like a ghost wandering through a world of nothingness. Ursula felt a strange, still kind of happiness that her boss was no longer in her life.
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.
In the morning, though, the love was there again, intense and consuming. She remembered yesterday and craved more, always more. She wanted to be with her mistress. Any time apart from her mistress felt like a limitation on living. Why couldn't she go to her today, today? Why did she have to wander around restricted at Cossethay while her mistress was somewhere else? She sat down and wrote a heartfelt, passionate love letter; she couldn't 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.
The two women grew close. Their lives quickly merged into one, inseparable. Ursula visited Winifred’s place, spending all her free time there. Winifred loved water—swimming and rowing. She was part of several athletic clubs. Many lovely afternoons, the two friends enjoyed time in a small boat on the river, with Winifred always rowing. In fact, Winifred seemed to take pleasure in looking after Ursula, giving her things, and enhancing 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.
So Ursula quickly grew during the few months she spent with her mistress. Winifred had a scientific education and had met many smart people. She aimed to elevate Ursula to her own level of understanding.
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.
They stripped religion of its dogmas and falsehoods. Winifred made it relatable. Gradually, Ursula realized that all the religion she understood was just a specific expression of a human desire. The desire was the real essence— the expression was mostly about cultural preference or necessity. The Greeks had a bare Apollo, Christians had a Christ in white robes, Buddhists envisioned a royal prince, and the Egyptians their Osiris. Religions were localized, while spirituality was universal. Christianity was just one local variation. There hadn't been any blending of local religions into a universal faith yet.
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.
In religion, there were two main motivations: fear and love. The motivation of fear was just as significant as the motivation of love. Christianity embraced crucifixion to break free from fear; “Do your worst to me, so I no longer fear the worst.” However, what was feared wasn't necessarily completely evil, and what was loved wasn't necessarily completely good. Fear will transform into reverence, and reverence is submitting through identification; love will transform into triumph, and triumph is finding joy 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.
She talked a lot about religion, grasping the main ideas of various writings. In philosophy, she concluded that human desire is the standard for all truth and goodness. Truth isn’t something that exists outside of humanity; it’s a product of the human mind and emotions. There’s truly nothing to be afraid of. The motive of fear in religion is lowly and should be left to the ancient worshippers of power, like those who worshipped Moloch.
We do not worship power, in our enlightened souls. Power is degenerated to money and Napoleonic stupidity.
We don’t worship power in our enlightened minds. Power has become corrupted into money and foolishness like Napoleon’s.
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.
Ursula couldn't stop dreaming about Moloch. Her God wasn't gentle or kind, neither a Lamb nor a 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, not passive followers of some shepherd, or pets of some loving woman, or sacrifices made by some priest. She was completely exhausted by gentle, passive lambs and dull doves. If the lamb could lie down with the lion, it would be a huge honor for the lamb, but the lion’s powerful heart would not be diminished. She admired the dignity and self-assuredness 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.
She couldn't understand how lambs could love. Lambs could only be loved. They could only feel fear, and tremblingly give in to it, becoming sacrifices; or they could accept love and become loved ones. In both cases, they were passive. Intense, destructive lovers sought the moment when fear and triumph were at their peak, where neither feeling outweighed the other. Those weren't lambs or doves. She stretched her limbs like a lion or a wild horse, her heart relentless in its desires. It would endure a thousand deaths, but it would still rise from death with the heart of a lion, fiercer than before, more certain, knowing herself as different from and separate from the vast, conflicting universe that wasn’t her.
Winifred Inger was also interested in the Women’s Movement.
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.”
“The guys won't do anything more—they’ve lost the ability to act,” said the older girl. “They complain and talk, but they're really clueless. They try to fit everything into an old, lifeless concept. Love is a dead concept to them. They don’t come to me and love me; they come with an idea and say, ‘You’re my idea,’ so they end up embracing themselves. As if I were just some guy’s notion! As if I exist solely because a man has a thought about me! As if I’m going to be betrayed by him, giving him my body as a tool for his idea, just to be a mere part of his outdated theory. But they’re too caught up in their fussiness to actually do anything; they’re all stuck, they can’t take a woman. They always revert to their own idea and settle for that. They’re like snakes trying to swallow themselves because they’re 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.
Ursula was introduced by her friend to various educated women and men, all feeling unfulfilled, who still navigated the self-satisfied provincial society as if they were almost as compliant as their outward behavior suggested, but who were inwardly seething and insane.
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.
It was a strange world the girl was swept into, like chaos, like the end of the world. She was too young to understand it all. Yet the injection reached 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.
The exam happened, and then school was done. It was finally summer break. Winifred Inger went off to London. Ursula was left alone in Cossethay. She was consumed by a terrible, isolating despair that felt almost toxic. It was pointless to do anything or to be anything. She felt disconnected from everyone else. Her situation was lonely and suffocating. There was nothing for her except this dark sense of crumbling. Yet, despite the overwhelming feeling of disintegration surrounding her, she remained herself. It was the worst part of her suffering that she was always herself. She could never escape it: she couldn’t stop 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.
She still felt attached to Winifred Inger. But a kind of nausea was washing over her. She loved her boss. But a heavy, suffocating feeling of lifelessness started to build up from being around the other woman. Sometimes she thought Winifred was unattractive, almost like a lump of clay. Her hips looked big and earthy, and her ankles and arms were too thick. She craved some refined energy instead of this heavy, dull feeling of damp clay that sticks together 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.
Winifred still loved Ursula. She was deeply passionate about the girl’s vibrant spirit, serving her endlessly, and 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.”
“Come with me to London,” she begged the girl. “I’ll make it fun for you—you’ll get to do lots of things you’ll enjoy.”
“No,” said Ursula, stubbornly and dully. “No, I don’t want to go to London, I want to be by myself.”
“No,” Ursula said, stubborn and flat. “No, I don’t want to go to London, I want to be alone.”
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.
Winifred understood what this meant. She realized that Ursula was starting to pull away from her. The intense, unyielding spirit of the younger girl would no longer allow itself to blend with the twisted existence of the older woman. Winifred had expected this. But she was proud as well. Deep down, she felt a dark void of despair. She knew very well that Ursula would abandon her.
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 that felt like the end of her life. But she was too hopeless to be angry. Smartly, conserving what little love Ursula had left, she went off to London, leaving the cherished 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?
And after two weeks, Ursula’s letters became warm again, affectionate. Her Uncle Tom had invited her to come stay with him. He was managing a large, new coal mine in Yorkshire. Would Winifred come along 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.
For now, Ursula was imagining a marriage for Winifred. She wanted her to marry Uncle Tom. Winifred was aware of this. She said she would come to Wiggiston. She would let fate decide her path, since there was nothing left to be done. Tom Brangwen also recognized Ursula's intention. He too had reached the end of his desires. He had accomplished what he wanted, but it all ended in a disintegrated lifelessness of soul, which he masked with an entirely tolerant good humor. He no longer cared about anything on earth—neither man nor woman, nor God nor humanity. He had achieved a stability of nullification. He didn't care anymore about his body or his soul. He only wanted to preserve his own life. The simple, superficial fact of living continued. He was still healthy. He lived. Therefore, he filled each moment. That had always been his belief. It wasn't instinctive ease; it was the inevitable result of his nature. In the absolute privacy of his own life, he did as he wanted, without scruples, and without any ulterior motives. He believed in neither good nor evil. Each moment felt like a separate little island, isolated from time, blank, and 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.
He lived in a big new red brick house, situated among a bunch of similar red-brick homes called Wiggiston. Wiggiston was only seven years old. It had started as a small village of eleven houses on the edge of a healthy, partly agricultural area. Then the huge coal seam was discovered. Within a year, Wiggiston emerged as a massive collection of pinkish rows of thin, artificial houses, each with five rooms. The streets were pure ugliness; a gray-black paved road, asphalt walkways, sandwiched between a flat series of walls, windows, and doors, a new-brick path that began and ended nowhere. Everything felt shapeless, yet it all repeated endlessly. Occasionally, one of the house-windows displayed vegetables or small groceries 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.
In the center of town was a large, open, shapeless area, or marketplace, of black packed earth, surrounded by the same flat, dull-looking buildings—new red bricks that had become dirty, small rectangular windows, and rectangular doors, all repeated endlessly. In one corner stood a big, colorful pub, and somewhere along one side of the square was a large window that was opaque and a dark green color, 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.
The place had a strange emptiness like a ruin. Miners hanging out in groups or walking heavily along the pavement to work looked more like ghosts than living people. The stillness of the empty streets and the uniform, lifeless sterility of everything felt more like death than life. There was no gathering spot, no center, no main street, no real structure. It lay there, like the new beginnings of a chaotic red-brick mess quickly 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.
Just outside of this, on a small hill, was Tom Brangwen’s large, red-brick house. From the front, it faced the edge of the area, a grim sight of ash pits and storage areas, and uneven rows of the backs of houses, each with its own small activities made dirty by their dull connection to the rest of the small activities. Further away was the large coal mine that operated day and night. And all around was the countryside, green with two winding streams, rugged with gorse and heath, and 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.
The whole place was just unreal, just unreal. Even now, after being there for two years, Tom Brangwen still couldn't believe it was real. It felt like some horrific dream, some ugly, dead, shapeless feeling made tangible.
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.
Ursula and Winifred were picked up by the car at the small, bare station and drove through what felt to them like the awful, bleak start of something. The place was a moment of chaos that never seemed to change, a persistent chaos that was stuck and unmoving. Ursula was captivated by the groups of men around—clusters of men standing in the streets, four or five walking together, their dogs either running ahead or trailing behind. They were all decently dressed, though most looked rather thin. The stark, hollow stillness in their demeanor intrigued her. They seemed like beings without any hope, yet still alive and full of vibrant life, trapped within some completely lifeless exterior, moving along without purpose, holding on to an odd, solitary dignity. It was as if a tough, rigid 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.
Shocked and startled, Ursula was taken to her Uncle Tom’s house. He wasn't home yet. His house was simple but well-furnished. He had removed a dividing wall and turned the entire front of the house into a large library, with one end dedicated to his science. It was a nice room, set up as both a lab and a reading area, but it still conveyed a sense of hard, mechanical activity—mechanical yet unfinished—and looked out at the ugly abstraction of the town, the green meadows, and the rough countryside beyond, as well as the big, 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.
They saw Tom Brangwen walking up the curved driveway. He was getting heavier, but with his bowler hat firmly placed on his forehead, he looked strong, attractive, and surprisingly like any other man of action. His complexion was as vibrant, his health as flawless as ever, and he walked as if he were deep in thought.
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.
Winifred Inger was taken aback when he entered the library, his coat buttoned up neatly, his head bald on top but not shiny, more like something bare that one usually sees covered. His dark eyes were deep and vague. He appeared to linger in the shadows, almost like something embarrassed. The grip of his hand was both gentle and strong, sending a chill through her heart. She was scared of him, repulsed by him, yet oddly drawn to him.
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.
He looked at the athletic, seemingly fearless girl and sensed a connection to his own dark side. Right away, he knew they were similar.
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.
His demeanor was polite, almost exotic, and somewhat distant. He still laughed in his peculiar, animalistic way, suddenly scrunching up his broad nose and showing his sharp teeth. The remarkable beauty of his skin and complexion, with an almost waxy quality, concealed the odd, off-putting grossness about him, the faint sense of decay, the commonality that showed itself in his somewhat stocky thighs and hips.
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.
Winifred instantly noticed the respectful, somewhat submissive, and slightly sly way he looked at Ursula, which made the girl feel both proud and confused at the same time.
“But is this place as awful as it looks?” the young girl asked, a strain in her eyes.
“But is this place really as terrible as it seems?” the young girl asked, a tension evident in her eyes.
“It is just what it looks,” he said. “It hides nothing.”
“It is exactly what it seems,” he said. “It conceals nothing.”
“Why are the men so sad?”
“Why are the guys so sad?”
“Are they sad?” he replied.
“Are they sad?” he asked.
“They seem unutterably, unutterably sad,” said Ursula, out of a passionate throat.
"They seem incredibly, incredibly sad," said Ursula, her voice full of emotion.
“I don’t think they are that. They just take it for granted.”
“I don’t think they are like that. They just take it for granted.”
“What do they take for granted?”
“What do they think?”
“This—the pits and the place altogether.”
“This is terrible and the whole situation is just bad.”
“Why don’t they alter it?” she passionately protested.
“Why don’t they change it?” she passionately argued.
“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.
“They think they need to change themselves to fit the struggles and the environment, instead of changing the struggles and the environment to fit themselves. It’s 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.”
“And you agree with them,” his niece exclaimed, unable to hold back. “You think like they do—that real people should be subjected to all sorts of horrors. We could easily manage without the pits.”
He smiled, uncomfortably, cynically. Ursula felt again the revolt of hatred from him.
He smiled, awkwardly, with a hint of cynicism. Ursula felt the surge of hatred from him once more.
“I suppose their lives are not really so bad,” said Winifred Inger, superior to the Zolaesque tragedy.
“I guess their lives aren’t really that bad,” said Winifred Inger, above the Zolaesque tragedy.
He turned with his polite, distant attention.
He turned with his courteous, detached focus.
“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.”
“Yes, they are pretty bad. The pits are really deep, and hot, and in some places, wet. The men often die of tuberculosis. But they earn good wages.”
“How gruesome!” said Winifred Inger.
"How horrifying!" 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.
“Yes,” he replied seriously. It was his serious, steady, self-assured demeanor that earned him so much respect as a mine manager.
The servant came in to ask where they would have tea.
The servant came in to ask where they would like to have tea.
“Put it in the summer-house, Mrs. Smith,” he said.
“Put it in the summer house, Mrs. Smith,” he said.
The fair-haired, good-looking young woman went out.
The attractive young woman with fair hair stepped outside.
“Is she married and in service?” asked Ursula.
“Is she married and working?” 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’.”
“She’s a widow. Her husband recently died from tuberculosis.” Brangwen let out a small, sinister laugh. “He was lying in the living room at her mother’s house, with five or six other people around, and he died very slowly. I asked her if his death caused her a lot of trouble. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘he was really difficult in the end, never satisfied, never at ease, always complaining, and never knowing what would make him happy. So in a way, it was a relief when it was over—for him and for everyone else.’ They’d only been married for two years, and she has one son. I asked her if she hadn’t been very happy. ‘Oh, yes, sir, we were very comfortable at first, until he got sick—oh, we were very comfortable—oh, yes—but, you know, you get used to it. I’ve lost my father and two brothers the same way. You get used to it.’”
“It’s a horrible thing to get used to,” said Winifred Inger, with a shudder.
“It’s a terrible thing to get used to,” said Winifred Inger, shuddering.
“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.”
“Yes,” he said, still smiling. “But that’s how they are. She’ll be getting married again soon. One man or another—it doesn’t matter much. They’re all coal miners.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ursula. “They’re all colliers?”
“What do you mean?” Ursula asked. “They’re all miners?”
“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.
“It’s the same with the women as it is with us,” he said. “Her husband was John Smith, a loader. We saw him as a loader, he saw himself as a loader, and so she knew he identified with his job. Marriage and home are just 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 side-shows, plenty of ’em.”
“The women know it well enough and see it for what it is. One man or another doesn’t change a thing. The pit is what counts. Around the pit, there will always be side shows, plenty of them.”
He looked round at the red chaos, the rigid, amorphous confusion of Wiggiston.
He glanced around at the chaotic mess of Wiggiston, a confusing jumble of shapes and colors.
“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.”
“Every man is his own little side-show, his home, but the pit owns every man. The women get what’s left. What’s left of this man, or what’s left of that—it doesn’t really matter. The pit takes all that truly 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.”
“It’s the same everywhere,” Winifred exclaimed. “It’s the office, or the shop, or the business that gets the man, while the woman gets the little bit the shop can’t handle. What is he at home, a man? He’s just a useless lump—a standing machine, a machine that’s 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 galère.”
“They know they’re stuck,” said Tom Brangwen. “That’s the issue. They know they’re tied to their job. If a woman talks her heart out, what difference does it make? The man’s tied to his job. So the women don’t bother. They take what they can get—and vogue la galère.”
“Aren’t they very strict here?” asked Miss Inger.
“Aren’t they really 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.”
“Oh no. Mrs. Smith has two sisters who just switched husbands. They’re not very picky—nor are they really that interested. They just drag along whatever’s left from the pits. They aren’t interested enough to be truly immoral—it all boils down to the same thing, moral or immoral—just a matter of pit wages. The most moral duke in England makes two hundred thousand a year from these pits. He keeps the moral high ground.”
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’être of all.
Ursula sat, filled with bitterness, listening to the two of them talk. Their lamenting about the situation felt almost creepy. They seemed to derive some twisted satisfaction from it. The pit was the great ruler. Ursula looked out the window and saw the impressive, dark colliery with its wheels shining in the sky, while the shapeless, grimy mass of the town lay off to the side. It was just a dirty collection of side attractions. The pit was the main event, the raison d’être of everything.
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.
How awful it was! There was a terrible fascination in it—human bodies and lives enslaved to that symmetrical monster of the coal mine. There was a faint, twisted satisfaction in it. For a moment, she felt lightheaded.
Then she recovered, felt herself in a great loneliness, wherein 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.
Then she bounced back, realizing she was in a deep loneliness, feeling sad yet free. She had moved on. No longer would she be part of the massive industry, the great machine that had trapped them all. Deep down, she was against it; she rejected even its influence. It only had to be abandoned to become trivial, pointless. And she understood it was pointless. But it took a strong, passionate effort from her to remember that it was meaningless, especially when she saw the industry still at work.
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.
But her Uncle Tom and her mistress stayed there among the crowd, cynically criticizing the monstrous system while still being a part of it, like someone who complains about their partner but is still in love with them. She knew her Uncle Tom understood what was happening. However, she also knew that despite his criticism and condemnation, he still desired the big system. His only happy moments, his only moments of true freedom, were when he was serving the system. Only then, when the system absorbed him, was he free from self-hatred; he could act fully, without cynicism or pretense.
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.
His true passion was the machine, and Winifred's true passion was also the machine. She, too, Winifred, admired the impure abstraction, the mechanics of matter. In the machine, serving the machine, she found freedom from the burdens and degradation of human emotions. There, in the monstrous mechanism that encompassed all matter, living or dead, she discovered her fulfillment and perfect harmony, 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.
Hatred filled Ursula’s heart. If she could, she would destroy the machine. She felt that her purpose was to break the great machine. If she could shut down the colliery and leave all the men of Wiggiston unemployed, she would. Let them starve and dig in the dirt for roots rather than work for a monster like 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.
She disliked her Uncle Tom and Winifred Inger. They went to the summer house for tea. It was a nice spot among some trees, at the end of a small garden, right by a field. Her Uncle Tom and Winifred seemed to mock her and belittle her. She felt miserable and lonely. But she would never back down.
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.
Her coldness toward Winifred should never fade. She knew it was over between them. She saw gross, ugly movements in her mistress; she noticed a clay-like, lifeless, unresponsive body that reminded her of the huge prehistoric lizards. One day, her Uncle Tom came in from the scorching sun, sweating from his walk. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead and brow, his hand was wet and hot, suffocating in its grip. He also had something marshy about him—the dampness and heaviness, and the same disgusting, brackish effect of a swamp, where life and decay are intertwined.
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.
He was repulsive to her, who was so composed and refined in her intensity. Even her bones seemed to urge him to stay away 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.
It was during these weeks that Ursula matured. She spent two weeks at Wiggiston, and she couldn't stand it. Everything was dull, lifeless ash, cold, dead, and hideous. But she remained. She also stayed to distance herself from Winifred. The girl's hatred and her feelings of disgust towards her mistress and uncle seemed to bring the other two closer together. They bonded as if in opposition to 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.
In her painful and bitter state, Ursula realized that Winifred had become her uncle’s lover. She felt relieved. She had cared for both of them, but now she wanted to be free from them. Their murky, bittersweet taint was sickening to her. She craved to escape the foul atmosphere. She wanted to leave them both for good, to be done with their strange, soft, somewhat corrupt environment. 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,
One night, Winifred burst into Ursula’s bed, wrapped her arms around her, holding her close despite Ursula’s reluctance, and said,
“Dear, my dear—shall I marry Mr. Brangwen—shall I?”
“Dear, my dear—should I marry Mr. Brangwen—should I?”
The clinging, heavy, muddy question weighed on Ursula intolerably.
The heavy, muddy question clung to Ursula, making her feel unbearable pressure.
“Has he asked you?” she said, using all her might of hard resistance.
“Has he asked you?” she said, putting up her strongest resistance.
“He’s asked me,” said Winifred. “Do you want me to marry him, Ursula?”
“He's asked me,” Winifred said. “Do you want me to marry him, Ursula?”
“Yes,” said Ursula.
“Yes,” Ursula replied.
The arms tightened more on her.
The arms tightened even more around her.
“I knew you did, my sweet—and I will marry him. You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”
“I knew you did, my dear—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’ve been really fond of him—ever since I was a kid.”
“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.”
“I get it—I get it. I can see why you’re into him. He’s someone on his own, he has something that sets him apart from everyone else.”
“Yes,” said Ursula.
“Yes,” Ursula replied.
“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—”
“But he’s not like you, my dear—ha, he’s not as good as you. There’s something even off-putting about him—his thick thighs—”
Ursula was silent.
Ursula was quiet.
“But I’ll marry him, my dear—it will be best. Now say you love me.”
“But I’ll marry him, my dear—it’s the best choice. Now tell me 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.
A kind of job was forced upon the girl. Still, her mistress left with a sigh, to cry in her own room.
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.
In two days, Ursula left Wiggiston. Miss Inger went to Nottingham. She was engaged to Tom Brangwen, which the uncle seemed to brag about as if it proved his worth.
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.
Brangwen and Winifred Inger stayed engaged for another term. Then they got married. Brangwen had reached the age when he wanted kids. He wanted to have children. Neither marriage nor setting up a home meant anything to him. He wanted to carry on his legacy. He knew what he was doing. He felt a growing heaviness, like a thing that finds a spot to settle into a state of laziness, complete, deep indifference. He would let life take its course; husband, father, pit manager, warm clay lifted day after day by the great machine that gave it movement. As for Winifred, she was an educated woman, just like him. She would make a great partner. She was his equal.
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.
Ursula returned to Cossethay to argue with her mother. Her school years were finished. She had passed the entrance exam. Now she was back home to confront that empty time between school and the possibility of 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.
At first, she thought it would be like always being on vacation, feeling completely free. But her soul was in turmoil, overwhelmed by pain and hurt. She had no energy left to think about herself. For a while, she just had to let go.
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.
But soon she found herself clashing with her mother. At that moment, her mother had the ability to annoy and frustrate her constantly. There were already seven children, yet Mrs. Brangwen was pregnant again, this time with her ninth. One had died of diphtheria as a baby.
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.
Even the fact that her mother was pregnant made the oldest girl furious. Mrs. Brangwen seemed so self-satisfied, so completely fulfilled in her role as a mother. She focused only on immediate, physical, everyday things. Ursula, filled with intense feelings, was going through all the struggles of youth as she reached for some unknown challenge that she couldn’t grasp or even identify. Frustrated, she was fighting against all the darkness surrounding her. Part of that darkness was her mother. To limit everything to just physical concerns, as her mother did, and to smugly ignore the existence of anything beyond that was dreadful. Mrs. Brangwen didn’t care about anything except the children, the house, and a bit of local gossip. And she would not allow any outside influence; she wouldn’t let anything else exist close to her. She moved around, heavily pregnant, untidy, relaxed, carrying a certain comfortable dignity, taking her time, doing what pleased her, always focused on the children, believing that by doing so she had fulfilled the essence 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.
This long period of being a complacent mother had kept her youthful and underdeveloped. She was barely a day older than when Gudrun was born. For all these years, nothing had happened except for the arrival of the children; nothing mattered except the lives of her babies. As her children became aware of themselves and started to seek their own paths, she let them go. But she still held power in the household. Brangwen remained in a kind of rich daze of physical warmth, connected to his wife. Neither of them was fully personal or defined as individuals; they were both deeply influenced by the physical warmth of raising their children.
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.
How Ursula hated it, how she struggled against the cramped, physical, restricted life of confined domesticity! Calm, peaceful, and unwavering as always, Mrs. Brangwen moved around in her commanding role of motherhood.
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.
There were battles. Ursula would stand up for what mattered to her. She wanted the children to be less rude and bossy, and she wanted her own space in the house. But her mother held her back, held her back. With all the sly instinct of a breeding animal, Mrs. Brangwen mocked and dismissed Ursula’s passions, her ideas, her ways of speaking. Ursula would try to assert, in her own home, the right of women to have an equal role with men in the realm 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.”
"Ay," said the mother, "there's a good pile of stockings needing mending. Let that be your area of focus."
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.
Ursula hated mending stockings, and this response drove her crazy. She felt a deep resentment toward her mother. After a few weeks of forced domestic life, she was fed up with her home. The dullness, the banality, the sheer meaninglessness of it all pushed her to the brink. She expressed her frustrations loudly, corrected and nagged the kids, and turned her back in silent disdain on her mother, who treated her with condescending indifference, as if she were a pretentious child not worthy of serious attention.
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 sometimes got caught up in trouble. He loved Ursula, so he always felt a sense of shame, almost like betrayal, when he lashed out at her. As a result, he would turn on her fiercely and harshly, with a kind of brutality that left Ursula pale, silent, and numb. It felt like her emotions were fading away inside her, and her temper was becoming 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.
Brangwen was going through one of his moments of change. After all these years, he started to see a glimmer of freedom. For twenty years, he had been working as a draughtsman in this office, doing tasks he didn’t care about, simply because it felt like his assigned role. The maturation of his daughters and their emerging rejection of old traditions also helped him break 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.
He was a man of constant motion. Like a blind mole, he fought his way out from the earth that constrained him, always working against the physical environment that confined his life. Slowly and blindly, feeling his way forward with whatever initiative he had left, he moved towards personal expression and individuality.
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.
At last, after twenty years, he returned to his woodcarving, almost where he had left off with his Adam and Eve panel, back when he was dating. But now he had knowledge and skill but lacked vision. He recognized the childishness of his earlier ideas and the unrealistic world they had come from. He felt a new strength in his perception of reality. He felt as if he was real, as if he was shaping real things. He had spent many years in Cossethay, building the organ for the church, restoring the woodwork, gradually gaining an appreciation for beauty in simple tasks. Now he wanted to carve things that expressed who he truly was.
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 naïve alertness of the early Italians. But it was only reproduction.
But he just couldn't quite get there—he was always too busy, too unsure, a bit lost. After some hesitation, he started studying modeling. To his surprise, he found he actually could do it. Modeling with clay and plaster, he created beautiful replicas, really stunning works. Then he focused on making a head of Ursula, in high relief, in the style of Donatello. In his initial excitement, he captured a wonderful expression of his longing. But he couldn't reach that level of intense focus. With a bit of disappointment, he gave up. He kept copying or designing by pulling elements from classic works. He loved the Della Robbia and Donatello just as he had loved Fra Angelico when he was younger. His work had some of the freshness and naive vibrancy of the early Italians. But it was just 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.
Having reached his limit with modeling, he switched to painting. However, he approached water-color painting like any other amateur. He got some results but wasn’t very interested. After one or two drawings of his beloved church, which had the same liveliness as his modeling, he felt out of place with the modern atmospheric style of painting. His church tower stood tall and confidently asserted its presence, but it seemed ashamed of its own lack of significance, so 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.
He got into jewelry, read Benvenuto Cellini, studied reproductions of designs, and started creating pendants out of silver, pearls, and other materials. The first pieces he made during his discovery phase were truly beautiful. The ones that came after were more imitative. Beginning with his wife, he created a pendant for each of the women in his life. Then he went on to make 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.
Then he started working with beaten and chiseled metal. When Ursula finished school, he was creating a beautifully shaped silver bowl. He took such delight in it, almost lusting 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.
All this time, his only link to the real world was through his winter evening classes, which connected him with public education. Other than that, he was clueless and completely indifferent—even about the war. The nation didn't mean anything to him. He was in his own private retreat, with no nationality or significant support.
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.
Ursula kept an eye on the newspapers, somewhat, about the war in South Africa. They made her unhappy, and she tried to avoid them as much as she could. But Skrebensky was out there. He sent her the occasional postcard. Yet it felt like she was a blank wall to him, without any windows or outgoing connection. She held on to the memory of the Skrebensky she knew.
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.
Her love for Winifred Inger uprooted her life as it seemed, taking her away from the roots and foundation where Skrebensky had been a part of it, and she felt like she had been harshly relocated. He was really just a memory. After Winifred left, she clung to that memory with unusual intensity. He represented her real life in a way. It was as if, through him, or within him, she could find her way back to who she was before she fell in love with Winifred, before this emotional numbness had settled in, this relentless uprooting. But even her memories were creations 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:
She dreamed of him and her as they were together. She couldn’t imagine him now, what he was doing, or how he related to her now. Sometimes she cried thinking about how painfully she had suffered when he left her—oh, how she had suffered! She recalled what she had written in her diary:
“If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down.”
“If I were the moon, I know where I would land.”
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.
Ah, it was a dull pain for her to think about who she used to be. It felt like remembering a version of herself that was gone. Everything was lost after Winifred. She recognized the remains of her young, loving self and knew where it was buried. The vibrant young self she longed for barely existed; it was more of a figment 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.
Deep inside her, a cold despair lingered, unchanged and unyielding. No one would ever love her again—she wouldn’t love anyone either. After Winifred, her ability to love had died; there was something lifeless within her. She would continue to live, to move forward, but she would have no romantic relationships, and no one would want to be with her anymore. She wouldn’t desire anyone herself. The brightest spark of desire within her was gone forever. The small, vibrant part of her that held the potential for her true self and true love was extinguished. She would keep growing like a plant, trying her best to produce some minor blossoms, but her main bloom had died before it ever had a chance to flourish; all her growth was simply carrying the weight 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.
The miserable weeks dragged on in the cramped house packed with kids. What was her life—a bleak, shapeless nothing; Ursula Brangwen was a person without value or significance, living in the dingy village of Cossethay, within the dreary reach of Ilkeston. At seventeen, Ursula Brangwen felt worthless and unappreciated, neither wanted nor needed by anyone, and she was painfully aware of her own lost potential. It was too painful to think about.
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.
But still her stubborn pride stood firm. She might be tarnished, she might be a corpse that shouldn't be loved, she might be a decaying shell living off the sustenance that others provided; yet she wouldn't submit to anyone.
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.
Gradually, she realized that she couldn't continue living at home the way she was—without purpose or value. Even the kids at school looked down on her for being useless. She had to take action.
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.
Her father said she had a lot to do to help her mother. From her parents, she would never get more than a slap in the face. She wasn’t very practical. She dreamed of wild things, like running away and becoming a housemaid, or asking some guy to take her in.
She wrote to the mistress of the High School for advice.
She wrote to the principal 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 can’t see clearly what you should do, Ursula,” came the reply, “unless you’re willing to become an elementary school teacher. You’ve graduated, which qualifies you to take a position as an uncertified teacher in any school, with a salary of around 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.”
“I can’t express how much I relate to your wish to make a difference. You’ll realize that humanity is a large community and you are an important part of it. You will find your role in the significant work that people are striving to accomplish. That will provide you with a sense of fulfillment and self-respect that nothing else can offer.”
Ursula’s heart sank. It was a cold, dreary satisfaction to think of. Yet her cold will acquiesced. This was what she wanted.
Ursula’s heart dropped. It was a chilly, gloomy satisfaction to consider. Yet her icy determination agreed. 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.
“You have an emotional nature,” the letter continued, “a quick, natural response. If only you could learn patience and self-discipline, I don’t see why you wouldn’t make a good teacher. The least you could do is try. You only need to serve for a year, or maybe two, as an uncertified teacher. Then you would attend one of the training colleges, where I hope you would earn your degree. I strongly urge and advise you to always keep up with your studies with the goal of obtaining a degree. That will give you a qualification and status in the world, and will provide you with more options to choose your own path.”
“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.”
“I will be proud to see one of my girls achieve her own financial independence, which means so much more than it appears. I will be truly glad to know that one more of my girls has secured for herself the freedom to make her own choices.”
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.
It all sounded bleak and hopeless. Ursula really hated it. But her mother's disdain and her father's severity had left her feeling sensitive and exposed; she understood the shame of being a freeloader, and she felt the nagging sting of her mother's low opinion of her.
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.
At last, she had to speak. Feeling tough, closed off, and silent inside, she slipped out one evening to the workshop. She heard the tap-tap-tap of the hammer on the metal. Her father looked up as the door opened. His face was flushed and bright with a youthful energy, his black mustache trimmed neatly above his wide mouth, and his black hair still thick and close-cropped. But there was something distant about him, a kind of detachment from human connections. He was focused on his work. He noticed his daughter’s hard, expressionless face. A wave of hot anger surged in his chest and stomach.
“What now?” he said.
"What now?" he asked.
“Can’t I,” she answered, looking aside, not looking at him, “can’t I go out to work?”
“Can’t I,” she replied, glancing away and avoiding his gaze, “can’t I go out to work?”
“Go out to work, what for?”
“Why go to work?”
His voice was so strong, and ready, and vibrant. It irritated her.
His voice was so powerful, confident, and lively. It annoyed her.
“I want some other life than this.”
“I want a different life than this.”
A flash of strong rage arrested all his blood for a moment.
A sudden wave of intense anger stopped him in his tracks for a moment.
“Some other life?” he repeated. “Why, what other life do you want?”
“Another life?” he repeated. “What other life are you looking for?”
She hesitated.
She paused.
“Something else besides housework and hanging about. And I want to earn something.”
“Something more than just housework and sitting around. I want to earn some money.”
Her curious, brutal hardness of speech, and the fierce invincibility of her youth, which ignored him, made him also harden with anger.
Her curious, harsh way of speaking and the fierce confidence of her youth, which completely overlooked him, made him toughen up with anger.
“And how do you think you’re going to earn anything?” he asked.
“And how do you think you’re going to earn anything?” he asked.
“I can become a teacher—I’m qualified by my matric.”
“I can be a teacher—I have my high school diploma.”
He wished her matric. in hell.
He wished her graduation in hell.
“And how much are you qualified to earn by your matric.?” he asked, jeering.
“And how much do you think you can earn with your diploma?” he asked, mocking.
“Fifty pounds a year,” she said.
“Fifty bucks a year,” she said.
He was silent, his power taken out of his hand.
He was quiet, his power stripped away.
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.
He always took secret pride in the fact that his daughters didn't have to work. With his wife’s money and his own, they had four hundred a year. They could tap into the capital if needed later on. He wasn’t worried about his old age. His daughters could be ladies.
Fifty pounds a year was a pound a week—which was enough for her to live on independently.
Fifty pounds a year was one pound a week—which was enough for her to live on her own.
“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.”
“And what kind of teacher do you think you’d be? You don’t have the patience of a gnat with your own brothers and sisters, let alone with a class of kids. And I thought you didn’t like those dirty, schoolyard brats.”
“They’re not all dirty.”
"They're not all bad."
“You’d find they’re not all clean.”
“You’ll see 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.
There was silence in the workshop. The lamplight shone on the burned silver bowl that lay between him, along with the mallet, furnace, and chisel. Brangwen stood with a strange, catlike gleam on his face, almost like a smile. But it wasn't a smile.
“Can I try?” she said.
“Can I try?” she asked.
“You can do what the deuce you like, and go where you like.”
"You can do whatever you want and go wherever you want."
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.
Her face was blank and emotionless, showing no interest. It always drove him into a frenzy to see her like that. He remained completely 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.
Cold and unfeeling, she turned and left the shed. He continued to work, his nerves on edge. Eventually, he had to set down his tools and go inside 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:
In a harsh tone of anger and disdain, he spoke to his wife. Ursula was there. There was a quick argument, ended by Mrs. Brangwen's remark, delivered with a tone of sharp superiority and indifference:
“Let her find out what it’s like. She’ll soon have had enough.”
“Let her see for herself what it’s like. She’ll get tired of it quickly.”
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.
The issue was dropped. But Ursula felt she was free to make her own choices. For several days, she didn't take any action. She was hesitant to take the tough step of looking for a job because she felt very sensitive and shy about new people and new experiences. Eventually, though, a stubborn determination pushed her forward. Her heart was heavy with 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.
She went to the Free Library in Ilkeston, copied addresses from the Schoolmistress, and requested application forms. After two days, she got up early to meet the postman. As she expected, there were three large 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.
Her heart ached as she walked up to her bedroom with them. Her fingers shook, and she could barely bring herself to look at the long, official forms she needed to fill out. It all felt so harsh and cold. But it had to be done.
“Name (surname first):...”
“Name (last name first):...”
In a trembling hand she wrote, “Brangwen,—Ursula.”
In a shaking hand, she wrote, “Brangwen,—Ursula.”
“Age and date of birth:...”
"Age and birthdate:..."
After a long time considering, she filled in that line.
After thinking about it for a long time, she filled in that line.
“Qualifications, with date of Examination:...”
"Qualifications, with exam date:..."
With a little pride she wrote:
With a hint of pride, she wrote:
“London Matriculation Examination.”
"London Matriculation Exam."
“Previous experience and where obtained:...”
“Previous experience and location:...”
Her heart sank as she wrote:
Her heart dropped as she wrote:
“None.”
"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.
Still, there was a lot to respond to. It took her two hours to complete the three forms. After that, she had to write down her references from her headmistress and 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.
At last, it was done. She had sealed the three long envelopes. In the afternoon, she went down to Ilkeston to mail them. She didn’t mention any of it to her parents. As she stamped her lengthy letters and dropped them into the box at the main post office, she felt like she was already out of reach of her father and mother, as if she had linked herself to the larger, more active world outside, 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.
As she headed home, she once again dreamed in her own unique way about her beautiful, old 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.
Gillingham was a beautiful name, and Kent was known as the Garden of England. So, in Gillingham, an ancient village near the hopfields, where the sun shone gently, she came out of school in the afternoon into the shade of the plane trees by the gate and walked down the quiet road toward the cottage where cornflowers peeked their blue heads through the old wooden fence, and phlox bloomed in abundance next to the path.
A delicate, silver-haired lady rose with delicate, ivory hands uplifted as Ursula entered the room, and:
A frail, silver-haired woman stood up with her delicate, ivory hands raised as Ursula walked into the room, and:
“Oh, my dear, what do you think!”
“Oh, my dear, what do you think?”
“What is it, Mrs. Wetherall?”
“What’s wrong, 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.
Frederick had come home. No, his confident step echoed on the stairs, she saw his sturdy boots, his blue pants, his uniformed figure, and then his face, clean and sharp like an eagle’s, with his eyes shining with the magic of distant seas, oh, those distant seas that had woven through his soul, as he walked into the kitchen.
This dream, with its amplifications, lasted her a mile of walking. Then she went to Kingston-on-Thames.
This dream, along with its details, kept her occupied for a mile of walking. Then she headed 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.
Kingston-on-Thames was an old historic town just south of London. There lived refined and dignified people who belonged to the city but cherished tranquility. There, she met an amazing family of girls living in a large, old Queen Anne house, with lawns that sloped down to the river. In an atmosphere of elegant peace, she felt at home among her true friends. They loved her like a sister and shared all their noble thoughts with her.
She was happy again. In her musings she spread her poor, clipped wings, and flew into the pure empyrean.
She felt happy again. In her thoughts, she spread her damaged wings and soared into the clear sky.
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.
Days went by. She didn’t talk to her parents. Then her references from Gillingham came back. She wasn’t wanted, not even at Swanwick. The sting of rejection replaced the sweetness of hope. Her bright feathers were once again in the dirt.
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.
Then, suddenly, after two weeks, she got a message from Kingston-on-Thames. She was supposed to show up at the Education Office in that town on the next Thursday for an interview with the Committee. Her heart stopped. She knew she would convince the Committee to accept her. Now she felt scared, now that her move was unavoidable. Her heart trembled with fear and hesitation. But deep down, her determination was solid.
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.
She moved quietly through the day, not ready to share her news with her mother, waiting for her father. She felt a heavy mix of suspense and fear. The thought of going to Kingston filled her with dread. Her carefree dreams slipped away from the hold 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.
And yet, as the afternoon passed, the beauty of the dream returned once more. Kingston-on-Thames—there was something so dignified about it. The weight of history and the allure of grand progress surrounded her. The palaces would be old and darkened, the place of kings hidden from view. Yet it was a place of kings for her—Richard and Henry and Wolsey and Queen Elizabeth. She imagined spacious lawns with majestic trees, and terraces where the gentle water lapped at the steps, where swans sometimes landed. Still, she longed to see the elegant, magnificent barge of the Queen glide by, the crimson carpet laid out on the landing stairs, the gentlemen in their purple velvet cloaks, bare-headed, standing in the sunlight, gathered on either side waiting.
“Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song.”
“Sweet Thames, flow gently until I finish 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.
Evening arrived, and her father came home, cheerful, attentive, and as distant as always. He felt less tangible than her imagination. She waited while he had his tea. He took large mouthfuls, big bites, and ate mindlessly with the same enthusiasm an animal shows for 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.
Immediately after tea, he went to the church. It was choir practice, and he wanted to test out 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.
The latch of the big door clicked loudly as she followed him, but the organ was even louder. He didn’t notice. He was practicing the anthem. She could see his small, jet-black head and focused face between the candle flames, his slim body slumped on the music stool. His face was so bright and focused that the movements of his limbs seemed alien, separate from him. The sound of the organ seemed to be part of the stone of the pillars, like sap flowing through them.
Then there was a close of music and silence.
Then there was a sudden end to the music and silence fell.
“Father!” she said.
“Dad!” she said.
He looked round as if at an apparition. Ursula stood shadowily within the candle-light.
He looked around as if he had seen a ghost. Ursula stood dimly in the candlelight.
“What now?” he said, not coming to earth.
“What now?” he said, remaining aloof.
It was difficult to speak to him.
It was hard to talk to him.
“I’ve got a situation,” she said, forcing herself to speak.
“I have a situation,” she said, pushing herself to talk.
“You’ve got what?” he answered, unwilling to come out of his mood of organ-playing. He closed the music before him.
“You’ve got what?” he replied, reluctant to break out of his organ-playing mood. He shut the music in front of him.
“I’ve got a situation to go to.”
“I have a situation to handle.”
Then he turned to her, still abstracted, unwilling.
Then he turned to her, still lost in thought, hesitant.
“Oh, where’s that?” he said.
“Oh, where is that?” he said.
“At Kingston-on-Thames. I must go on Thursday for an interview with the Committee.”
“At Kingston-on-Thames. I have to go on Thursday for an interview with the Committee.”
“You must go on Thursday?”
"Do you have to go on Thursday?"
“Yes.”
"Yeah."
And she handed him the letter. He read it by the light of the candles.
And she gave him the letter. He read it by the candlelight.
“Ursula Brangwen, Yew Tree Cottage, Cossethay, Derbyshire.
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.”
“Dear Madam, Please come to the offices mentioned above on Thursday, the 10th, at 11:30 a.m. for an interview with the committee regarding your application for the position of assistant mistress at 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.
It was really hard for Brangwen to absorb this distant and formal information, especially since he was so at peace in the tranquility of his church and the music of his anthem.
“Well, you needn’t bother me with it now, need you?’ he said impatiently, giving her back the letter.
“Well, you don’t need to bother me with it right now, do you?” he said impatiently, handing her back the letter.
“I’ve got to go on Thursday,” she said.
“I need 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 sat still. Then he played more music, and there was a rushing sound of air, followed by a long, powerful trumpet note from the organ as he placed his hands on the keys. Ursula turned and walked 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.
He tried to focus on the organ again. But he couldn't. He couldn't go back. All the while, an invisible thread was pulling him away, painfully.
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.
So when he came home after choir practice, his face was grim and his heart was heavy. He didn’t say anything, though, until all the younger kids were in bed. Ursula, on the other hand, could sense something was going on.
At length he asked:
Finally, he asked:
“Where’s that letter?”
"Where's the 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.
She handed it to him. He sat there staring at it. “You are requested to call at the above offices on Thursday next——” It was a cold, official notice meant for Ursula alone and had nothing to do with him. So! She was now a separate social being. It was her responsibility to respond to this note, regardless of him. He had no right to interfere. His heart was hard and filled with anger.
“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 had to do it behind our backs, didn’t you?” he said, sneering. And her heart raced with sharp pain. She knew she was free—she had broken away from him. He was defeated.
“You said, ‘let her try,’” she retorted, almost apologizing to him.
“You said, ‘let her try,’” she shot back, almost apologizing to him.
He did not hear. He sat looking at the letter.
He didn't hear. He sat staring 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.
“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 couldn’t help but feel the new role Ursula had as the recipient of that letter. It weighed heavily on his soul.
“Well,” he said at length, “you’re not going.”
“Well,” he said after a while, “you’re not going.”
Ursula started and could find no words to clamour her revolt.
Ursula began but couldn't find the words to express her rebellion.
“If you think you’re going dancin’ off to th’ other side of London, you’re mistaken.”
“If you think you’re just going to dance off to the other side of London, you’re wrong.”
“Why not?” she cried, at once hard fixed in her will to go.
“Why not?” she exclaimed, immediately determined to go.
“That’s why not,” he said.
"That's why not," he said.
And there was silence till Mrs. Brangwen came downstairs.
And there was silence until Mrs. Brangwen came downstairs.
“Look here, Anna,” he said, handing her the letter.
“Look here, Anna,” he said, giving 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.
She tilted her head back, looking at a typed letter, dreading trouble from the outside world. Her eyes moved in a strange, sliding manner, as if she had turned off her sensitive, nurturing side, replaced by a kind of hard, empty trance. In this empty state, she scanned the letter, careful not to absorb its meaning. She understood the contents with her indifferent, shallow mind. Her emotional side was completely shut down.
“What post is it?” she asked.
“What position is it?” she asked.
“She wants to go and be a teacher in Kingston-on-Thames, at fifty pounds a year.”
“She wants to go be a teacher in Kingston-on-Thames, making fifty pounds a year.”
“Oh, indeed.”
“Oh, for sure.”
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.
The mother spoke about it as if it were a harsh truth about some stranger. She would have let her go, out of indifference. Mrs. Brangwen would only start to grow up again with her youngest child. Her oldest daughter was a barrier now.
“She’s not going all that distance,” said the father.
“She’s not going that far,” said the father.
“I have to go where they want me,” cried Ursula. “And it’s a good place to go to.”
“I have to go where they want me,” Ursula exclaimed. “And it’s a great place to go to.”
“What do you know about the place?” said her father harshly.
“What do you know about the place?” her father said sharply.
“And it doesn’t matter whether they want you or not, if your father says you are not to go,” said the mother calmly.
“And it doesn’t matter if they want you or not, if your dad says you can’t go,” the mother said calmly.
How Ursula hated her!
How Ursula despised her!
“You said I was to try,” the girl cried. “Now I’ve got a place and I’m going to go.”
“You said I should give it a shot,” the girl exclaimed. “Now I’ve got a spot, and I’m going to go.”
“You’re not going all that distance,” said her father.
“You're not going that far,” her father said.
“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.
“Why don’t you get a place in Ilkeston, where you can live at home?” asked Gudrun, who hated conflicts, who couldn’t understand Ursula’s anxious demeanor, yet felt she had to support her sister.
“There aren’t any places in Ilkeston,” cried Ursula. “And I’d rather go right away.”
“There aren’t any places in Ilkeston,” Ursula exclaimed. “And I’d rather leave right now.”
“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.
“If you had asked about it, we could have found a spot for you in Ilkeston. But you chose to act all high and mighty and do your own thing,” her father said.
“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.”
“I’m sure you’d prefer to leave immediately,” her mother said sharply. “And I’m sure you’d find that other people wouldn’t tolerate you for very long either. You have too high an opinion of yourself for your own good.”
Between the girl and her mother was a feeling of pure hatred. There came a stubborn silence. Ursula knew she must break it.
Between the girl and her mother was a feeling of pure hatred. There was a stubborn silence. Ursula knew she had to break it.
“Well, they’ve written to me, and I s’ll have to go,” she said.
“Well, they’ve written to me, and I’ll have to go,” she said.
“Where will you get the money from?” asked her father.
“Where are you going to get the money from?” her father asked.
“Uncle Tom will give it me,” she said.
“Uncle Tom will give it to me,” she said.
Again there was silence. This time she was triumphant.
Again there was silence. This time she felt victorious.
Then at length her father lifted his head. His face was abstracted, he seemed to be abstracting himself, to make a pure statement.
Then finally her father lifted his head. His expression was distant, as if he were stepping back to make a clear point.
“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.”
“Well, you’re not going that far away,” he said. “I’ll ask Mr. Burt about a place here. I’m not going to leave you all by yourself on the other side of London.”
“But I’ve got to go to Kingston,” said Ursula. “They’ve sent for me.”
“But I’ve got to go to Kingston,” Ursula said. “They’ve sent for me.”
“They’ll do without you,” he said.
“They'll manage without you,” he said.
There was a trembling silence when she was on the point of tears.
There was a tense silence as she was on the verge 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.”
“Well,” she said, in a low and tense voice, “you can try to delay me, but I’m going to have a place. I’m not staying at home.”
“Nobody wants you to stop at home,” he suddenly shouted, going livid with rage.
“Nobody wants you to stay home,” he suddenly yelled, going crazy with anger.
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.
She said nothing more. Her demeanor had turned cold and smug in its own pride, in its own dismissive indifference to everyone else. This was the moment when he felt the urge to kill her. She walked into the parlor, singing.
“C’est la mère Michel qui a perdu son chat,
Qui cri par la fenêtre qu’est-ce qui le lui renda——”
“It's Mother Michel who lost her cat,
Who shouts from the window, what will bring it back——”
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:
During the next few days, Ursula moved about cheerfully and energetically, singing to herself and showing affection to the children, but her heart was tough and unfeeling towards her parents. No one talked about it anymore. The cheerfulness and toughness lasted for four days. Then it started to fade. So in the evening, she said to her father:
“Have you spoken about a place for me?”
“Have you talked about a place for me?”
“I spoke to Mr. Burt.”
“I talked to Mr. Burt.”
“What did he say?”
"What did he say?"
“There’s a committee meeting to-morrow. He’ll tell me on Friday.”
“There’s a committee meeting tomorrow. 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.
So she waited until Friday. Kingston-on-Thames had been an exciting dream. Here, she could feel the harsh, raw reality. So she knew this would happen. Because nothing ever really came true, she realized, except in the harsh limits of reality. She didn't want to be a teacher in Ilkeston because she knew Ilkeston and hated it. But she wanted to be free, so she had to take her freedom wherever 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.
On Friday, her dad said there was an open spot at Brinsley Street school. This could probably be secured for her right away, without the hassle of applying.
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.
Her heart stopped. Brinsley Street was a school in a rough neighborhood, and she had experienced the rowdy kids from Ilkeston before. They had yelled at her and thrown stones. Still, as a teacher, she would be in charge. And everything felt unfamiliar. She was thrilled. The barren, harsh landscape of dry, lifeless bricks intrigued her. It was so harsh and unattractive, so undeniably ugly, it would cleanse her of some of her lingering 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.
She imagined how she would get the little, ugly kids to love her. She would be so personal. Teachers were always so strict and distant. There was no real connection. She would make everything personal and vibrant; she would give herself, she would give, give, give all her great resources to her kids, she would make them so happy, and they would choose her over any teacher in the world.
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.
At Christmas, she would pick out really interesting Christmas cards for them, and she would throw them a fun party in one of the classrooms.
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 headmaster, Mr. Harby, was a short, stocky, pretty ordinary guy, she thought. But if she showed him grace and refinement, he would soon think highly of her. She would be the shining star of the school, the kids would thrive like little weeds, and the teachers, like tall, sturdy plants, would bloom into something special.
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.
The Monday morning arrived. It was the end of September, and a light drizzle of rain surrounded her like veils, making her feel cozy, like a world of her own. She moved toward the new land. The old was erased. The veil that concealed the new world would soon be lifted. She felt a strong sense of suspense as she walked down the hill in the rain, carrying her lunch 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.
Through the light rain, she saw the town, a dark, sprawling mass. She had to step into it. She felt a mix of disgust and eager anticipation. But she hesitated.
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.
She waited at the tram station. This was where it all started. In front of her was the station to Nottingham, where Theresa had left for school a half hour ago; behind her was the small church school she had gone to as a child, back when her grandmother was still alive. Her grandmother had passed away two years ago. There was a strange woman at the Marsh with her Uncle Fred and a little baby. Behind her was Cossethay, and the 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.
As she waited at the tram stop, she quickly fell back into her childhood memories; her teasing grandfather, with his fair beard and blue eyes, and his large, impressive figure; he had drowned: her grandmother, whom Ursula would sometimes say she loved more than anyone else in the world: the small church school, the Phillips boys; one was now a soldier in the Life Guards, and one was a miner. With a strong desire, she held onto 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.
But as she imagined it, she heard the tram car creaking around a bend, rumbling softly, and saw it come into view, humming closer. It eased around the loop at the end of the line and came to a stop right above her. Some shadowy grey figures stepped out from the far end, while the conductor walked through the puddles, swinging around 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.
She got on the damp, uncomfortable tram, its floor dark with moisture, its windows all fogged up, and she sat there anxiously. Her new life had begun.
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.
One more passenger got on—a kind of cleaner wearing a dull, wet coat. Ursula couldn't stand waiting for the tram. The bell rang, and there was a jolt forward. The car moved slowly down the wet street. She was being taken into her new life. Her heart ached with pain and tension, as if something were cutting into her very flesh.
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.
Often, the tram would come to a halt, and wet, cloaked people would get on and sit silently and drearily in stiff rows across from her, their umbrellas between their knees. The windows of the tram became increasingly steamy and clouded. She felt trapped with these lifeless, ghostly figures. Even at that moment, it didn’t cross her mind that she was one of them. The conductor walked through, handing out tickets. Each little snip of his ticket clipper sent a jolt of fear through her. But her ticket must have been different from the others.
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.
They were all going to work; she was going to work too. Her ticket was the same. She sat there trying to blend in with them. But fear gripped her insides; she felt a heavy, unfamiliar weight on 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!
At Bath Street, she had to get off and switch trams. She looked up the hill. It seemed to lead to freedom. She remembered the many Saturday afternoons she had walked up to the shops. How free and carefree she had felt!
Ah, her tram was sliding gingerly downhill. She dreaded every yard of her conveyance. The car halted, she mounted hastily.
Ah, her tram was slowly gliding downhill. She dreaded every step of her ride. The car stopped, and she got on quickly.
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 kept turning her head as the car moved along, because she wasn’t sure of the street. Finally, her heart racing with suspense, she stood up. The conductor rang the bell sharply.
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 was walking down a narrow, dreary, wet street that had no people. The school sat low within its fenced, asphalt yard, which glistened black from the rain. The building looked dirty and awful, and dead plants were peering gloomily 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.
She stepped through the arched doorway of the porch. The whole place had a menacing vibe, copying the church's architecture to exert control, like a show of crude power. She noticed that one set of footprints had crossed the flagstone floor of the porch. The place was quiet and abandoned, like an empty jail waiting for the sound of heavy footsteps to return.
Ursula went forward to the teachers’ room that burrowed in a gloomy hole. She knocked timidly.
Ursula stepped into the teachers’ room that was tucked away in a dark corner. She knocked softly.
“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.
“Come in!” called a surprised man’s voice, like from a prison cell. She stepped into the dark little room that never saw any sunlight. The gaslight was exposed and harsh. At the table, a thin man in his shirt sleeves was rubbing a piece of paper on a jelly tray. He looked up at Ursula with his narrow, sharp face, said “Good morning,” then turned away again and peeled the paper off the tray, glancing at the violet writing transferred onto it before he tossed the curled sheet aside into a pile.
Ursula watched him fascinated. In the gaslight and gloom and the narrowness of the room, all seemed unreal.
Ursula watched him, captivated. In the dim gaslight and shadows of the cramped room, everything felt surreal.
“Isn’t it a nasty morning,” she said.
“Isn’t it a terrible morning,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, “it’s not much of weather.”
“Yeah,” he said, “the weather isn’t great.”
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.
But in here it felt like neither morning nor weather really mattered. This place was eternal. He spoke in a distant voice, almost like an echo. Ursula didn’t know what to say. She took off her raincoat.
“Am I early?” she asked.
“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.
The man looked at a small clock first, then at her. His eyes appeared to be focused like sharp needles.
“Twenty-five past,” he said. “You’re the second to come. I’m first this morning.”
“Twenty-five after,” he said. “You’re the second to arrive. 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.
Ursula sat carefully on the edge of a chair and watched his slender red hands working over the white paper, then stopping, lifting a corner of the sheet, looking closely, and going back to rubbing again. There was a big pile of curled white sheets covered in scribbles on the table.
“Must you do so many?” asked Ursula.
“Do you really have to 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.
Again, the man looked up abruptly. He was around thirty or thirty-three, thin, with a greenish complexion, a long nose, and a sharp jawline. His eyes were blue and as piercing as steel points, quite striking, the girl thought.
“Sixty-three,” he answered.
"63," he answered.
“So many!” she said, gently. Then she remembered.
“So many!” she said softly. Then she remembered.
“But they’re not all for your class, are they?” she added.
“But they’re not all for your class, are they?” she added.
“Why aren’t they?” he replied, a fierceness in his voice.
“Why aren’t they?” he replied, his voice filled with intensity.
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.
Ursula was pretty scared by how he completely ignored her and his bluntness. It was something she hadn’t experienced before. She had never been treated like this, as if she didn’t matter, like she was talking to a machine.
“It is too many,” she said sympathetically.
“It’s too much,” she said kindly.
“You’ll get about the same,” he said.
“You’ll get roughly 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.
That was all she got. She sat there, feeling a bit blank, unsure how to react. Still, she liked him. He seemed so upset. There was something odd and intense about him that both drew her in and scared her at the same time. It felt so cold and not like his true self.
The door opened, and a short, neutral-tinted young woman of about twenty-eight appeared.
The door opened, and a young woman around twenty-eight, with a short, neutral skin tone, stepped in.
“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?”
“Oh, Ursula!” the newcomer exclaimed. “You’re here early! I bet you won’t keep it up. That’s Mr. Williamson’s spot. This one is yours. The 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.
Miss Violet Harby took Ursula’s waterproof off the peg where it was hanging and moved it to one a little further down the line. She had already pulled the pins from her own cloth hat and stuck them through her coat. She turned to Ursula as she pushed up her frizzy, flat, dull-colored 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——”
“Isn’t it a terrible morning,” she exclaimed, “terrible! And if there’s one thing I hate more than anything else, it’s a rainy Monday morning;—a bunch of kids coming in all messy, and you can’t control them——”
She had taken a black pinafore from a newspaper package, and was tying it round her waist.
She had taken a black apron from a newspaper package and was tying it around 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.”
“You brought an apron, right?” she said awkwardly, glancing at Ursula. “Oh—you’ll definitely need one. You have no idea how messy you’ll get before half-past four, with chalk, ink, and kids’ dirty feet.—Well, I can send a boy down to mom’s for one.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Ursula.
"Oh, it's all good," Ursula said.
“Oh, yes—I can send easily,” cried Miss Harby.
“Oh, yes—I can send it easily,” exclaimed 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.
Ursula’s heart dropped. Everyone seemed so arrogant and so controlling. How was she going to deal with such jumpy, pushy people? And Miss Harby hadn’t said a word to the man at the table. She just ignored him. Ursula sensed the harsh, rude tension between the two teachers.
The two girls went out into the passage. A few children were already clattering in the porch.
The two girls walked out into the hallway. A few kids were already making noise on the porch.
“Jim Richards,” called Miss Harby, hard and authoritative. A boy came sheepishly forward.
“Jim Richards,” called Miss Harby, firmly and authoritatively. A boy stepped forward awkwardly.
“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?”
“Will you go to our house for me?” said Miss Harby, in a commanding, condescending, coaxing tone. She didn’t wait for a response. “Go down and ask mom to send me one of my school pinafores for Miss Brangwen—will you?”
The boy muttered a sheepish “Yes, miss,” and was moving away.
The boy quietly said, “Yeah, miss,” and started to walk away.
“Hey,” called Miss Harby. “Come here—now what are you going for? What shall you say to mamma?”
“Hey,” called Miss Harby. “Come here—what are you doing? What are you going to say to mom?”
“A school pina——” muttered the boy.
“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.’”
“‘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.
“Yes, miss,” muttered the boy, his head down, and started to walk away. Miss Harby stopped him, holding onto his shoulder.
“What are you going to say?”
“What are you going to say?”
“Please, Mrs. Harby, Miss Harby wants a pinny for Miss Brangwin,” muttered the boy very sheepishly.
“Please, Mrs. Harby, Miss Harby wants an apron for Miss Brangwin,” muttered the boy very shyly.
“Miss Brangwen!” laughed Miss Harby, pushing him away. “Here, you’d better have my umbrella—wait a minute.”
“Miss Brangwen!” laughed Miss Harby, pushing him away. “Here, you should take my umbrella—just a second.”
The unwilling boy was rigged up with Miss Harby’s umbrella, and set off.
The reluctant boy was equipped with Miss Harby’s umbrella and headed out.
“Don’t take long over it,” called Miss Harby, after him. Then she turned to Ursula, and said brightly:
“Don’t take too long,” Miss Harby called after him. Then she turned to Ursula and said cheerfully:
“Oh, he’s a caution, that lad—but not bad, you know.”
“Oh, he’s something else, that guy—but not in a bad way, you know.”
“No,” Ursula agreed, weakly.
“No,” Ursula agreed, faintly.
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:
The door clicked shut, and they stepped into the large room. Ursula looked around. The tense, extended silence felt official and eerie. Halfway down the room was a glass partition with the doors wide open. A clock ticked loudly, and Miss Harby's voice echoed as she said:
“This is the big room—Standard Five-Six-and-Seven.—Here’s your place—Five——”
“This is the big room—Standard Five, Six, and Seven. Here’s your spot—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.
She stood at one end of the large room. There was a small, elevated teacher's desk facing a row of long benches, with two tall windows in the wall across from her.
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.
It was both fascinating and terrifying to Ursula. The strange, lifeless light in the room altered her mood. She thought it was just a gloomy, rainy morning. Then she looked up again, feeling uneasy from the oppressive, unyielding air that cut her off from the sense of a typical day; and she noticed that the windows were made of ribbed, diffused 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.
The prison surrounded her now! She looked at the walls, painted a light green and chocolate brown, at the large windows with messy geraniums against the pale glass, at the long rows of desks, lined up in formation, and fear filled her. This was a new world, a new life, that she felt threatened by. But still excited, she climbed into her chair at her teacher’s desk. It was high, and her feet couldn't touch the floor, so they rested on the step. Up there, off the ground, she felt like she was in charge. How strange, how strange it all was! How different from the mist of rain sweeping over Cossethay. As she thought of her own village, a wave of longing washed over her; it felt so far away, 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 was here in this harsh, bare reality—reality. It was strange that she should call this the reality, which she had never known until today, and which now filled her with such fear and dislike that she wished she could leave. This was the reality, and Cossethay, her beloved, beautiful, well-known Cossethay, which felt like a part of her, was the lesser reality. This prison of a school was reality. Here, she would sit in her role, the queen of scholars! Here she would fulfill her dream of being the beloved teacher, bringing light and joy to her students! But the desks in front of her had a cold, sharp look that hurt her feelings and made her shrink back. She winced, realizing she had been naïve in her expectations. She had brought her emotions and generosity to a place where neither was needed. And already she felt rejected, uneasy in this 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.
She slid down, and they went back to the teacher’s room. It felt strange to think that she should change who she was. She was nobody; there was no real essence within her. The reality existed entirely outside of her, and she had to engage with 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.
Mr. Harby was in the teachers’ lounge, standing in front of a big, open cupboard, where Ursula could see stacks of pink blotting paper, heaps of shiny new books, boxes of chalk, and bottles of colored inks. It looked like a treasure trove.
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.
The schoolmaster was a short, stocky man with a nice head and a strong jaw. Still, he was attractive, with his well-shaped brows and nose, and his large, droopy mustache. He appeared to be focused on his work and didn’t acknowledge Ursula’s arrival. There was something frustrating about how he could be so completely oblivious to someone else, so engrossed in what he was doing.
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.
When he momentarily spaced out, he looked up from the table and said good morning to Ursula. There was a nice glimmer in his brown eyes. He looked very masculine and undeniable, like something she wanted to topple over.
“You had a wet walk,” he said to Ursula.
"You had a rainy walk," he said to Ursula.
“Oh, I don’t mind, I’m used to it,” she replied, with a nervous little laugh.
“Oh, I don’t mind, I’m used to it,” she said, giving a nervous little laugh.
But already he was not listening. Her words sounded ridiculous and babbling. He was taking no notice of her.
But he wasn't listening anymore. Her words sounded silly and nonsensical. He was ignoring 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.”
“You’ll sign your name here,” he told her, treating her like a child—“and the times 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.
Ursula signed her name in the time book and stepped back. Nobody paid her any more attention. She racked her brain for something to say, but came up empty.
“I’d let them in now,” said Mr. Harby to the thin man, who was very hastily arranging his papers.
“I’d let them in now,” Mr. Harby said to the thin man, who was quickly organizing 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.
The assistant teacher showed no sign of agreeing and continued with his work. The atmosphere in the room became tense. At the last moment, Mr. Brunt put on his coat.
“You will go to the girls’ lobby,” said the schoolmaster to Ursula, with a fascinating, insulting geniality, purely official and domineering.
"You will go to the girls’ lobby," the schoolmaster said to Ursula, with a charming yet condescending friendliness that was purely formal and authoritative.
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.
She stepped outside and saw Miss Harby and another female teacher on the porch. Rain was falling on the asphalt yard. A dull bell rang drearily overhead, monotonously and insistently. It finally stopped. Then Mr. Brunt appeared, bare-headed, standing at the other gate of the school yard, blowing sharp blasts on a whistle and looking down the rainy, gloomy 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.
Boys in groups and clusters came running up, dashing past the teacher with a loud noise of feet and chatter, over 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.
In the porch where Ursula stood, there was a loud commotion of girls rushing to take off their coats and hats, hanging them on the racks crowded with pegs. The air was filled with the smell of wet clothes, girls shaking out their damp, tangled hair, and the sound of voices and footsteps.
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!”
The group of girls got bigger, the excitement around the pegs got more intense, and the students started to gather into loud little groups on the porch. Then Violet Harby clapped her hands, clapped them even louder, with a sharp “Quiet, girls, quiet!”
There was a pause. The hubbub died down but did not cease.
There was a pause. The noise quieted but didn't completely stop.
“What did I say?” cried Miss Harby, shrilly.
“What did I say?” Miss Harby shouted.
There was almost complete silence. Sometimes a girl, rather late, whirled into the porch and flung off her things.
There was nearly total silence. Occasionally, a girl, rather late, rushed onto the porch and tossed her stuff aside.
“Leaders—in place,” commanded Miss Harby shrilly.
“Leaders—on your marks,” commanded Miss Harby sharply.
Pairs of girls in pinafores and long hair stood separate in the porch.
Pairs of girls in pinafores and long hair stood apart on the porch.
“Standard Four, Five, and Six—fall in,” cried Miss Harby.
"Standard Four, Five, and Six—line up," shouted 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.
There was a commotion that slowly turned into three lines of girls, standing in pairs and smirking in the hallway. Among the coat racks, other teachers were organizing the younger students into ranks.
Ursula stood by her own Standard Five. They were jerking their shoulders, tossing their hair, nudging, writhing, staring, grinning, whispering and twisting.
Ursula stood by her own Standard Five. They were shrugging their shoulders, tossing their hair, nudging, squirming, 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.
A loud whistle sounded, and Standard Six, the oldest girls, started moving out, led by Miss Harby. Ursula, with her Standard Five class, followed behind. She stood next to a row of girls who were smirking and grinning, waiting in a tight hallway. She didn’t know what she was herself.
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.
Suddenly, the sound of a piano filled the room, and Standard Six walked in quietly. The boys had come in through a different door. The piano continued playing a march, and Standard Five followed to the door of the big room. Mr. Harby was seen way in the back at his desk. Mr. Brunt stood watch at the other door of the room. Ursula’s class gathered closer. She stood by them. They glanced at each other, smirked, and nudged one another.
“Go on,” said Ursula.
“Go ahead,” said Ursula.
They tittered.
They giggled.
“Go on,” said Ursula, for the piano continued.
“Go on,” Ursula said, as the piano kept playing.
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:
The girls wandered into the room. Mr. Harby, who had seemed focused on something at his desk, looked up and yelled:
“Halt!”
"Stop!"
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:
There was a pause, and the piano ceased playing. The boys, who were just beginning to enter through the other door, pushed back. Mr. Brunt's sharp, quiet voice echoed, followed by Mr. Harby's loud shout from the other end of the room:
“Who told Standard Five girls to come in like that?”
“Who told the fifth-grade girls to come in like that?”
Ursula crimsoned. Her girls were glancing up at her, smirking their accusation.
Ursula blushed. Her girls were looking up at her, smirking in 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.
“I sent them in, Mr. Harby,” she said, in a clear, shaky voice. There was a moment of silence. Then Mr. Harby yelled from afar.
“Go back to your places, Standard Five girls.”
“Return to your spots, Standard Five girls.”
The girls glanced up at Ursula, accusing, rather jeering, fugitive. They pushed back. Ursula’s heart hardened with ignominious pain.
The girls looked up at Ursula, accusing and almost mocking her as if she were a fugitive. They pushed her away. Ursula's heart ached with a deep, shameful pain.
“Forward—march,” came Mr. Brunt’s voice, and the girls set off, keeping time with the ranks of boys.
“Forward—march,” Mr. Brunt called out, and the girls started moving in sync with the lines 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.
Ursula faced her class, around fifty-five boys and girls, who filled the rows of desks. She felt completely invisible. She had no reason or right to be there. She stood before the group 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.
Down the room, she heard a flurry of questions being thrown at her. She stood before her class, unsure of what to do. She waited anxiously. Her group of children, fifty unfamiliar faces, looked at her with hostility, ready to mock. It felt like she was being tormented in front of a sea of faces. And she felt completely exposed to them. The seconds dragged on in unbearable length and agony.
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:
Then she gathered her courage. She heard Mr. Brunt asking questions in mental math. She stood close to her class, so she didn’t have to raise her voice too much, and hesitantly, unsure, she said:
“Seven hats at twopence ha’penny each?”
“Seven hats at two and a half pence 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.
A grin spread across the faces of the class as they watched her begin. She was flushed and struggling. 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.
The day dragged on painfully slow. She never knew what to do, and there were terrible gaps when she was just left alone with the kids; and when she attempted to start a lesson, relying on some sassy little girl for information, she had no idea how to continue it properly. The kids were in control. She looked up to them. She could always hear Mr. Brunt. Like a machine, he droned on in the same hard, high, cold voice, completely oblivious to everything around him. In front of this overwhelming crowd of kids, she always felt cornered. She couldn’t escape it. There it was, this class of fifty kids, relying on her for control, a control they hated and resented. It made her feel like she couldn’t breathe: she was suffocating; it felt so lifeless. There were so many of them that they didn’t seem like children anymore. They felt like a battalion. She couldn’t talk to them as she would with a single child because they weren’t individual kids; they were a faceless, collective entity.
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.
Dinner time arrived, and feeling shocked, confused, and alone, she walked into the teachers’ room for dinner. She had never felt so much like a stranger to life before. It felt like she had just stepped off a nightmare where everything was hellish, a state of harsh, cruel order. And she wasn't truly free. The afternoon felt like a kind of bondage weighing her down.
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.
The first week went by in a blur. She didn’t know how to teach, and she felt she’d never figure it out. Mr. Harby would come down to her class occasionally to see what she was doing. She felt so inadequate while he stood there, bullying and threatening, so unreal that she faded into the background. He watched her with a smile that seemed friendly but was really intimidating; he didn’t say anything, making her continue teaching while she felt completely empty inside. Then he left, and his departure felt mocking. The class was his. She was just a shaky substitute. He yelled and intimidated them, and they hated him. But he was in charge. Even though she was kind and always considerate toward her students, they belonged to Mr. Harby, not to her. He had an unshakeable hold on everything, keeping all the authority for himself. The class recognized his power, and in school, it was power, and power alone, that really counted.
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.
Soon Ursula began to fear him, and beneath that fear was a seed of hatred, because she loathed him, yet he had power over her. Then she started to cope. All the other teachers loathed him too, and shared their animosity with one another. He dominated them and the students, standing like a wheel to enforce his complete authority over everyone. That seemed to be his only purpose in life, to maintain blind control over the school. His teachers were his subjects just like the students. But since they held some power, his instinct was to despise 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.
Ursula couldn’t win him over. From the very first moment, she stood against him. She was also against Violet Harby. However, Mr. Harby was too much for her; he was something she just couldn’t handle, something too powerful for her. She tried to approach him like a young, enthusiastic girl typically approaches a man, hoping for some chivalrous kindness. But the fact that she was a girl—a woman—was either ignored or used as a reason to look down on her. She didn’t know who she was or who she needed to be. She wanted to stay true to her own responsive, individual 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.
So she kept teaching. She became friends with the Standard Three teacher, Maggie Schofield. Miss Schofield was around twenty years old, a reserved girl who stayed distant from the other teachers. She was quite beautiful, reflective, and seemed to exist in a different, more beautiful 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.
Ursula brought her dinner to school and during the second week ate it in Miss Schofield’s room. The Standard Three classroom was separate and had windows on two sides that overlooked the playground. It was such a comforting escape from the noisy school environment. There were pots of chrysanthemums, colorful leaves, and a big jar of berries; nice little pictures adorned the walls, photogravure reproductions by Greuze and Reynolds's "Age of Innocence," giving it a cozy feel. The room, with its bright windows, smaller, neater desks, and touches of art and flowers, made Ursula feel happy. Finally, here was a little personal space that she could connect with.
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.
It was Monday. She had been at school for a week and was starting to get used to her surroundings, even though she still felt completely out of place. She was looking forward to having dinner with Maggie. That was the highlight of her day. Maggie was so strong and distant, walking slowly and confidently down a tough path, holding her dreams inside. Ursula went through the classwork as if she were in a daze, not really connecting with anything.
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 laisser-aller. They were gone, and she was rid of them, and that was all. She hurried away to the teachers’ room.
Her class spilled out at noon in a chaotic way. She didn’t realize what a crowd she was attracting with her high tolerance, her kindness, and her laid-back attitude. They were gone, and she was free of them, and that was all that mattered. She rushed off to the teachers’ lounge.
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.
Mr. Brunt was crouched by the tiny stove, putting a bit of rice pudding into the oven. He stood up and carefully poked a small saucepan on the stovetop with a fork. Then he put the lid back on the saucepan.
“Aren’t they done?” asked Ursula gaily, breaking in on his tense absorption.
“Aren’t they finished?” asked Ursula cheerfully, interrupting his intense focus.
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.
She always maintained a cheerful, carefree attitude and was friendly to all the teachers. She felt like the swan among the geese, of better background and belonging. And her pride in being the swan in this unattractive school had not faded yet.
“Not yet,” replied Mr. Brunt, laconic.
“Not yet,” replied Mr. Brunt, keeping it short.
“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.
“I wonder if my dish is hot,” she said, leaning down to the oven. She half expected him to notice her, but he didn’t. She was hungry, so she eagerly poked her finger into the pot to check if her brussels sprouts, potatoes, and meat were ready. They weren’t.
“Don’t you think it’s rather jolly bringing dinner?” she said to Mr. Brunt.
“Don’t you think it’s kind of fun to bring 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 don’t know if I do,” he said, laying a napkin on a corner of the table and avoiding her gaze.
“I suppose it is too far for you to go home?”
“I guess it's 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.
“Yes,” he said. Then he got up and looked at her. He had the bluest, most intense, sharpest eyes she had ever seen. He stared at her with increasing intensity.
“If I were you, Miss Brangwen,” he said, menacingly, “I should get a bit tighter hand over my class.”
“If I were you, Miss Brangwen,” he said, threateningly, “I would take a firmer grip on my class.”
Ursula shrank.
Ursula got smaller.
“Would you?” she asked, sweetly, yet in terror. “Aren’t I strict enough?”
“Would you?” she asked, sweetly, yet with fear. “Am I not 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.”
“Because,” he repeated, ignoring her, “they'll drag you down if you don’t deal with them pretty quickly. They'll pull you under and stress you out until Harby gets you moved—that's how it’ll go. You won't be here for another six weeks”—and he stuffed his mouth with food—“if you don’t handle them and handle them fast.”
“Oh, but——” Ursula said, resentfully, ruefully. The terror was deep in her.
“Oh, but——” Ursula said, bitterly, regretfully. The fear was deeply rooted 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.”
“Harby won’t help you. Here’s what he’ll do—he’ll let you keep going, getting worse and worse, until either you leave or he kicks you out. It doesn’t matter to me, except that you’ll leave a mess behind that I hope I won’t have to deal 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.
She heard the accusation in the man’s voice and felt judged. But still, school hadn’t fully hit her yet. She was avoiding it. It was real, but it felt separate from her. And she resisted Mr. Brunt’s view. She didn’t want to accept it.
“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.
“Will it be that bad?” she said, trembling, quite beautiful, but with a hint of condescension, since she wouldn’t reveal her own fear.
“Terrible?” said the man, turning to his potatoes again. “I dunno about terrible.”
“Terrible?” said the man, looking back at his potatoes. “I don’t know about terrible.”
“I do feel frightened,” said Ursula. “The children seem so——”
“I do feel scared,” said Ursula. “The kids seem so——”
“What?” said Miss Harby, entering at that moment.
“What?” said Miss Harby, walking in at that moment.
“Why,” said Ursula, “Mr. Brunt says I ought to tackle my class,” and she laughed uneasily.
“Why,” Ursula said, “Mr. Brunt says I should take on my class,” and she laughed awkwardly.
“Oh, you have to keep order if you want to teach,” said Miss Harby, hard, superior, trite.
“Oh, you have to maintain order if you want to teach,” said Miss Harby, harsh, condescending, clichéd.
Ursula did not answer. She felt non valid before them.
Ursula didn't respond. She felt insignificant in front of them.
“If you want to be let to live, you have,” said Mr. Brunt.
“If you want to be allowed to live, you have,” said Mr. Brunt.
“Well, if you can’t keep order, what good are you?” said Miss Harby.
“Well, if you can’t keep things in order, what’s the point of 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.”
“And you have to do it on your own,”—his voice rose like the bitter cry of the prophets. “You won’t get any help from anyone.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Miss Harby. “Some people can’t be helped.” And she departed.
“Oh, absolutely!” said Miss Harby. “Some people just can't be helped.” And she left.
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.
The atmosphere of hostility and breakdown, with people’s wills clashing against each other, was terrible. Mr. Brunt, feeling inferior, scared, and bitter with shame, intimidated her. Ursula wanted to escape. She just wanted to get out, not to comprehend.
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.
Then Miss Schofield came in, bringing a more calming presence with her. Ursula immediately looked to the newcomer for reassurance. Maggie stayed focused on her own feelings in this chaotic system of control.
“Is the big Anderson here?” she asked of Mr. Brunt. And they spoke of some affair about two scholars, coldly, officially.
“Is the big Anderson here?” she asked Mr. Brunt. They discussed some matter regarding two scholars, in a cold, formal manner.
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.
Miss Schofield grabbed her brown dish, and Ursula followed with hers. The table was set in the nice Standard Three room, and there was a jar with a couple of monthly roses on it.
“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.
“It’s really nice in here, you’ve changed it,” said Ursula cheerfully. But she felt scared. The school’s atmosphere weighed on her.
“The big room,” said Miss Schofield, “ha, it’s misery to be in it!”
“The big room,” said Miss Schofield, “ha, it’s miserable to be in here!”
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.
She also spoke with bitterness. She also lived in the shameful position of an upper servant, hated by the master above and looked down on by the class below. She knew she could be attacked from either side at any moment, or from both at once, since the authorities would listen to the complaints of parents, and both would turn against the mixed 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.
So there was a deep, bitter resentment in Maggie Schofield even as she served her hearty mix of big golden beans and brown gravy.
“It is vegetarian hot-pot,” said Miss Schofield. “Would you like to try it?”
“It’s vegetarian hot pot,” said Miss Schofield. “Would you like to try it?”
“I should love to,” said Ursula.
“I would love to,” said Ursula.
Her own dinner seemed coarse and ugly beside this savoury, clean dish.
Her own dinner looked rough and unappetizing next to this delicious, well-prepared dish.
“I’ve never eaten vegetarian things,” she said, “But I should think they can be good.”
"I've never had vegetarian food," she said, "but I assume it can be good."
“I’m not really a vegetarian,” said Maggie, “I don’t like to bring meat to school.”
“I’m not really a vegetarian,” Maggie said, “I just don’t like bringing meat to school.”
“No,” said Ursula, “I don’t think I do either.”
“No,” Ursula said, “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.
And once again, her spirit responded to a new level of sophistication, a new freedom. If all vegetarian options were as enjoyable as this, she would happily leave behind the minor messiness of meat.
“How good!” she cried.
"How awesome!" she exclaimed.
“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.
“Yes,” said Miss Schofield, and she went on to share the recipe. The two girls moved on to talk about themselves. Ursula shared everything about the High School and her matriculation, showing off a bit. She felt so out of place here, in this ugly environment. Miss Schofield listened with a thoughtful, attractive face, somewhat somber.
“Couldn’t you have got to some better place than this?” she asked at length.
“Couldn't you have found a better place than this?” she asked after a while.
“I didn’t know what it was like,” said Ursula, doubtfully.
"I didn't know what it would be like," Ursula said, uncertainly.
“Ah!” said Miss Schofield, and she turned aside her head with a bitter motion.
“Ah!” said Miss Schofield, turning her head away with a bitter gesture.
“Is it as horrid as it seems?” asked Ursula, frowning lightly, in fear.
“Is it as terrible as it looks?” Ursula asked, frowning slightly, in fear.
“It is,” said Miss Schofield, bitterly. “Ha!—it is hateful!”
“It is,” said Miss Schofield, bitterly. “Ha!—it is hateful!”
Ursula’s heart sank, seeing even Miss Schofield in the deadly bondage.
Ursula’s heart sank at the sight of even Miss Schofield trapped in that dreadful situation.
“It is Mr. Harby,” said Maggie Schofield, breaking forth.
“It’s Mr. Harby,” said Maggie Schofield, speaking up.
“I don’t think I could live again in the big room—Mr. Brunt’s voice and Mr. Harby—ah——”
“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.
She turned her head away, feeling deeply hurt. There were some things she just couldn't handle.
“Is Mr. Harby really horrid?” asked Ursula, venturing into her own dread.
“Is Mr. Harby really awful?” asked Ursula, stepping into her own fear.
“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——”
“Hey!—he’s just a bully,” said Miss Schofield, raising her embarrassed dark eyes, which burned with frustrated disdain. “He’s not that bad as long as you stay on his good side, flatter him, and do everything his way—but—it’s all so petty! It’s really just a matter of fighting from both sides—and those big brutes——”
She spoke with difficulty and with increased bitterness. She had evidently suffered. Her soul was raw with ignominy. Ursula suffered in response.
She spoke with difficulty and growing bitterness. She had clearly been through a lot. Her spirit was bruised with shame. Ursula felt pain in response.
“But why is it so horrid?” she asked, helplessly.
“But why is it so terrible?” she asked, feeling helpless.
“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.”
“You can’t do anything,” said Miss Schofield. “He’s against you on one side and he turns the kids against you on the other. The kids are just terrible. You’ve got to make them do everything. Everything, everything has to come from you. Whatever they learn, you’ve got to shove 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.
Ursula felt her heart sink. Why did she have to understand all this? Why was she forced to teach fifty-five reluctant kids, all the while battling an ugly, rude jealousy that threatened to throw her to the mercy of the group of children, who would love to tear her down as a weaker figure of authority? She was overwhelmed by dread about her job. She saw Mr. Brunt, Miss Harby, Miss Schofield, and all the other teachers, slogging through the ungracious task of forcing many kids into one disciplined, mechanical group, reducing them to an automatic state of obedience and attention, and then demanding that they accept various pieces of knowledge. The main challenge was to get sixty kids to think as one. This uniformity had to be created automatically, through the will of the teacher and the entire school authority, imposed on the students' will. The key was that the headmaster and the teachers needed to have a united authority that aligned the students' will with theirs. But the headmaster was narrow-minded and exclusive. The teachers couldn't align their wills with his; their individual wills resisted being subordinated like that. As a result, there was chaos, leaving it up to the children to decide which authority should prevail.
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 there was a collection of distinct wills, each trying hard to assert its own authority. Kids will never just agree to sit in a classroom and accept knowledge without question. They need to be motivated by a stronger, more knowledgeable will. They will always push back against this will. Therefore, the first major task for any teacher of a large class is to align the children's wills with his own. He can only achieve this by setting aside his personal interests and applying a system of rules to achieve a specific, predictable outcome: imparting certain knowledge. On the other hand, Ursula thought she would be the first wise teacher by making it all personal and not using any coercion. She wholeheartedly believed 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 was in a really deep mess. First of all, she was offering a kind of relationship to a class that only one or two of the kids were sensitive enough to appreciate, leaving the majority feeling like outsiders and therefore against her. Secondly, she was putting herself in opposition to Mr. Harby, the one fixed authority, which allowed the students to harass her more easily. She didn't fully realize it, but her instincts began to warn her. She was tormented by Mr. Brunt's voice. It went on, grating, harsh, filled with hatred, yet so monotonous it was almost driving her insane: always the same harsh tone. The man had become like a machine, just working on and on. But the real man was always in some kind of subdued conflict. It was horrible—full of hate! Did she have to be like this? She could feel the awful necessity. She had to become the same—set aside her personal self, become just a tool, an abstraction, working on a specific material, the class, to achieve the goal of making them learn a certain amount each day. And she couldn't accept it. Yet, gradually, she felt the unyielding pressure closing in on her. The light was being blocked out. Often when she went outside during playtime and saw the bright blue sky with shifting clouds, it felt like just a fantasy, like a piece of painted scenery. Her heart felt so dark and tangled in teaching, her personal self felt imprisoned, erased; she was under the control of a bad, destructive will. So how could the sky be shining? There was no sky, no bright outdoors. 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.
She wouldn’t let school completely take over her life just yet. She always said, “It’s not permanent; it will end.” She could always imagine herself moving on from that place, envisioning the time when she had left it behind. On Sundays and holidays, whether she was away at Cossethay or in the woods where the beech leaves were scattered, she could think of St. Philip’s Church School and, with a bit of effort, picture it as a shabby, low-sitting building that barely made a dent under the sky, while the vast beech woods surrounded her, and the afternoon felt expansive and amazing. Moreover, the kids, the students, were just insignificant little figures far away, oh, so far away. What power did they have over her free spirit? A fleeting thought of them would come to her as she kicked her way through the beech leaves, and then they’d be gone. But her will was always tense against them.
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.
All the while, they were chasing after her. She had never felt such a deep love for the beautiful things around her. Sitting on top of the tram car in the evening, sometimes school faded away as she watched a stunning sky unfold. Her heart, her very hands, yearned for the gorgeous glow of the sunset. It was almost painfully intense, her longing for it. She nearly cried out at how beautiful the sunset was.
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.
For she was kept away. It didn't matter how much she told herself that school didn't exist anymore once she had left. It did exist. It was inside her like a heavy burden, controlling her actions. It was useless for the spirited, proud young girl to throw off the school and everything that came with it. She was Miss Brangwen, she was a Standard Five teacher, and her most important identity was now tied to her work.
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.
Constantly looming over her, like a shadow hovering over her heart and ready to descend at any moment, was the feeling that somehow, somehow she had been brought down. She bitterly refused to accept that she was truly a schoolteacher. Let that be for the Violet Harbys. She would distance herself from that label. It was pointless for her to deny 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.
Within herself, some inner voice seemed to automatically signal a denial. She was unable to complete her task. She could never, even for an instant, break free from the crushing burden of that 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.
And so she felt inferior to Violet Harby. Miss Harby was an excellent teacher. She could maintain order and impart knowledge to a class with amazing efficiency. It didn’t help that Ursula kept telling herself she was far, far superior to Violet Harby. Deep down, she knew that Violet Harby succeeded where she struggled, and that felt like a personal challenge. She constantly felt something weighing on her, dragging her down. In those first weeks, she tried to deny it, insisting she was just as free as ever. She attempted not to feel at a disadvantage compared to Miss Harby, trying to uphold the illusion of her own superiority. But a heavy burden rested on her, one that Violet Harby could carry, but she 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.
Though she didn't give up, she never really succeeded. She could see that her class was in worse shape, and she felt less and less confident about teaching it. Should she back out and go home? Should she admit she had come to the wrong place and just leave? Her entire life felt like it was on the line.
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.
She kept pushing forward, not really seeing where she was going, just waiting for a crisis to hit. Mr. Harby had started to target her. Her fear and dislike for him grew bigger and bigger. She was scared he would intimidate her and ruin her. He started to go after her because she couldn’t keep her class in order, since her class was the weak spot in the whole school system.
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.
One of the complaints was that her class was loud and disturbed Mr. Harby, who was teaching Standard Seven at the other end of the room. She was taking composition on a particular morning, walking among the students. Some of the boys had dirty ears and necks, and their clothes smelled bad, but she managed to overlook it. She corrected the writing as she moved around.
“When you say ‘their fur is brown’, how do you write ‘their’?” she asked.
“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.
There was a brief pause; the boys were always mockingly slow to respond. They had started to completely mock her authority.
“Please, miss, t-h-e-i-r”, spelled a lad, loudly, with a note of mockery.
“Please, miss, t-h-e-i-r,” spelled a kid, loudly, with a hint of mockery.
At that moment Mr. Harby was passing.
At that moment, Mr. Harby walked by.
“Stand up, Hill!” he called, in a big voice.
“Stand up, Hill!” he shouted, in a loud 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.
Everybody jumped. Ursula watched the boy. He was clearly poor and kind of sly. A stiff tuft of hair stuck up from his forehead, while the rest lay flat against his thin head. He looked pale and washed out.
“Who told you to call out?” thundered Mr. Harby.
“Who told you to shout out?” roared Mr. Harby.
The boy looked up and down, with a guilty air, and a cunning, cynical reserve.
The boy glanced around, looking guilty and maintaining a sneaky, cynical demeanor.
“Please, sir, I was answering,” he replied, with the same humble insolence.
“Please, sir, I was answering,” he replied, with the same humble disrespect.
“Go to my desk.”
"Head 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.
The boy moved awkwardly down the room, his big black jacket hanging loosely around him, his skinny legs, slightly knock-kneed, dragging along in a poor shuffle, his feet in their oversized boots barely lifting. Ursula watched him as he slinked along. He was one of her boys! When he reached the desk, he glanced around, a bit sneaky, with a sly grin and a sad face at the bigger boys in Standard VII. Then, looking pitiful and pale in his tattered clothes, he slouched under the looming headmaster’s desk, one thin leg bent at the knee and the foot sticking out sideways, his hands shoved into the low-hanging pockets of his oversized 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.
Ursula tried to refocus the class's attention. The boy looked at her with a hint of fear, and at the same time, she felt an overwhelming compassion for him. She felt an urge to scream. She was the one responsible for the boy's punishment. Mr. Harby was examining her handwriting on the board. He turned to face the class.
“Pens down.”
"Stop writing."
The children put down their pens and looked up.
The kids set their pens aside and looked up.
“Fold arms.”
"Cross your arms."
They pushed back their books and folded arms.
They closed their books and crossed their arms.
Ursula, stuck among the back forms, could not extricate herself.
Ursula, trapped among the back rows, couldn't free herself.
“What is your composition about?” asked the headmaster. Every hand shot up. “The ——” stuttered some voice in its eagerness to answer.
“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.
“I wouldn’t recommend that you shout,” Mr. Harby said. He would have had a nice voice, rich and melodic, if it weren’t for the horrible threat that always lingered in it. He stood still, his eyes sparkling under his bushy black eyebrows, observing the class. There was something captivating about him as he stood there, and again she felt the urge to scream. She was completely disoriented; she didn’t know what she was feeling.
“Well, Alice?” he said.
“Well, Alice?” he asked.
“The rabbit,” piped a girl’s voice.
“The rabbit,” a girl’s voice chirped.
“A very easy subject for Standard Five.”
“A very easy subject for Grade 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.
Ursula felt a tinge of embarrassment at her incompetence. She was exposed in front of the class. And she was troubled by the contradictions of it all. Mr. Harby stood so strong and masculine, with his dark brows and clear forehead, heavy jaw, and large, overhanging mustache: such a man, radiating strength and male power, with a certain raw, innate appeal. She might have liked him as a man. But here he was in another role, bullying over a trivial matter like a boy speaking out of turn. Yet he wasn’t a small, fussy man. He seemed to have some cruel, stubborn, dark spirit; he was trapped in a job too small and petty for him, which he would grudgingly fulfill because he needed to earn a living. He had no finer control over himself, only this blind, relentless determination. He would carry on with the job, since he had to. And this job was to make the children spell the word “caution” correctly and put a capital letter after a period. So he pounded away at this with his repressed anger, always holding himself back, until he was nearly beside himself. Ursula suffered, feeling bitter as he stood there, short, handsome, and powerful, teaching the class. It seemed such a miserable thing for him to be doing. He had a decent, strong, rough spirit. What did he care about the assignment on “The Rabbit”? Yet his will kept him there in front of the class, drumming on the trivial topic. It had become a habit for him to be so small and petty, out of place. She saw the shamefulness of his position and felt the restrained wickedness in him, which would eventually burst into rage, like a strong creature kept on a leash. It was truly intolerable. The discord was torturous to her. She looked over the silent, attentive class that seemed to have frozen into order and rigid, neutral forms. It was within his power to turn the children into hard, mute fragments, fixed under his will: his brute will, which held them in place 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.
She also needed to learn to bend them to her will: she had to. It was her responsibility, since that’s how the school operated. He had organized the class into structure. But seeing him, a strong, powerful man, using all his strength for such a purpose felt almost horrifying. There was something grotesque about it. The strange, friendly light in his eyes was actually malicious and repulsive, and his smile was one of pain. He couldn’t be objective. He couldn’t have a clear, noble intention; he could only impose his own brute will. He didn’t truly believe in the education he kept forcing on the children year after year. So he had to bully, only bully, even while it tortured his strong, healthy nature with shame, like a constant irritation. He was so blind and ugly and out of place. Ursula couldn’t stand it as he stood there. The whole situation felt wrong and grotesque.
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.
The lesson was over, and Mr. Harby left. From the far end of the room, she heard the whistle and the crack of the cane. Her heart stopped. She couldn’t stand it, no, she couldn’t stand it when the boy was beaten. It made her feel sick. She realized she had to leave this school, this place of torment. And she hated the schoolmaster, completely and utterly. The brute, didn’t he have any shame? He shouldn’t be allowed to continue this awful bullying. Then Hill came back, crying pitifully. There was something heartbreaking about his sobbing that nearly shattered her. After all, if she had managed her class properly, this wouldn’t have happened; Hill wouldn’t have called out and gotten 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 started the math lesson, but she couldn't focus. The boy Hill was slumped in the back, crying and sucking his hand. It went on for a long time. She didn't dare approach or talk to him. She felt embarrassed in front of him and struggled to forgive him for being the pitiful, sniveling mess that 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.
She kept correcting the math problems. But there were too many kids. She couldn't get around the class. And Hill was weighing on her mind. Finally, he had stopped crying and sat hunched over his hands, playing quietly. Then he looked up at her. His face was dirty with tears, and his eyes had a strange washed-out look, like the sky after rain, a sort of paleness. He didn't hold any grudges. He had already forgotten and was just waiting to be brought back to normal.
“Go on with your work, Hill,” she said.
“Keep going, 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?
The kids were busy with their math and, she knew, totally cheating. She wrote another problem on the board. She couldn't get around the room. She went to the front again to keep an eye on things. Some were ready. Some weren't. What was she supposed 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.
At last, it was time for a break. She instructed everyone to stop working and somehow managed to get her class out of the room. Then she faced the chaotic mess of stained, unmarked books, broken rulers, and chewed pens. Her heart sank in despair. The trouble was getting worse.
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?
The trouble kept going on, day after day. She always had stacks of papers to grade, countless mistakes to fix, a draining task that she hated. And the work just kept piling up. When she attempted to convince herself that the writing was getting better, more engaging, she had to face the fact that the handwriting was becoming messier and the papers were dirtier and more disgraceful. She did her best, but it didn’t help. Still, she wasn’t about to take it seriously. Why should she? Why should she think it mattered if she couldn’t teach a class to write neatly? Why should she take the blame for it?
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:
Payday arrived, and she got four pounds, two shillings, and one penny. She was really proud that day. She had never had that much money before. And she had earned it all by herself. She sat on top of the tram, handling the coins and worrying she might lose them. She felt so secure and empowered because of it. And when she got home, she said to her mother:
“It is pay day to-day, mother.”
“Today’s payday, Mom.”
“Ay,” said her mother, coolly.
“Yeah,” said her mother, coolly.
Then Ursula put down fifty shillings on the table.
Then Ursula placed fifty shillings on the table.
“That is my board,” she said.
"That's my board," she said.
“Ay,” said her mother, letting it lie.
“Ay,” said her mother, leaving it be.
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.
Ursula was hurt. But she had paid her dues. She was free. She paid for what she had. Besides that, she still had thirty-two shillings of her own. She wouldn't spend any, though she was naturally a spender, because she couldn't stand to ruin her beautiful 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.
She had established her own identity, separate from her parents. She was more than just the daughter of William and Anna Brangwen. She was independent. She earned her own living. She was a vital part of the working community. She was confident that fifty shillings a month was more than enough for her expenses. If her mother got fifty shillings a month for each child, she would have twenty pounds a month and wouldn’t need to buy clothes. That was fine 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.
Ursula was no longer dependent on her parents. She had moved on to a different phase of her life. The term ‘Board of Education’ held real importance for her now, and she felt that Whitehall was a distant place she could think of as her true home. In the government, she was aware of which minister held the top position in Education, and it felt to her that, in some way, he was linked to her just like her father was.
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.
She had another side to her, another responsibility. She was no longer Ursula Brangwen, daughter of William Brangwen. She was also the Standard Five teacher at St. Philip’s School. And now it was all about being the Standard Five teacher, and nothing more. She couldn’t escape it.
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.
Neither could she find success. That was her nightmare. As the weeks went by, there was no Ursula Brangwen, carefree and happy. There was only a girl with that name consumed by the fact that she couldn't control her class of children. On weekends, there came days of intense reaction, when she felt wild with the taste of freedom, when simply being free in the morning to sit down at her embroidery and stitch the colored silks was a source of pure joy. Because the prison house was always waiting for her! This was just a break, as her trapped heart knew all too well. So she seized the fleeting hours of the weekend and squeezed out every last bit of joy from them, in a little, frantic 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 didn’t tell anyone how much this situation tortured her. She didn’t confide in Gudrun or her parents about how horrible she felt being a teacher. But when Sunday night came and she sensed Monday morning approaching, she was filled with anxiety and dread, knowing the stress and torment were about to begin 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.
She didn't think she could ever teach that huge, rough class in that tough school: never, ever. And yet, if she failed, she would somehow have to give in. She would have to admit that the man's world was too powerful for her, that she couldn’t find her place in it; she would have to bow down to Mr. Harby. And for the rest of her life, she would have to continue on, never escaping from the man's world, never achieving the freedom of the vast realm of meaningful work. Maggie had found her place there, she had even stood on par with Mr. Harby and released herself from him: and her spirit constantly roamed through distant valleys and clearings of poetry. Maggie was free. Yet there was a sense of subjugation even in Maggie’s freedom. Mr. Harby, the man, didn’t like 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.
For now, though, Ursula only envied and admired Maggie. She still had to reach the point where Maggie was. She had to establish her place. She had taken a stand on Mr. Harby’s territory, and she needed to hold it. He was now launching a consistent effort to push her out of his school. She couldn’t maintain order. Her class was a rowdy group and the weak link in the school’s performance. So, she had to go, and someone more effective needed to take her spot, someone who could manage 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.
The headmaster had become obsessively angry with her. All he wanted was for her to leave. She had shown up, and things had only gotten worse as the weeks went by; she was completely useless. His system, which was his entire life at the school, the result of all his efforts, was being challenged and endangered by Ursula. She was the threat that could knock him down, make him fall. Driven by a deep instinct to fight back, he began the process 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.
When he punished one of her kids like he punished the boy Hill for something done to himself, he made the punishment harsher, adding the weight of the extra strike because of the weak teacher who let all this happen. When he punished for something against her, he went easy on them, as if offenses against her didn’t really matter. All the kids knew this, and they acted 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.
Every now and then, Mr. Harby would swoop in to check exercise books. For an entire hour, he would go around the class, taking book after book, comparing page after page, while Ursula stood aside, absorbing all the criticisms and blame directed at her by the other students. It was true that since her arrival, the composition books had become messier, more disorganized, and downright filthy. Mr. Harby would point to the pages completed before she came and those done afterward, and he would erupt in a fit of rage. He sent many children to the front with their books. After thoroughly inspecting the silent and trembling class, he caned the worst offenders in front of everyone, shouting in genuine anger and frustration.
“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——”
“Such a situation in a classroom, I can’t believe it! It’s just shameful! I can’t understand how it got this way! Every Monday morning, I’ll come down and check these books. So don’t think that just because no one is paying attention to you, you can forget everything you’ve learned and regress until you're not ready for Standard Three. I’ll review all the 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.
Then, in a fit of anger, he left with his cane, leaving Ursula to face a group of pale, trembling students, whose childlike faces were filled with blank resentment, fear, and bitterness, and whose feelings were full of anger and contempt for her instead of the teacher. Their eyes looked at her with the cold, unfeeling accusation of children. She could barely manage to get any words out to speak to them. When she gave an order, they followed it with an insulting casualness, as if to say: “Do you really think we'd listen to you if it weren't for the teacher?” She sent the sniveling boys back to their seats, aware that they were laughing at her and her authority, blaming her weakness for the punishment they had received. She understood the whole situation, so her fear of physical punishment and pain turned into a deeper hurt, becoming a moral judgment on herself, worse than any physical injury.
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.
She had to keep an eye on her students and deal with any mistakes over the next week. She was resolved about this. Her personal wishes were set aside for that day, at least. She needed to put aside her own identity in the classroom. She was solely the Standard Five teacher. That was her responsibility. In school, she was just the Standard Five teacher. Ursula Brangwen had to be left out.
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.
So she, pale and closed off, finally felt distant and detached; she no longer saw the child, how his eyes sparkled, or how he had an odd little spirit that couldn’t care less about perfect handwriting as long as he got his thoughts down. She saw no children, just the job that needed to be done. Focusing on the task and not on the child, she was able to be impersonal enough to punish when she could have only sympathized, understood, or condoned, to approve when she would have just been indifferent before. But her interest was gone now.
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.
It was torture for the impulsive, bright girl of seventeen to act distant and formal, without any personal connection to the kids. For a few days, after the pain of that Monday, she managed to pull it off and had some success with her class. But it wasn't a natural state for her, and she started to let her guard down.
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.
Then came another problem. There weren't enough pens to go around the class. She asked 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.
“Not enough pens, Miss Brangwen?” he asked, smiling and staying calm despite his intense anger towards her.
“No, we are six short,” she said, quaking.
“No, we’re six short,” she said, shaking.
“Oh, how is that?” he said, menacingly. Then, looking over the class, he asked:
“Oh, how is that?” he said, in a threatening way. Then, scanning the class, he asked:
“How many are there here to-day?”
"How many are here today?"
“Fifty-two,” said Ursula, but he did not take any notice, counting for himself.
“Fifty-two,” Ursula said, but he didn’t pay any attention, counting for himself.
“Fifty-two,” he said. “And how many pens are there, Staples?”
“Fifty-two,” he said. “And how many pens do we have, Staples?”
Ursula was now silent. He would not heed her if she answered, since he had addressed the monitor.
Ursula was now quiet. He wouldn't listen to 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.
“That’s a really strange thing,” said Mr. Harby, glancing over the silent class with a slight grin of anger. All the childish faces looked up at him blank and vulnerable.
“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.
“A few days ago, there were sixty pens for this class—now there are forty-eight. What’s forty-eight minus sixty, Williams?” There was a tense vibe in the question. A thin, ferret-faced boy in a sailor suit jumped up dramatically.
“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.
“Please, sir!” he said. Then a slow, sly grin spread across his face. He didn’t know. There was a tense silence. The boy lowered his head. Then he looked up again, a hint of cunning triumph in his eyes. “Twelve,” he said.
“I would advise you to attend,” said the headmaster dangerously. The boy sat down.
“I recommend that you attend,” said the headmaster ominously. The boy sat down.
“Forty-eight from sixty is twelve: so there are twelve pens to account for. Have you looked for them, Staples?”
“Forty-eight from sixty is twelve: so there are twelve pens to account for. Have you checked for them, Staples?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sure, sir.”
“Then look again.”
“Take another look.”
The scene dragged on. Two pens were found: ten were missing. Then the storm burst.
The scene went on forever. They found two pens: ten were missing. Then the storm hit.
“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.”
“Am I going to catch you stealing on top of your messiness, bad work, and poor behavior?” the headmaster started. “Not satisfied with being the most unruly and untidiest class in the school, now you’re also thieves, huh? How amusing! Pens don’t just disappear: they don’t just vanish into thin air. So where have they gone? They must be somewhere. Where are they? Because they need to be found, and it’s up to Standard Five to find them. They were lost by Standard Five, and they have to 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.
Ursula stood still and listened, her heart feeling hard and cold. She was so upset that it made her feel almost crazy. Something inside her urged her to confront the headmaster and demand he stop talking about the miserable pens. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
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.
After each session, both morning and evening, she had the pens counted. Yet, they were still missing. Pencils and erasers also disappeared. She made the class stay behind until everything was found. But as soon as Mr. Harby left the room, the boys started to jump around and shout, and eventually, they all ran out of 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.”
This was approaching a crisis. She couldn’t tell Mr. Harby because, while he would discipline the class, he would make her the reason for that punishment, and her students would retaliate with disobedience and mockery. There was already a tense animosity growing between her and the kids. After keeping them in after school to finish some work, she would find boys hiding 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:
When she went into Ilkeston on a Saturday morning with Gudrun, she heard the voices shouting after her again:
“Brangwen, Brangwen.”
“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.
She acted like she didn't notice, but she flushed with embarrassment at being mocked in the street. She, Ursula Brangwen from Cossethay, couldn't escape the reality of being a Standard Five teacher. It was pointless for her to go out to buy ribbon for her hat. The boys she tried to teach called out to her.
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.
And one evening, as she walked from the edge of town into the countryside, stones started flying at her. The feeling of shame and anger overwhelmed her. She continued walking, consumed by her emotions. Because it was dark, she couldn't see who was throwing the stones. But she didn't 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.
Only in her soul did a change occur. No longer would she ever give herself as an individual to her class. Ursula Brangwen, the girl she was, the person she was, would never come into contact with those boys again. She would be the Standard Five teacher, as personally distant from her class as if she had never set foot in St. Philip’s school. She would just erase them all from her personal life and keep herself separate, viewing them only as students.
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.
So her face became more and more closed off, and over the raw, vulnerable soul of a young girl who had opened up and warmly given herself to the children, there settled a tough, unfeeling barrier that operated automatically according to an imposed system.
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.
It felt like she barely saw her class the next day. All she could sense was her determination and the need to control this class that she had to bring under her authority. It was pointless now to appeal to or try to stir the better emotions of the class. Her quick-thinking mind understood 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, as the teacher, had to bring them all under control as scholars. And that was her plan. She would give up everything else. She had become tough and distant, almost vengeful towards herself and them since the stone-throwing incident. She didn’t want to be a person or be herself anymore after such humiliation. She was determined to assert her dominance, focusing solely on being the teacher. Her mind was made up. She was ready to fight and take control.
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.
She had figured out who her enemies in class were by now. The one she disliked the most was Williams. He was kind of a misfit, not bad enough to really be labeled as such. He could read smoothly and was quite clever, but he couldn’t stay still. He also had a strange condition that was really off-putting to a sensitive girl—something sly and weak and twisted. Once, in one of his crazy little fits, he had thrown an ink well at her. Twice, he had run home in the middle of class. He was a well-known figure.
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.
And he smiled to himself at this girl teacher, sometimes lingering around her to flatter her. But this only made her dislike him more. He had a sort 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:
From one of the kids, she picked up a flexible cane, and she planned to use it when the right moment arrived. One morning, during writing class, she said to the boy Williams:
“Why have you made this blot?”
“Why did you make this mistake?”
“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.
“Please, miss, it fell off my pen,” he whined in that mocking voice he was so good at using. The boys nearby snorted with laughter. For Williams was an actor; he could manipulate the feelings of his audience effortlessly. He had a talent for getting the children around him to mock his teacher or any authority figure he didn't fear. He had that unique instinct for rebellion.
“Then you must stay in and finish another page of composition,” said the teacher.
“Then you need to stay in and finish another page of your writing,” 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.
This went against her usual sense of justice, and the boy mocked it with resentment. At noon, she caught him sneaking out.
“Williams, sit down,” she said.
"Williams, take a seat," 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.
And there she sat, and there he sat, alone, across from her, at the back desk, glancing up at her with his sneaky eyes every minute.
“Please, miss, I’ve got to go an errand,” he called out insolently.
“Please, miss, I have to run an errand,” he called out disrespectfully.
“Bring me your book,” said Ursula.
“Bring me your book,” Ursula said.
The boy came out, flapping his book along the desks. He had not written a line.
The boy stepped outside, waving his book around the desks. He hadn't written a single 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.
“Go back and do the writing you need to finish,” said Ursula. And she sat at her desk, trying to grade papers. She was shaking and distressed. For an hour, the miserable boy squirmed and grinned in his seat. By the end of that time, he had written five lines.
“As it is so late now,” said Ursula, “you will finish the rest this evening.”
“As it’s getting late now,” Ursula said, “you’ll finish the rest this evening.”
The boy kicked his way insolently down the passage.
The boy swaggered down the hallway, kicking his way through.
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.
The afternoon arrived once more. Williams was there, looking at her, and her heart raced, knowing it was a battle between them. She observed 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.
During the geography lesson, as she pointed to the map with her cane, the boy kept ducking his pale head under the desk, drawing the attention of the other boys.
“Williams,” she said, gathering her courage, for it was critical now to speak to him, “what are you doing?”
“Williams,” she said, mustering her courage, because it was important to talk to him now, “what are you doing?”
He lifted his face, the sore-rimmed eyes half smiling. There was something intrinsically indecent about him. Ursula shrank away.
He lifted his face, his sore-rimmed eyes half smiling. There was something inherently inappropriate about him. Ursula pulled back.
“Nothing,” he replied, feeling a triumph.
“Nothing,” he said, feeling a sense of victory.
“What are you doing?” she repeated, her heart-beat suffocating her.
“What are you doing?” she repeated, her heartbeat suffocating her.
“Nothing,” replied the boy, insolently, aggrieved, comic.
“Nothing,” replied the boy, defiantly, annoyed, and funny.
“If I speak to you again, you must go down to Mr. Harby,” she said.
“If I talk to you again, you need to go see 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.
But this kid was a tough challenge even for Mr. Harby. He was so relentless, so submissive, and adaptable, and he cried out so when he was hurt, that the teacher despised more the instructor who sent him than he hated the kid himself. Because he was just tired of looking at the boy. Which Williams realized. He grinned openly.
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.
Ursula looked at the map again to continue the geography lesson. But there was some commotion in the class. Williams' energy spread to everyone. She heard a scuffle, and then she felt a deep anxiety. If they all turned against her this time, she was done for.
“Please, miss——” called a voice in distress.
“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.
She turned around. One of the boys she liked was sorrowfully holding out a ripped plastic collar. She heard the complaint and felt helpless.
“Go in front, Wright,” she said.
"Go ahead, 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.
She was shaking all over. A big, moody boy, not mean but really hard to deal with, slouched to the front. She continued with the lesson, noticing that Williams was making faces at Wright, and that Wright was smirking behind her. She felt scared. She turned back to the map again. And she felt scared.
“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.
“Please, miss, Williams——” came a sharp cry, and a boy in the back row was standing up, with his brows furrowed in pain, half a mocking grin on his face, half genuine resentment towards Williams—“Please, miss, he’s pinched me,”—and he rubbed his leg ruefully.
“Come in front, Williams,” she said.
“Come up here, Williams,” she said.
The rat-like boy sat with his pale smile and did not move.
The rat-like boy sat there with his pale smile and stayed still.
“Come in front,” she repeated, definite now.
“Step forward,” she said, now more assertive.
“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.
“I won’t,” he shouted, sneering, like a rat, with a grin. Something clicked in Ursula's soul. Her face and eyes hardened as she walked straight through the class. The boy shrank back under her fierce, unwavering gaze. But she approached him, grabbed his arm, and pulled him from his seat. He clung to the desk. It was a battle between him and her. Her instincts had suddenly become calm and sharp. She yanked him from his grip and dragged him, struggling and kicking, to the front. He kicked her several times and held onto the desks as he passed, but she kept going. The class was on its feet in excitement. She noticed 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.
She knew that if she let go of the boy, he would sprint for the door. He had already dashed home once from her class. So she grabbed her cane from the desk and struck him with it. He was squirming and kicking. She saw his face beneath her, pale, with eyes like a fish—cold and full of hate and terrible fear. And she despised him, the ugly, writhing creature that was almost too much for her. In horror that he might overpower her, but still calm at her core, she swung the cane down again and again while he struggled, making incoherent noises and lunging wild kicks at her. With one hand, she managed to hold him down, and every now and then, the cane landed on him. He writhed like a wild animal. But the pain from the strikes pierced through his frenzied, cowardly bravery, digging deeper until finally, with a long whimper that turned into a scream, he went limp. She released him, and he charged at her, his teeth and eyes flashing. For a moment, she felt a surge of terrified dread: he was like a beast. Then she caught him, and the cane struck him again. A few times, in a frenzy, he lunged and squirmed to kick her. But again, the cane broke his spirit; he collapsed with a howling scream onto the floor, lying there like a defeated animal, still yelling.
Mr. Harby had rushed up towards the end of this performance.
Mr. Harby had hurried up toward the end of this performance.
“What’s the matter?” he roared.
"What's wrong?" he roared.
Ursula felt as if something were going to break in her.
Ursula felt like something was about to break inside 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.
“I’ve beaten him,” she said, her chest heaving, pushing the words out on her last breath. The headmaster stood there, choked with anger, feeling 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. The thing squirmed away from her. She took a step forward. She had noticed the headmaster's presence for a moment, and then she was unaware 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.
“Get up,” she said. And with a quick movement, the boy was on his feet. His yelling turned into a crazy whimper. He had been in a rage.
“Go and stand by the radiator,” she said.
“Go and stand by the heater,” she said.
As if mechanically, blubbering, he went.
As if on autopilot, crying, 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 stood frozen, unable to move or speak. His face was pale, and his hands twitched uncontrollably. But Ursula stood rigid not far from him. Nothing could impact her now: she was beyond Mr. Harby. It was as if she had been violated to the point of 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 headmaster grumbled something, turned, and walked down the room, from where, at the far end, he could be heard shouting in a crazy 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.
The boy cried uncontrollably by the radiator. Ursula scanned the classroom. There were fifty pale, motionless faces watching her, a hundred eyes locked on her in an alert, blank gaze.
“Give out the history readers,” she said to the monitors.
“Send out the history readers,” she told 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.
There was complete silence. As she stood there, she could hear the ticking of the clock again and the sound of stacks of books being pulled out of the low cupboard. Then came the quiet rustle of books on the desks. The children moved through silently, their hands working together. They were no longer a group, but each one had become a silent, solitary being.
“Take page 125, and read that chapter,” said Ursula.
“Take page 125 and read that chapter,” Ursula said.
There was a click of many books opened. The children found the page, and bent their heads obediently to read. And they read, mechanically.
There was the sound of many books being opened. The kids found the page and bent their heads down obediently to read. And they read, like robots.
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.
Ursula, shaking uncontrollably, went and sat in her high chair. The boy's sobbing went on. Mr. Brunt's harsh voice and Mr. Harby's booming voice came through the glass partition, sounding distant. Every now and then, a pair of eyes would lift from the reading book, glance at her for a moment, as if assessing her without any emotion, then look back down.
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.
She sat completely still, her eyes focused on the class but not really seeing anything. She was very still and felt weak. She thought she couldn’t lift her hand from the desk. If she stayed there forever, she felt she wouldn’t be able to move again or say anything. It was a quarter past four. She almost dreaded the end of 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.
The class started to settle down, the tension easing. Williams was still crying. Mr. Brunt was giving instructions to wrap up the lesson. Ursula got down.
“Take your place, Williams,” she said.
“Take your spot, 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.
He shuffled across the room, wiping his face on his sleeve. As he sat down, he stole a glance at her, his eyes even redder. Now he looked like a defeated 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.
At last, the kids were gone. Mr. Harby walked by slowly, not looking her way or saying a word. Mr. Brunt paused as she was locking her cabinet.
“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.
“If you set up Clarke and Letts the same way, Miss Brangwen, you’ll be fine,” he said, his blue eyes looking down in a peculiar connection, his long nose directing at her.
“Shall I?” she laughed nervously. She did not want anybody to talk to her.
“Should I?” she laughed awkwardly. She didn’t want anyone 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.
As she walked down the street, making noise on the granite pavement, she noticed boys hiding behind her. Something hit her hand that was holding her bag, causing a bruise. As it rolled away, she saw that it was a potato. Her hand was hurt, but she didn’t show any sign of it. Soon she would catch 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.
She was scared and felt out of place. It felt totally strange and ugly to her, like some dream where she was humiliated. She would have rather died than confess it to anyone. She couldn't bear to look at her swollen hand. Something had snapped inside her; she had gone through a turning point. Williams was defeated, but it came at a price.
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.
Feeling too upset to go home, she rode a bit further into town and got off the tram at a small tea shop. There, in the dim little area behind the shop, she drank her tea and ate some bread and butter. She didn’t really taste anything. Drinking tea was just a habit, a way to distract herself from her life. She sat there in the dark, unremarkable space, without really knowing why. Only unconsciously did she tend to 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.
When she finally started heading home, the sunset painted the west in shades of red. She didn't understand why she was going back. There was nothing waiting for her there. The truth was, she only had to pretend to be normal. There was no one she could talk to, nowhere to escape to. But she had to keep moving, under this red sunset, alone, aware of the darkness in humanity that threatened to consume her, and with which she was in conflict. But it had to be this way.
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.
In the morning, she had to go to school again. She got up and left without even complaining to herself. She was under the control of a bigger, stronger, rougher force.
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.
School was pretty quiet. But she could sense the class watching her, ready to pounce. Her intuition picked up on the class's instinct to target her if she showed any weakness. But she stayed calm and kept her guard up.
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.
Williams was missing from school. Mid-morning, there was a knock at the door: someone needed the headmaster. Mr. Harby stepped out, feeling weighed down, frustrated, and anxious. He was worried about upset parents. After a brief moment in the hallway, he returned to the 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.”
“Sturgess,” he called to one of his bigger boys. “Stand in front of the class and write down the names of anyone who speaks. Can you come this way, Miss Brangwen?”
He seemed vindictively to seize upon her.
He seemed to aggressively go after 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.
Ursula followed him and found a slender woman in the lobby with pale skin, dressed fairly well in a gray outfit 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.
“I called about Vernon,” the woman said, speaking with a polished accent. She had an overall look of refinement and cleanliness, which was strangely at odds with her somewhat beggar-like stance, giving off an unsettling vibe, as if something was wrong beneath the surface. She was neither a lady nor a typical working man's wife, but rather an individual apart from society. Her clothing suggested that she wasn’t 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.
Ursula immediately recognized that she was Williams' mother and that he was Vernon. She recalled how he was always clean and well-dressed in a sailor suit. He also had that same strange, half-transparent unwholesomeness, almost 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.”
“I couldn’t send him to school today,” the woman continued, attempting to sound graceful. “He came home last night feeling really sick—he threw up a lot—I thought I’d have to call the doctor. You know he has a weak heart.”
The woman looked at Ursula with her pale, dead eyes.
The woman stared at Ursula with her pale, lifeless eyes.
“No,” replied the girl, “I did not know.”
“No,” the girl replied, “I didn’t 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:
She stood there, feeling disgusted and unsure. Mr. Harby, big and masculine, with his bushy mustache, watched her with a slight, unpleasant smile at the corners of his eyes. The woman continued to speak in a sneaky, almost inhuman way:
“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.”
“Oh, yes, he’s had heart issues since he was a kid. That’s why he doesn’t go to school regularly. And it’s really wrong to hit him. He was really sick this morning—I’ll call the doctor on my way back.”
“Who is staying with him now, then?” put in the deep voice of the schoolmaster, cunningly.
“Who’s staying with him now, then?” interrupted the schoolmaster’s deep voice, slyly.
“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.”
“Oh, I left him with a woman who comes in to help me—and who gets him. But I’ll call 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.
Ursula stood there, frozen. She sensed some unclear danger in all of this. But the woman was so completely unfamiliar to her that she didn't comprehend it.
“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.”
“He told me he had been beaten,” the woman continued, “and when I undressed him to put him to bed, his body was covered in 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.
Mr. Harby looked at Ursula for a response. She started to get it. The woman was threatening to file an assault charge against her son. Maybe she was after some cash.
“I caned him,” she said. “He was so much trouble.”
“I caned him,” she said. “He was so problematic.”
“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’m sorry if he was a problem,” said the woman, “but he must have been brutally beaten. I could show the marks to any doctor. I’m sure it’s not allowed if anyone finds out.”
“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 hit him while he kept kicking me,” Ursula said, getting angry because she was partly trying to justify herself, with Mr. Harby standing there, a twinkle in 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?”
“I’m really sorry if he acted out,” said the woman. “But I don’t think he deserved the beating he got. I can’t send him to school, and honestly, I can’t afford to pay for the doctor.—Is it acceptable for teachers to hit 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.
The headmaster wouldn’t answer. Ursula hated herself and hated Mr. Harby with his sneaky smirk and malice in that moment. The other unhappy woman waited for her opportunity.
“It is an expense to me, and I have a great struggle to keep my boy decent.”
“It costs me a lot, and I really struggle to keep my son decent.”
Ursula still would not answer. She looked out at the asphalt yard, where a dirty rag of paper was blowing.
Ursula still didn’t respond. She gazed out at the asphalt yard, where a dirty piece of paper was fluttering in the wind.
“And it isn’t allowed to beat a child like that, I am sure, especially when he is delicate.”
“And you can't hit a child like that, I'm sure, especially when he’s sensitive.”
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.
Ursula stared blankly at the yard, as if she didn’t hear anything. She hated all of this and had stopped feeling or existing.
“Though I know he is troublesome sometimes—but I think it was too much. His body is covered with marks.”
“Even though I know he can be a handful at times—this feels excessive. His body is covered in bruises.”
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.
Mr. Harby stood strong and unbothered, waiting for it to be over, with a slight, ironic smile at the corners of his eyes. He felt in control 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.”
“And he was really sick. I couldn’t possibly send him to school today. He couldn’t even hold his head up.”
Yet she had no answer.
But she had no answer.
“You will understand, sir, why he is absent,” she said, turning to Mr. Harby.
"You'll understand, sir, why he's not here," 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.
“Oh, yes,” he said, casually and dismissively. Ursula hated him for his male success. And she despised the woman. She hated everything.
“You will try to have it remembered, sir, that he has a weak heart. He is so sick after these things.”
"You should remember, sir, that he has a weak heart. He gets really sick after these things."
“Yes,” said the headmaster, “I’ll see about it.”
“Yes,” said the headmaster, “I’ll look into 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.”
“I know he’s a handful,” the woman said directly to the man now, “but if you could punish him without hitting him—he’s really sensitive.”
Ursula was beginning to feel upset. Harby stood in rather superb mastery, the woman cringing to him to tickle him as one tickles trout.
Ursula was starting to feel frustrated. Harby stood with impressive confidence, the woman leaning towards him to tickle him like one would tickle trout.
“I had come to explain why he was away this morning, sir. You will understand.”
“I came to explain why he was away this morning, sir. You’ll understand.”
She held out her hand. Harby took it and let it go, surprised and angry.
She extended her hand. Harby took it and then released it, feeling 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,” she said, extending her gloved, unappealing hand to Ursula. She wasn't unattractive and had a strange, persuasive manner that was quite off-putting yet effective.
“Good morning, Mr. Harby, and thank you.”
“Good morning, Mr. Harby, and thanks.”
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 person in the grey outfit and purple hat was walking across the schoolyard with a strange, lingering gait. Ursula felt a weird mix of pity and disgust for her. She shuddered and went back into the school.
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.
The next morning, Williams showed up, looking paler than ever, very tidy and well-dressed in his sailor blouse. He shot a half-smile at Ursula: clever, restrained, ready to follow her lead. There was something about him that made her shiver. She hated the thought of having touched him. His older brother was standing outside the gate during recess, a young man of about fifteen, tall, thin, and pale. He tipped his hat, almost like a gentleman. But there was something restrained, unsettling about him too.
“Who is it?” said Ursula.
“Who’s there?” said Ursula.
“It’s the big Williams,” said Violet Harby roughly. “She was here yesterday, wasn’t she?”
“It’s the big Williams,” Violet Harby said bluntly. “She was here yesterday, right?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“It’s no good her coming—her character’s not good enough for her to make any trouble.”
“It’s not worth it for her to come—her character isn’t strong enough for her to cause any issues.”
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.
Ursula recoiled from the cruelty and the gossip. Yet, there was something vaguely horrifyingly fascinating about it. Everything felt so filthy! She felt sympathy for the strange woman with the slow way of walking, and for those sneaky boys. The Williams in her class felt off in some way. It was all so unpleasant.
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.
So the battle continued until she felt exhausted. She had several more boys to deal with before she could prove herself. And Mr. Harby disliked her almost as if she were a man. She realized that only a good beating would get some of the big bullies who wanted to toy with her to back off. Mr. Harby wouldn’t give them the beating if he could avoid it. He hated the teacher, the arrogant, insolent high school girl 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.
“Now, Wright, what have you done this time?” he would say kindly to the boy who was sent to him from Standard Five for punishment. And he left the boy standing around, slacking off, 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.
So that Ursula would no longer appeal to the headmaster, when she was pushed to her limits, she grabbed her cane and struck the boy who had been disrespectful to her over the head, ears, and hands. Eventually, they became afraid of her; she had them under control.
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.
But she had sacrificed a lot of herself to achieve this. It felt like a huge fire had swept through her, damaging her delicate sensibilities. She, who recoiled at the idea of any kind of physical suffering, had been compelled to fight back with a cane and awaken all her instincts to inflict pain. And afterward, she had to tolerate the sound of their sobbing and despair, after she had brought them into line.
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.
Oh, and sometimes she felt like she was going crazy. What did it matter if their books were dirty and they didn’t follow the rules? Honestly, she would prefer that they ignored all the school’s rules rather than be beaten, broken, and brought to this crying, hopeless state. She would rather endure all their insults and rudeness a thousand times than bring herself and them down to this. She bitterly regretted losing her cool and confronting the boy she had hit.
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?
Yet it had to be this way. She didn't want to do it. But she had to. Oh, why, why had she tied herself to this terrible system where she had to mistreat herself to survive? Why had she become a 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.
The children had pushed her to the brink. No, she didn’t feel sorry for them. She had approached them with kindness and love, and they would have torn her apart. They chose Mr. Harby. Fine, they must know her just as well as they knew Mr. Harby; they first had to submit to her. Because she was not going to be diminished, not by them, nor by Mr. Harby, nor by the whole system around her. She was not going to be pushed down or kept from standing tall. It wouldn’t be said that she couldn’t take her place and do her job. She would fight and maintain her position in this state, in the world of work and societal norms.
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.
She felt cut off from her childhood, like a stranger in a new life filled with work and routine thinking. During their lunch breaks and occasional tea times at the small restaurant, she and Maggie talked about life and their ideas. Maggie was a committed suffragette, believing in the power of the vote. To Ursula, the vote never felt real. She held within her a deep, passionate understanding of religion and life that went far beyond the confines of the voting system. However, her fundamental knowledge still needed to take shape and be expressed. For her, just like for Maggie, women's freedom meant something profound and authentic. She sensed that in some way, she was not truly free. And she yearned to be. She was in rebellion. If she could just be free, she could have a future. Ah, the amazing, real future that was out there, the future she could feel deep within 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.
By coming out and supporting herself, she took a bold, harsh step toward gaining her freedom. But with this newfound freedom, she became even more acutely aware of the deep longing inside her. She desired so much. She wanted to read incredible, beautiful books and be enriched by them; she wanted to experience beautiful things and hold onto their joy forever; she wanted to meet inspiring, liberated people; and there was always that one longing she couldn’t quite name.
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.
It was really tough. There were so many challenges, so much to meet and overcome. And you could never tell where you were headed. It felt like a blind struggle. She had gone through a lot at St. Philip's school. She was like a young horse that had been harnessed and lost its freedom. And now she was suffering intensely from the pain of the harness. The pain, the irritation, the humiliation of being broken in. This weighed heavy on her soul. But she would never give in. She would never serve chains like that for long. Instead, she would understand them. She would endure them so she could break free from 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.
She and Maggie went to all sorts of places together—big suffrage meetings in Nottingham, concerts, theaters, and art exhibitions. Ursula saved her money and bought a bicycle, and the two girls rode to Lincoln, Southwell, and into Derbyshire. They had an endless amount of things to talk about. It was a great joy to find and discover new things.
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.
But Ursula never talked about Winifred Inger. That was a kind of secret part of her life, never to be revealed. She didn't even think about it. It was the closed door she didn't have 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.
Once she got settled into her teaching, Ursula slowly started to build a new life for herself again. She would be going to college in eighteen months. After that, she would earn her degree, and she would—oh, maybe she would be a significant figure and lead a movement. Who knows?—But for now, all that mattered 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.
And until college, she had to continue teaching at St. Philip’s School, which was always wearing her down, but now she could handle it without ruining her entire life. She would put up with it for a while since it only had a set end date.
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.
The teaching in class eventually became nearly automatic. It was a burden on her, an exhausting and draining burden, always feeling unnatural. However, there was a bit of joy in the total distraction of teaching, with so much to do, so many kids to take care of, and so much to accomplish, that she forgot about herself. When the work became second nature to her and her personal self was set aside, growing in other ways, she could feel 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.
Her true self came together and became more complete during these two years of teaching, while facing the challenges of classroom life. School always felt like a prison to her. But it was a prison where her wild, chaotic spirit became strong and independent. When she was well and not tired, she didn't hate teaching. She loved getting into the groove of work in the morning, putting in all her effort, making everything run smoothly. It was a demanding kind of exercise for her. And her spirit had time to recharge, allowing her to gather strength. But the teaching hours were too long, the workload too heavy, and the strict environment of the school too unnatural for her. She felt worn thin and trembling.
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.
She arrived at school in the morning, noticing the hawthorn flowers glistening, the small, pink buds floating in a bowl of dew. The larks sang their cheerful songs into the bright new sunshine, and the countryside felt so joyful. It felt wrong to dive into the dust and dullness of the city.
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.
She stood in front of her class, reluctant to commit herself to teaching, unable to channel her energy, which craved the countryside and the joy of early summer, into managing fifty children and sharing some bits of arithmetic with them. There was a bit of detachment in her. She couldn’t push herself into forgetting. A jar of buttercups and fool’s-parsley on the windowsill kept her mind drifting to the meadows, where the moon-daisies were half-hidden in the thick grass alongside a spray of pink ragged robin. Yet, before her were the faces of fifty children. They almost looked like big daisies in the 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.
A brightness lit up her face, a hint of unreality in her teaching. She couldn’t quite connect with her children. She was caught between two worlds: her own world of youthful summer and flowers, and this other world of work. The shine of her own sunlight came 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”.
Then the morning went by feeling oddly distant and quiet. Dinner time arrived, and she and Maggie happily ate together with all the windows open. Afterwards, they headed to St. Philip’s churchyard, finding a shady spot beneath the red hawthorn trees. There, they chatted and read Shelley or Browning or something related to “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.
And when she went back to school, Ursula still lived in the dark corner of the graveyard, where pink-red petals were scattered from the hawthorn tree, like countless tiny shells on a beach, and sometimes the church bell rang loudly, and sometimes a bird chirped, while Maggie’s voice continued to be soft 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:
These days, she felt happy in her soul: oh, she was so happy that she wished she could take her joy and share it everywhere. She made her children happy too, with a little spark of delight. But to her, the children weren’t just a class this afternoon. They were flowers, birds, little bright animals—just kids. They were definitely not Standard Five. She felt no obligation to them. For once, teaching was a game. And if they got their math wrong, so what? She would pick something nice to read. Instead of history with dates, she would tell a wonderful story. And for grammar, they could do a simple written analysis that wouldn’t be hard 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'll be playful like a fawn
That joyfully bounds across the lawn
Or leaps up the mountain."
She wrote that from memory, because it pleased her.
She wrote that from memory because it made her happy.
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.
So the golden afternoon faded away and she went home happy. She had wrapped up her day at school and was free to dive into the vibrant evening of Cossethay. She loved walking home. But it hadn’t really been school. It had been playing at school under the red hawthorn blossoms.
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.
She couldn’t keep going like this. The quarterly exam was approaching, and her class wasn’t ready. It frustrated her that she had to pull herself away from her happy self and push this unmotivated group of kids to work hard at math. They didn’t want to work, and she didn’t want to force them. Yet, some nagging feeling in her conscience told her the job wasn’t getting done right. It drove her almost to madness, and she unleashed all her frustration in the classroom. Afterward, she had a day filled with conflict, anger, and negativity, and when she got home, she felt drained, as if the beautiful evening had been stolen from her, trapped in a dark, heavy place, burdened by the awareness that she had failed at her job.
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.
What was the point of summer, of the corncrakes calling until evening and the larks rising into the light to sing one last time before night? What did it all matter when she felt so out of sync, just remembering the weight 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!
And yet, she still hated school. She cried, and she didn’t believe in it. Why should the kids learn, and why should she teach them? It all felt pointless. What madness turned life into this, the completion of some ridiculous, artificial obligation? It was all so made up, so unnatural. The school, the math, the grammar, the quarterly exams, the attendance records—it was all just a meaningless void!
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?
Why should she commit to this world and let it overwhelm her, turning her own vibrant life full of warmth and growth into nothing? She wasn't going to do that. She wasn't going to be trapped in the harsh, oppressive man-world. She wasn't going to care about it. What did it matter if her class performed poorly on the quarterly exam? Let it—what did it even 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.
Nevertheless, when the time came and the report on her class was negative, she was devastated, and the joy of summer was taken from her; she was consumed by sadness. She couldn't truly escape from this world of structure and work to the fields where she found happiness. She needed to have her place in the working world, to be a recognized member with full rights there. It mattered more to her than fields, sunshine, and poetry at that moment. But this only made her more resentful of it.
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.
It was really hard, she thought, during the long hours of break in the summer, to be herself—her happy self who loved lying in the sun, playing, swimming, and just being content—while also being a school teacher trying to get results from a class of kids. She nostalgically dreamed of the day when she wouldn’t have to be a teacher anymore. But deep down, she understood that responsibility had become a permanent part of her life, and for now, her main job 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.
Autumn came to an end, and winter was approaching. Ursula increasingly became part of the working world and what we call life. She couldn't see far ahead in her future, but college was just around the corner, and she held onto that thought tightly. She was going to college and would receive two or three years of training without having to pay. She had already applied and secured her spot for the upcoming 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.
So she kept studying for her degree. She took French, Latin, English, math, and botany. She attended classes in Ilkeston and studied in the evenings. There was a whole world to conquer, knowledge to gain, and a qualification to achieve. She worked hard, fueled by a deep desire inside her. Almost everything else became secondary to this one goal of finding her place in the world. She didn’t question what kind of place it would be. That blind desire pushed her forward. She had to claim her spot.
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.
She knew she would never be very successful as an elementary school teacher. But she hadn’t failed either. She hated it, but she had gotten through 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.
Maggie had left St. Philip’s School and found a more suitable job. The two girls stayed friends. They met in evening classes, studied together, and somehow inspired each other with a strong sense of hope. They didn’t know where they were headed or what they ultimately wanted. But they knew they wanted to learn, to understand, and to take action now.
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.
They discussed love and marriage, as well as the role of women in marriage. Maggie said that love was the flower of life, blooming unexpectedly and without rules, and should be picked where it’s found, enjoyed for the short time it lasts.
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?
To Ursula, this was not enough. She thought she still loved Anton Skrebensky. But she couldn't forgive him for not being strong enough to recognize her. He had rejected her. So how could she love him? How could love be so certain? She didn't believe that. She believed love was a journey, a tool, not a destination, like Maggie seemed to think. And the path of love would always be discovered. But where did it lead?
“I believe there are many men in the world one might love—there is not only one man,” said Ursula.
“I think there are plenty of guys in the world that one could love—there isn’t just one guy,” said Ursula.
She was thinking of Skrebensky. Her heart was hollow with the knowledge of Winifred Inger.
She was thinking about Skrebensky. Her heart felt empty knowing about 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.”
“But you need to differentiate between love and passion,” Maggie said, adding with a hint of disdain, “Men can easily feel passionate about you, but they won't truly 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.”
“Yes,” Ursula said fiercely, with a look of pain, almost like fanaticism, on her face. “Passion is just one part of love. And it feels so intense because it’s temporary. That’s why passion never brings happiness.”
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.
She was committed to joy, happiness, and stability, unlike Maggie, who represented sadness and the unavoidable passage of time. Ursula endured life's struggles deeply, while Maggie was always alone and reserved, living in a heavy, brooding sadness that was almost a part of her. During Ursula's last winter at St. Philip’s, the friendship between the two girls reached a peak. It was that winter when Ursula intensely felt and appreciated Maggie’s inherent sadness of being trapped. Maggie, in turn, experienced both joy and pain from Ursula’s attempts to break free from the limitations of her own life. Then, the two girls started to drift apart as Ursula moved away from the kind of life that confined Maggie.
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.
Maggie’s family, the Schofields, lived in the big gardener’s cottage that was part farm, behind Belcote Hall. The hall was too damp to live in, so the Schofields took on roles as caretakers, gamekeepers, and farmers all at once. The father was the gamekeeper and livestock breeder, the eldest son worked as a market gardener, using the large gardens of the hall, and the second son was both a farmer and gardener. They had a large family, just like 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.
Ursula enjoyed staying at Belcote, where Maggie’s brothers treated her like a VIP. They were attractive guys. The oldest was twenty-six. He was the gardener, not very tall but strong and well-built, with warm brown eyes and a nicely shaped brown face, sporting a long light mustache that he tugged as he spoke 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.
The girl was thrilled because these men paid attention to her when she approached. She could make their eyes light up and flutter; she could make Anthony, the oldest, twist and twist his mustache. She realized she could influence them almost effortlessly with her light laughter and conversation. They enjoyed her ideas and watched her intently as she spoke passionately about politics or economics. And while she talked, she noticed the golden-brown eyes of Anthony shining like a satyr's as he observed her. He wasn’t focused on her words; he was focused on her. It thrilled 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.
He was like a happy faun whenever she joined him to explore his greenhouses, admiring the vibrant and lovely plants, the pink primulas swaying among their leaves, and the cinerarias showing off their purple, crimson, and white colors. She asked about everything, and he explained it all in a detailed and slightly pedantic way that made her want to laugh. Yet she was genuinely interested in what he was doing. He had a unique spark in his eyes, similar to the light in the eyes of the goat tied up 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 went down with him into the slightly warm cellar, where already in the darkness the little yellow buds of rhubarb were starting to grow. He held the lantern down to the dark earth. She saw the tiny bud of the rhubarb pushing up through the thick red stem, rising like a flame through the soft soil. His face was upturned to her, the light sparkling in his eyes and on his teeth as he laughed, with a faint, musical neigh. He looked handsome. And she heard a new sound in her ears, the softly musical, neighing laugh of Anthony, whose mustache curled up, and whose eyes shone with a cold, steady, arrogant-laughing glare. There was a little bounce of triumph in his movement, and she couldn’t shake off a feeling of agreement, a hint of acceptance. Yet he was so humble, his voice was so soothing. He extended his hand for her to step on when she needed to climb over a wall. And she stepped on the living, solid weight of him, which quivered firmly under her.
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.
She was aware of him as if she were in a trance. In her normal life, she had nothing to do with him. But the strange ease and subtlety of his entering the house, and the way his cold, shining gaze connected with hers, felt almost magical. In his eyes, similar to the pale gray eyes of a goat, there was a steady, intense glow of moonlight that had nothing to do with daylight. It made her alert, yet her thoughts faded away like something extinguished. She was fully aware, every one of her senses on high alert.
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.
Then she saw him on Sunday, dressed in his Sunday best, trying to impress her. And he looked ridiculous. She couldn't help but focus on how silly he looked in his stiff, formal 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.
She was always aware of some disloyalty to Maggie because of Anthony. Poor Maggie seemed distant, as if she felt betrayed. Maggie and Anthony were naturally antagonistic. Ursula had to return to her friend filled with love and a deep sense of pity. Maggie accepted this with a bit of formality. Then poetry, books, and knowledge replaced Anthony, with his goat-like movements and his cold, shiny humor.
While Ursula was at Belcote, the snow fell. In the morning, a covering of snow weighed on the rhododendron bushes.
While Ursula was at Belcote, it snowed. In the morning, a blanket of snow rested on the rhododendron bushes.
“Shall we go out?” said Maggie.
“Should we go out?” Maggie asked.
She had lost some of her leader’s sureness, and was now tentative, a little in reserve from her friend.
She had lost some of her leader's confidence and was now hesitant, holding back a bit 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.
They took the gate key and strolled into the park. It was a white world where dark trees and clusters of trees stood beneath a frost-bitten sky. The two girls walked past the hall, which was closed and quiet, their footprints leaving marks in the snow on the driveway. Far down the park, a man was hauling bundles of hay across the snow. He was a small, dark figure, almost like an animal moving without realizing its surroundings.
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.
Ursula and Maggie continued exploring, walking down to a tinkling, chilly stream that had carved out little scoops in the snow, running dark between them. They spotted a robin flash its bright eyes and pop out its scarlet and gray feathers into the hedge, then a few cheekily patterned blue tits scuffled around. Meanwhile, the brook flowed 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.
The girls walked across the snowy grass to the artificial fish ponds covered with thin ice. There was a large tree with a thick trunk twisted with ivy, leaning almost horizontally over the ponds. Ursula climbed happily into it and sat among clusters of bright ivy and dull berries. Some ivy leaves looked like green spears reaching out, capped with snow. The ice was visible 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.
Maggie pulled out a book and settled lower on the trunk to read Coleridge’s “Christabel.” Ursula paid half attention. She was incredibly excited. Then she spotted Anthony walking through the snow with his confident, slightly swaggering stride. His face stood out, looking brown and tough against the white snow, grinning with a kind of intense confidence.
“Hello!” she called to him.
"Hey!" she called to him.
A response went over his face, his head was lifted in an answering, jerking gesture.
A reaction flashed across his face, and he lifted his head in a quick, responding motion.
“Hello!” he said. “You’re like a bird in there.”
“Hey!” 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.
And Ursula's laugh echoed. She responded to the strange, thin tone in his intense 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.
She didn't think about Anthony, but she was still somehow connected to him, existing in his world. One evening, as she was walking down the lane, she ran into him, and they walked together side by side.
“I think it’s so lovely here,” she cried.
“I think it’s so great here,” she exclaimed.
“Do you?” he said. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Do you?” he said. “I’m happy you like it.”
There was a curious confidence in his voice.
There was an intriguing 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.”
“Oh, I love it. What more could anyone want than to live in this beautiful place and grow things in your garden? It’s 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.
“Is it?” he said with a slight laugh. “Yeah—well, it’s not so bad——” he hesitated. The faint light was strong in his eyes as he looked at her intently, observing her like an animal would. Something stirred in her soul. She realized he was about to suggest that she should be like him.
“Would you like to stay here with me?” he asked, tentatively.
“Do you want to stay here with me?” he asked, hesitantly.
She blenched with fear and with the intense sensation of proffered licence suggested to her.
She paled with fear and the strong feeling of the offered freedom that was suggested to her.
They had come to the gate.
They had arrived at the gate.
“How?” she asked. “You aren’t alone here.”
“How?” she asked. “You’re not 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.
“We could get married,” he replied, in a weird, icy tone that turned the sunlight into something as cold as moonlight. Everything substantial felt changed. Shadows and flickering moonlight felt real, while everything else was cold, lifeless, and gleaming. She felt a kind of fear as she understood that she was going to say yes. She was going to inevitably accept him. His hand reached out toward the gate in front of them. She stayed still. His skin was tough and brown and unyielding. She felt as if she were caught in some kind of offense.
“I couldn’t,” she answered, involuntarily.
“I couldn't,” she replied, 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.
He let out the same short, neighing laugh, now full of sadness and bitterness, and slid the bar of the gate back into place. Yet he didn't open it. For a moment, they both stood there, staring at the sunset's fire flickering among the purple branches of the trees. She saw his brown, rugged, well-defined face shining with anger, humiliation, and submission. He was like an animal that knows it's been defeated. Her heart was ablaze with feelings for him, drawn to the intriguing possibilities he presented, but also filled with sorrow and an unbearable sense of loneliness. Her soul felt like a child crying in the night. He had no soul. Oh, why did she have one? He was the one who was pure.
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.
She turned away from him and looked at the eastern sky, which was strangely tinged with pink. The moon appeared yellow and beautiful against the rosy backdrop, above the darkening, bluish snow. Everything was so beautiful, so lovely! He didn’t notice it. He was part of it. But she noticed it and felt connected to it. Her awareness created an infinite distance between them.
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.
They walked in silence down the path, each following their own destiny. The trees grew darker and darker, and the snow cast a dim glow in a surreal world. The day faded away into a softly glowing, snowy evening as she talked aimlessly to him, trying to keep him at a distance while keeping him close. He walked with a heavy step. He quietly opened the garden gate for her, and she stepped into her own space, 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:
Then even while she was escaping, or trying to escape, this feeling of pain came to Maggie the next day, saying:
“I wouldn’t make Anthony love you, Ursula, if you don’t want him. It is not nice.”
“I wouldn’t force Anthony to love you, Ursula, if you don’t really want him. That’s not right.”
“But, Maggie, I never made him love me,” cried Ursula, dismayed and suffering, and feeling as if she had done something base.
“But, Maggie, I never made him love me,” cried Ursula, upset and in pain, feeling as if she had done something shameful.
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 liked Anthony, though. Throughout her life, she occasionally found herself thinking about him and what he offered. But she was a traveler, she was a traveler on this earth, while he was a solitary being, immersed in his own experiences.
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 couldn't help it; she was a traveler. She knew Anthony was not one. But oh, in the end, she had to keep moving forward, pursuing the goal that she knew was getting closer.
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.
She was nearing the end of her second and final term at St. Philip’s. As the months passed, she marked them off: first October, then November, December, January. She made sure to always subtract a month for the summer break. She imagined herself traveling along a circle, with only a segment left to complete. Soon, she would be free, like a bird thrown into the sky, a bird that had learned to fly to some extent.
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.
There was college ahead; that was her moment in the air, uncertain and full of possibilities. Once college started, she would have escaped all the boundaries of the life she had known. Her father was also going to move. They were all leaving 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.
Brangwen remained indifferent to his situation. He realized that his lace designing job didn't hold much personal significance for him; he simply earned his paycheck from it. He was unsure about what truly mattered to him. Living near Anna Brangwen, his mind was constantly filled with physical warmth, and he moved from one instinct to another, always reaching out, forever searching.
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.
When someone suggested that he apply for one of the positions as a hands-on instructor, jobs that the Nottingham Education Committee was about to create, it felt like he had been given a chance to break free from his stuffy, cramped surroundings. He submitted his application with confidence and hope. He had a sense of belief in his destined path. The relentless exhaustion of his daily grind had tensed some of his muscles and caused a slight dullness in his once-vibrant face. Now he might have the chance to 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.
He was filled with new possibilities, and his wife was compliant. She was now open to change. She was also tired of Cossethay. The house was too small for their growing kids. And since she was nearly forty, she began to wake up from her motherhood routine; her energy was starting to flow outward. The noise of their lively household pulled her from her indifference. She also wanted to play an active role in shaping their lives. She was completely ready to move, taking all her kids with her. It would be better now if she relocated them. After all, she had just had her last child, who would be growing up now.
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.
So, in her casual, unfamiliar way, she discussed plans and arrangements with her husband, not really caring how the change happened, since a change was on the way; even if it didn't happen this way, it would happen another way.
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.
The house was buzzing with excitement. Ursula was thrilled. Finally, her dad was going to have some social status. For so long, he had been a nobody, without any real recognition. Now, he was going to be the Art and Handwork Instructor for Nottingham County. That was a big deal. It was a legitimate position. He would be a specialist in his own right. And he was a remarkable man. Ursula felt they were finally making progress. He was coming into his own. Who else she knew could create such beautiful things with his own hands like her dad could? She felt confident that he would succeed in 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.
They would move. They would leave this cottage in Cossethay, which had become too small for them; they would leave Cossethay, where all the children had been born and where they were always measured against the same standards. The people who had known them as kids, alongside the other village boys and girls, could never understand why they should grow up any differently. They had accepted "Urtler Brangwen" as one of their own and had given her a place in her hometown, as if in a family. The connection was strong. But now, as she was becoming something beyond what Cossethay could accommodate or understand, the bond with her old friends was starting to feel like a constraint.
“’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.
“Hey, Urs’ler, how’s it going?” they said when they met her. And in the old tone, they expected the old reply. Something inside her felt the need to connect with people who knew her. But another part of her fiercely resisted. What was true for her ten years ago wasn’t true anymore. And this other side of her, which she was and had to be, they couldn’t see or accept. Still, they felt it was there, something beyond them, and they were hurt. They claimed she was proud and full of herself, that she was too big for her boots nowadays. They said she didn’t need to pretend because they knew who she really was. They had known her since she was born. They brought up all sorts of things about her. And she felt ashamed because she did feel different from the people she had lived with. It hurt her that she couldn’t feel comfortable around them anymore. And yet—and yet—when you let it go, your kite will soar as high as the string allows. It pulls and tugs and wants to fly, and you feel happy the further it climbs, even if everyone else is negative about it. So Cossethay held her back, and she wanted to leave, to be free to fly her kite as high as she wanted. She wanted to leave, to be free to stand tall at 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.
So when she found out that her dad got the new job and the family would be moving, she felt like skipping across the earth and singing songs of joy. The old, confining life in Cossethay was about to be left behind, and she was ready to dance into the open sky. 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.
She envisioned a new place to live, surrounded by refined, cultured people who felt deeply and would be her friends. She imagined herself among the noble in the land, experiencing a sense of freedom and connection. She dreamed of having a rich, confident, and genuine girlfriend who had never encountered Mr. Harby or anyone like him, and who didn’t carry the burden of contempt and fear in her voice, like Maggie did.
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.
And she opened her heart to everything she loved in Cossethay, intensely, because she was leaving now. She wandered to her favorite places. There was a spot she used to sneak into to find the snowdrops that grew wild. It was evening, and the winter-dark meadows were full of mystery. When she reached the woods, she saw that an oak tree had just been cut down in the hollow. Pale drops of flowers shimmered among the hazels, and amidst the sharp, golden wood splinters scattered around, the grey-green snowdrop leaves poked through carelessly, while the drooping little flowers remained unnoticed.
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.
Ursula picked some with great care, feeling ecstatic. The golden wood chips glowed yellow like sunlight, and the snowdrops in the dim light resembled the first stars of night. And there she was, alone among them, incredibly happy to have arrived in such a shimmering twilight, surrounded by the tiny flowers and the splash of wood chips that looked like sunshine over the dim ground. She sat down on the fallen tree and stayed there for a while, feeling distant.
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.
Going home, she left the dark purple shadows of the trees for the open path, where the puddles glimmered like jewels in the ruts. The land around her was dark, and the sky above was like a precious stone. Oh, how incredible it was to her! It felt almost overwhelming. She wanted to run, sing, and shout with wild abandon and deep emotion, but she couldn’t express the profound feelings in her heart, so she remained still, feeling almost sad and alone.
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.
At Easter, she visited Maggie’s house again for a few days. However, she felt shy and distant. She watched Anthony, noticing how inviting he looked and how his eyes had a kind of pleading light that was quite beautiful. She glanced at him, then looked again, trying to make him feel real to her. But her mind was elsewhere. She felt like she had another self.
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.
And she turned to spring and the budding flowers. There was a big pear tree by a wall, and it was filled with countless tiny, gray-green buds. She stood in front of it, captivated with joy, and a deep realization settled in her heart. There was such a large crowd waiting behind the cloud of pale, muted green, so much ready to emerge—so much sunshine about to shine 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.
So the weeks went by, dreamlike and full of potential. The pear tree at Cossethay bloomed at the end of the cottage, bursting into flowers like a wave crashing into foam. Gradually, the bluebells appeared, as blue as shallow water in the flat areas beneath the trees and bushes, spreading more and more until there was a sea of blue, vibrant pale-green leaves, and tiny birds with bright little songs and swift movements. Then, just as quickly, that sea disappeared, and summer arrived.
There was to be no going to the seaside for a holiday. The holiday was the removal from Cossethay.
There would be no trip to the beach for a vacation. The vacation was the move away 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.
They were going to live near Willey Green, which was the most central location for Brangwen. It was an old, quiet village on the edge of the busy mining area. Its charming old cottages with sunny gardens served as a kind of retreat from the sprawling mining town of Beldover, a nice place for the miners to take a walk on Sunday mornings before the pubs 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.
In Willey Green stood the Grammar School where Brangwen spent two days a week, participating in educational experiments.
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.
Ursula wanted to live in Willey Green on the quieter side, closer to Southwell and Sherwood Forest. It was so beautiful and romantic there. But stepping out into the world meant stepping out into the world. Will Brangwen had to 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.
He bought, with his wife’s money, a pretty big house in the new, red-brick section of Beldover. It was a villa built by the widow of the former colliery manager, and it was located in a quiet, new 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.
Ursula felt pretty down. Instead of achieving success, they ended up in a new red-brick suburb in a dirty, 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.
Mrs. Brangwen was happy. The rooms were impressively large—a great dining room, living room, and kitchen, along with a really nice study downstairs. Everything was beautifully decorated. The widow had moved in extravagantly. She was originally from Beldover and planned to live like royalty. Her bathroom was white and silver, her stairs were made of oak, and her fireplace mantels were large and wooden, with thick, column-like 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?
“Good and substantial,” was the main point. But Ursula resented the thick, excessive prosperity suggested all around. She made her father promise to carve down the bulky oak mantelpieces, making them flat. That kind of excessive importance was very unappealing to her. Her father was himself tall and loosely built. What did he have 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.
They also bought a decent amount of the widow’s furniture. It was really stylish—the big Wilton carpet, the large round table, the Chesterfield sofa covered in shiny chintz with roses and birds. Everything was bright and pleasant, with large windows and a view that stretched 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.
After all, they would be, as one of their friends said, among the elite of Beldover. They would represent culture. And since there was no one of higher social status than the doctors, the colliery managers, and the chemists, they would stand out with their beautifully crafted Della Robbia Madonna, their stunning reliefs from Donatello, and their reproductions of Botticelli. Furthermore, the large photographs of the Primavera, Aphrodite, and the Nativity in the dining room and the typical reception room would leave the people of Beldover speechless.
And after all, it is better to be princess in Beldover than a vulgar nobody in the country.
And after all, it’s better to be a princess in Beldover than a 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.
There was a lot of preparation for the moving of the entire Brangwen family, a total of ten people. The house in Beldover was ready, and the house in Cossethay was taken apart. Once the school term ended, the move would start.
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.
Ursula left school at the end of July when summer break started. The morning outside was bright and sunny, and the sense of freedom filled the schoolroom on this final day. It felt like the walls of the school were about to melt away. They already seemed shadowy and unreal. It was the last day of school. Soon, students and teachers would be outside, each heading their own way. The chains were off, the school term was done, and the building felt like a fleeting shadow around them. The kids were taking home books and inkwells, rolling up maps. Their faces shone with joy and good spirits. There was a flurry of cleaning up and clearing away all evidence of this last term of confinement. They were all breaking free. Eagerly, Ursula busily added up the attendance in the register. With pride, she recorded the thousands: she had taught so many thousands of children during another session. It looked amazing. The excited hours flowed slowly in anticipation. Then finally, it was over. For the last time, she stood before her students as 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.”
“Goodbye, kids,” she said. “I won’t forget you, and you’d better not forget me.”
“No, miss,” cried the children in chorus, with shining faces.
“No, miss,” shouted the children together, their faces beaming.
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, inkwells 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.
She stood there smiling at them, feeling emotional, as they left one by one. Then she handed out their sixpences, and they left too. Cupboards were locked, blackboards cleaned, inkwells and dusters taken away. The place felt empty and abandoned. She had conquered it. It was just a shell now. She had fought hard here, and it hadn’t been entirely unenjoyable. She felt some gratitude even for this tough, empty place, which stood like a memorial or a trophy. So much of her life had been fought for, won, and lost here. A part of this school would always be hers, and a part of her would always be connected to it. She recognized that. And now came the time to say goodbye.
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.
In the teachers' lounge, the teachers were chatting and hanging out, excitedly discussing their plans: heading to the Isle of Man, Llandudno, Yarmouth. They were enthusiastic and close, like friends 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.
Then it was Mr. Harby’s turn to give a speech to Ursula. He looked handsome, with his silver-gray hair at the temples and dark brows, and his calm male confidence.
“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.”
“Well,” he said, “we need to say goodbye to Miss Brangwen and wish her all the best for the future. I guess we’ll see her again sometime and find out how she’s doing.”
“Oh, yes,” said Ursula, stammering, blushing, laughing. “Oh, yes, I shall come and see you.”
“Oh, yes,” Ursula said, stumbling over her words, blushing, and laughing. “Oh, yes, I’ll come visit you.”
Then she realized that this sounded too personal, and she felt foolish.
Then she realized that this sounded way too personal, and she felt embarrassed.
“Miss Schofield suggested these two books,” he said, putting a couple of volumes on the table: “I hope you will like them.”
“Miss Schofield suggested these two books,” he said, placing a couple of volumes on the table. “I hope you enjoy them.”
Ursula feeling very shy picked up the books. There was a volume of Swinburne’s poetry, and a volume of Meredith’s.
Ursula, feeling really shy, picked up the books. There was a collection of Swinburne’s poetry and a collection of Meredith’s.
“Oh, I shall love them,” she said. “Thank you very much—thank you all so much—it is so——”
“Oh, I will love them,” she said. “Thank you so much—thank you all so much—it’s 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.
She stumbled over her words, and feeling very embarrassed, eagerly flipped through the pages of the books, pretending to enjoy them, but actually not seeing anything at all.
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.
Mr. Harby’s eyes were sparkling. He was the only one relaxed, in control of the situation. It made him happy to give Ursula a gift and, for once, spread some goodwill to his teachers. Usually, it was quite hard; each one was so tense with resentment under his leadership.
“Yes,” he said, “we hoped you would like the choice——”
“Yes,” he said, “we were hoping you would like the choice——”
He looked with his peculiar, challenging smile for a moment, then returned to his cupboards.
He gave a unique, challenging smile for a moment, then went back 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.
Ursula felt really confused. She hugged her books, cherishing them. And she realized she loved all the teachers and Mr. Harby. It was all 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.
At last she was out. She took a quick look at the school buildings sitting on the asphalt yard in the hot, shining sun, one last glance down the familiar road, and turned her back on it all. Something felt tight in her heart. She was leaving.
“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.”
“Well, good luck,” said the last of the teachers as she shook hands at the end of the road. “We’ll expect you back someday.”
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!
He spoke sarcastically. She laughed and pulled away. She felt free. As she sat on top of the tram in the sunlight, she looked around her with incredible joy. She had left behind something that had meant a lot to her. She wouldn't be going to school anymore or doing the usual things. Strange! There was a slight twinge of fear mixed in with her excitement, but not regret. Yet how joyful she felt 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.
She was shaking with pride and joy. She loved the two books. They were symbols to her, representing the rewards and achievements of her two years, which, thank God, were finally 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.
“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, precise handwriting. She could visualize the careful hand gripping the pen, the thick fingers with patches 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.
He had signed, all the teachers had signed. She liked having all their signatures. She felt that she loved them all. They were her coworkers. She left the school with a pride she would never lose. She had her place as a colleague and contributor to the work of the school, her fellow teachers had acknowledged her as one of them. And she was one of all the workers; she had contributed her small part to the structure humanity was building, she had established herself as a 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.
Then the day for the move arrived. Ursula got up early to pack up the last of the belongings. The carts showed up, borrowed from her uncle at the Marsh, in the quiet time between the hay and corn harvest. With the items secured in the cart, Ursula hopped on her bicycle and took off 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.
The house belonged to her. She stepped into its spotless silence. The dining room was covered with thick rush matting, firm and the beautiful, bright, clean color of sun-dried reeds. The walls were a light grey, and the doors were a darker grey. Ursula admired it a lot as the sun poured through the large windows.
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.
She threw open the doors and windows to let in the sunlight. Flowers were bright and vibrant around the small lawn, which overlooked the road and the empty field across from it that would eventually be developed. No one appeared. So she strolled down the garden behind the wall. The church bells rang eight times to mark the hour. She could hear the various sounds of the town around 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.
At last, the cart came around the corner, with familiar furniture piled awkwardly on top. Tom, her brother, and Theresa walked alongside the load, proud of having walked ten miles or more from the tram station. Ursula poured out beer, and the men drank eagerly by the door. A second cart was approaching. Her dad showed up on his motorcycle. There was the chaotic transport of furniture up the steps to the small lawn, where it was dumped haphazardly in the sunlight, looking very odd and unsettling.
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.
Brangwen was a nice guy to work with, cheerful and easygoing. Ursula loved directing him on where the heavy items should go. She anxiously watched the effort it took to get them up the steps and through the doorways. Once the big items were inside, the carts drove off again. Ursula and her father continued carrying in all the lighter things left on the lawn and putting them in their spots. Dinner time arrived. They had bread and cheese in the kitchen.
“Well, we’re getting on,” said Brangwen, cheerfully.
"Well, we're making progress," 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.
Two more loads arrived. The afternoon went by in a struggle with the furniture upstairs. Around five o’clock, the final loads showed up, which also included Mrs. Brangwen and the younger kids, driven by Uncle Fred in the cart. Gudrun had walked back with Margaret from the station. The whole family was there.
“There!” said Brangwen, as his wife got down from the cart: “Now we’re all here.”
“There!” said Brangwen as his wife got off the cart. “Now we’re all here.”
“Ay,” said his wife pleasantly.
"Yeah," 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.
And the simple closeness, the quietness of their bond, settled in the hearts of the children, who gathered around feeling uneasy 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.
Everything was chaotic. But a fire was lit in the kitchen, the hearth rug was laid down, the kettle was placed on the hob, and Mrs. Brangwen started to prepare the first meal as the sun began to set. Ursula and Gudrun were busy in the bedrooms, candles were being moved around. Then the smell of ham, eggs, and coffee wafted in from the kitchen, and under the gaslight, the meal began to come together. The family seemed to huddle together like a small camp in an unfamiliar place. Ursula felt the weight of responsibility on her shoulders, looking after the little ones. The youngest stayed close to their 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.
It was dark, and the kids went to bed feeling sleepy but excited. It took a while before the voices quieted down. There was a huge sense of adventure.
In the morning everybody was awake soon after dawn, the children crying:
In the morning, everyone was up shortly after dawn, the kids crying:
“When I wakened up I didn’t know where I was.”
“When I woke up, I had no idea 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.
There were the unusual sounds of the town and the constant ringing of the big church bells, which were so much louder and more demanding 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 all felt a wonderful sense of openness and freedom, with plenty of space, light, and fresh 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.
But gradually everyone started working. They were a careless, messy family. Yet once they decided to tidy up the house, things went smoothly and quickly. By evening the place was somewhat organized.
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.
They wouldn't have a live-in servant, just a woman who could go home at night. And they didn't even have that woman yet. They wanted to do whatever they wanted in their own home, without a stranger around.
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.
A storm of industry raged on in the house. Ursula didn't go to college until October. So, with a strong sense of responsibility, as if she had to make her mark in this house, she worked hard arranging, rearranging, selecting, and creating.
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.
She was able to use her father's basic tools for both woodworking and metalworking, so she hammered and fiddled around. Her mother was happy to see the task completed. Brangwen was intrigued. He had a strong belief in his daughter. He was busy building 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.
At last, she had finished for now. The living room was spacious and bare. It had the nice Wilton carpet that the family was so proud of, along with the large couch and big chairs covered in shiny chintz, and the piano, a small plaster sculpture that Brangwen had made, and not much else. It was too big and felt too empty for the family to spend much time in. Still, they liked knowing it was there, big and empty.
The home was the dining-room. There the hard rush floor-covering made the ground light, reflecting light upon the bottom of 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.
The home was the dining room. The hard rush floor covering brightened the space, reflecting light into their hearts; in the window nook was a wide, sunny seat, the table was so sturdy it wouldn’t budge, and the chairs were so well-built you could tip them over without any damage. The familiar organ that Brangwen had crafted stood to one side, looking oddly small, and the sideboard was comfortably sized. 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.
Ursula had her own bedroom. It was actually a small and simple servants’ room. The window overlooked the back garden and other back gardens, some of which were old and very nice, while others were cluttered with packing boxes. She could see the backs of the houses, which had shops on High Street or were the respectable 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.
She had six weeks left before starting college. During this time, she nervously reviewed some Latin and botany, and occasionally tackled some math. She was going to college to train as a teacher. However, since she had already passed her matriculation exam, she was enrolled in a university course. After a year, she would take the Intermediate Arts exam, and then two years later, she would pursue her B.A. So, her situation wasn't like that of a typical schoolteacher. She would be working with private students who were there for a genuine education, not just for basic professional training. She would be among the select few.
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.
For the next three years, she would be pretty much dependent on her parents again. Her training was free. The government covered all her college expenses, and she also received a small grant every year. That money would just cover her train fares and clothes. Her parents would only need to provide her meals. She didn’t want to be a financial burden to them. They weren't well-off. Her father earned only two hundred a year, and a significant portion of her mother’s savings went into buying the house. Still, there was enough to get by.
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.
Gudrun was studying at the Art School in Nottingham. She focused mainly on sculpture, as she had a natural talent for it. She enjoyed creating small clay models of children and animals. Some of her work had already been displayed in the Students’ Exhibition at the Castle, making Gudrun quite notable. She felt restless at the Art School and wanted to move to London. However, there wasn't enough money, and her parents wouldn't allow her to go that 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.
Theresa had left high school. She was a strong, bold girl, indifferent to any higher expectations. She would stay home. The others were at school, except for the youngest. When the 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.
Ursula was thrilled to meet people in Beldover. That excitement faded quickly. She had tea with the clergyman, the chemist, the other chemist, the doctor, and the under-manager—soon she knew almost everyone. However, she couldn't take them too seriously, even though she wanted to at the time.
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.
She roamed the countryside, both on foot and on her bike, discovering how beautiful it was in the forest area between Mansfield, Southwell, and Worksop. But she was just here for fun. Her true exploration would start in college.
Term began. She went into town each day by train. The cloistered quiet of the college began to close around her.
Term started. She took the train into town every day. The secluded stillness of the college began to envelop 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 wasn't initially disappointed. The large stone college, sitting on the quiet street with a border of grass and lime trees, felt so peaceful; it seemed distant, like a magical place. She knew from her father that its architecture was silly. Still, it stood out from all the other buildings. Its somewhat charming, whimsical Gothic style was almost a trend in the gritty 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 mediæval 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.
She liked the hall, with its large stone fireplace and Gothic arches supporting the balcony above. Sure, the arches were unattractive, and the fireplace, made of flimsy-looking carved stone with its coat of arms decoration, seemed silly right across from the bike rack and the radiator, while the big notice board with its flapping papers seemed to wipe away any sense of retreat and mystery from the far wall. Still, as unappealing as it might be, there was a hint of the amazing, cloistered origin of education in it. Her mind shot back to medieval times when God’s monks held the knowledge of men and shared it under the shadow of faith. With 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.
The roughness and coarseness of the lobbies and coat checks bothered her at first. Why wasn't everything beautiful? But she couldn't openly express her criticism. She was in a sacred place.
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.
She wanted all the students to have a high, pure spirit; she wanted them to speak only the true, genuine things; she wanted their faces to be calm and radiant like the faces of the nuns and monks.
Alas, the girls chattered and giggled and were nervous, they were dressed up and frizzed, the men looked mean and clownish.
Unfortunately, the girls chattered and giggled, feeling nervous. They were all dressed up and had frizzy hair, while the men appeared harsh and ridiculous.
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.
Still, it was nice to walk down the hallway with your books in hand, to push through the swinging glass door, and enter the large room where the first lecture would take place. The windows were big and tall, a multitude of brown student desks were set up and ready, and the big blackboard was smooth behind the lectern.
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.
Ursula sat by her window, positioned quite a distance back. Looking down, she saw the lime trees turning yellow and the tradesman’s boy walking silently down the calm, sunny autumn street. There was the world, distant, distant.
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.
Here, inside the grand, whispering seashell, which continually echoed with memories from all the centuries, time slipped away, and the resonance of knowledge filled the endless 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.
She listened and joyfully took notes, almost with ecstasy, never once criticizing what she heard. The lecturer was a spokesperson, a preacher. As he stood, dressed in black, at the podium, some strands of the murmuring confusion of knowledge that filled the entire space seemed to be highlighted and woven together by him, until they formed 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.
At first, she kept herself away from criticism. She wouldn’t think of the professors as everyday men who ate bacon and put on their boots before coming to campus. They were the black-gowned guardians of knowledge, forever serving in a quiet, distant temple. They were the chosen few, and the beginning and the end of the mystery were in their hands.
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.
She felt a curious joy during the lectures. It was a pleasure to hear about the theory of education, with the freedom and enjoyment of diving into knowledge and seeing how it moved, lived, and existed. Racine brought her so much happiness! She wasn’t sure why. But as the dramatic structure unfolded, steady and measured, she felt a thrill of being in touch with reality. In Latin, she was studying Livy and Horace. The chatty, intimate tone of the Latin class fit Horace well. Yet she never really connected with him or even Livy. There was a total absence of seriousness in the gossip-filled classroom. She tried her best to maintain her understanding of the Roman spirit. But gradually, Latin became just gossip and superficiality to her, reduced to matters of manners and verbosity.
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.
Her fear was the math class. The teacher moved so quickly that her heart raced, and she felt like she was pushing herself to the limit. She worked really hard during her study time to try to get a handle on the material.
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.
Then came the lovely, peaceful afternoons in the botany lab. There were few students. How she loved to sit on her high stool in front of the bench, with her pith and her razor and her materials, carefully preparing her slides, making sure her microscope was in focus, then turning with joy to write down her observations, happily drawing in her notebook if the slide turned out well.
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.
She quickly made a college friend, a girl who had lived in Florence, known for her beautiful purple or patterned scarf draped over a simple dark dress. Her name was Dorothy Russell, the daughter of a southern lawyer. Dorothy lived with her single aunt in Nottingham and devoted her free time to the Women’s Social and Political Union. She was quiet and intense, with an ivory complexion and dark hair neatly looped over her ears. Ursula liked her a lot but was also intimidated by her. Dorothy seemed so mature and so hard on herself. Yet she was only twenty-two. Ursula always felt like Dorothy was a person bound by 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.
The two girls had a strong, serious friendship. Dorothy approached everything with the same passion, never holding back. She felt closest to Ursula during botany class. This was because she couldn’t draw. Ursula created beautiful and amazing drawings of the sections under the microscope, and Dorothy always came to watch and learn how to draw them.
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.
So the first year passed in amazing solitude and a lot of learning. Her college life was as tough as a battle, yet as distant 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.
She arrived in Nottingham in the morning with Gudrun. The two sisters stood out wherever they went, slim, strong girls, eager and highly sensitive. Gudrun was the more beautiful of the two, with her sleepy, half-languid femininity that appeared soft, yet was stable and unchanging beneath the surface. She wore comfortable, casual clothes and hats that naturally fell into a relaxed elegance.
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.
Ursula was dressed much more carefully, but she felt self-conscious, constantly admiring someone else and trying to model herself after them, which created a confusing mismatch. When she dressed for practical reasons, she always looked good. In winter, wearing a tweed coat and skirt with a small black fur hat pulled over her eager, warm face, she seemed to glide down the street, shrouded in a sense of anticipation and intense sensitivity.
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.
At the end of the first year, Ursula passed her Intermediate Arts exam, and there was a pause in her enthusiastic efforts. She started to slow down and completely let go. Exhausted and easily agitated from the excitement of preparing for the exam and the rush that got her through the actual experience, she now sank into a shaky passivity, her will feeling all unbound.
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.
The family went to Scarborough for a month. Gudrun and their dad were busy at the craft holiday school there, so Ursula spent a lot of time with the kids. But when she could, she would sneak away by herself.
She stood and looked out over the shining sea. It was very beautiful to her. The tears rose hot in her heart.
She stood and gazed at the sparkling sea. It was incredibly beautiful to her. Tears welled up, burning 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.
Out in the distant space, a deep, unfulfilled longing slowly floated toward her. “There are so many dawns that haven’t yet come.” It felt like all the unrisen dawns from beyond the sea were calling to her, and her entire being was yearning for those 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.
As she sat looking out at the gentle sea, with its beautiful, quick shimmer, a sob built up in her chest until she suddenly bit her lip, and tears started to flow. Yet, in her very sob, she found herself laughing. Why was she crying? She didn't 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.
She looked around nervously, hoping no one would see her like this.
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!
Then came a time when the sea was rough. She watched the water rolling in toward the shore, she saw a big wave rushing in unnoticed, crashing into a rock in a burst of foam, covering everything in a brilliant white beauty, only to pour away again, leaving the rock exposed, black and full of life. Oh, and if, when the wave exploded into whiteness, it could just be 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.
Sometimes she hung around the harbor, watching the sun-tanned sailors, who, in their tight blue jerseys, relaxed on the harbor wall and laughed at her with bold, inviting 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.
There was a small connection between her and them. She wouldn’t talk to them or want to know anything more about them. But as she walked by and they leaned on the sea wall, there was something between her and them, something sharp, enjoyable, and painful. She liked the young one the most, with his light, salty hair cascading over his blue eyes. He was so new and fresh and salty, like he didn’t belong to 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.
From Scarborough, she went to her Uncle Tom's. Winifred had a small baby, born at the end of summer. She had become strange and distant to Ursula. There was an unspoken barrier between the two women. Tom Brangwen was a dedicated father and a very domestic husband. But there was something false about his domesticity; Ursula no longer liked him. Something ugly and blatant in his nature had surfaced now, making everything sentimental. A materialistic skeptic, he managed to come off as full of human emotion, a warm, attentive host, a generous husband, a model citizen. And he was clever enough to earn admiration everywhere and to keep his wife sufficiently convinced. She did not love him. She was content to live in a state of self-deception with him; she worked according to his expectations.
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.
Ursula was relieved to go home. She still had two peaceful years ahead of her. Her future was secure for two years. She went back to college to get ready for her final exam.
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.
But during this year, the excitement around college started to fade. The professors weren’t like priests who understood the deep mysteries of life and knowledge. In reality, they were just middlemen dealing with information they had become so used to that they didn’t even notice it anymore. What was Latin? Just a bunch of dry knowledge. The Latin class was really just a kind of second-hand shop, where you picked up outdated treasures and learned how much they were worth; mostly boring treasures, anyway. She found the Latin curiosities just as tiresome as the Chinese and Japanese artifacts in antique stores. The word “antiques” alone made her feel flat and lifeless.
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 naïveté 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.
The excitement in her studies faded, though she couldn’t pinpoint why. Everything felt fake—fake Gothic arches, fake peace, fake Latin, fake dignity of France, fake innocence of Chaucer. It was like a thrift store, and you just bought the tools for an exam. This was merely a small distraction from the factories in town. Slowly, the realization sank in. This wasn’t a spiritual retreat or a place for genuine learning. It was like a small workshop where you were just getting ready to make money. The college itself was a messy little lab 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.
A harsh and ugly disillusion washed over her again, the same darkness and bitter gloom from which she could never escape, the realization of the permanent layer of ugliness beneath everything. As she arrived at the college in the afternoon, the lawns were covered in daisies, the lime trees were tender, sunlit, and green; and oh, the bright, white sea of daisies was painful to witness.
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.
For her, inside the college, she realized she had to step into the fake workshop. It was really just a fake store, a fake warehouse, focused solely on making money, with no real productivity. It claimed to exist for the noble purpose of knowledge. But that noble purpose of knowledge had turned into a servant 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?
A kind of paralysis settled over her. Automatically, out of habit, she continued with her studies. But it felt nearly impossible. She could barely focus on anything. During the afternoon Anglo-Saxon lecture, she sat staring out of the window, not hearing a single word about Beowulf or anything else. Below, on the street, the sunny gray pavement ran alongside the fence. A woman in a pink dress, with a bright red sunshade, crossed the road, a little white dog darting around her like a splash of light. The woman with the red sunshade moved across the street with a bounce in her step, a small shadow following her. Ursula watched, mesmerized. The woman with the red sunshade and the flickering terrier disappeared—and where to? Where?
In what world of reality was the woman in the pink dress walking? To what warehouse of dead unreality was she herself confined?
In what reality was the woman in the pink dress walking? To what warehouse of dead unreality was she 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.
What was the point of this place, this college? What was the point of learning Anglo-Saxon if it was just to get good grades and boost your job prospects later? She was tired of this endless grind at the heart of the business world. But what else was there? Was life really just this? Everywhere you looked, everything was reduced to the same purpose. Everything existed to create cheap things, weighing down 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.
Suddenly, she switched to French. She was going to major in botany. This was the only subject that truly inspired her. She felt connected to the lives of the plants. She was captivated by the bizarre rules of the plant kingdom. Here, she caught a glimpse of something that operated completely independent of human intentions.
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.
College was empty, inexpensive, a place turned into the most trivial, petty business. Had she not gone to hear the echo of knowledge resonating back to the source of the mystery?—The source of mystery! And unfortunately, the professors in their gowns provided commercial products that could be useful in the exam room; pre-packaged material, not really worth the money it was supposed to bring in; 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.
All the time at college now, except when she was working in her botany lab, where the mystery still sparkled, she felt like she was lowering herself in a sort of fake trade.
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.
Angry and tense, she got through her last term. She would rather be out there making her own living. Even Brinsley Street and Mr. Harby felt real by comparison. Her intense dislike for Ilkeston School was nothing compared to the dull bleakness of college. But she wasn’t going back to Brinsley Street either. She would earn her B.A. and become a teacher at a Grammar School for a while.
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.
The last year of her college experience was creeping by. She could see her exams and her departure coming up. She felt the bitterness of disillusion gritting between her teeth. Would the next step be the same? There was always a bright doorway in front of her; but when she got closer, that bright doorway turned out to be just another entrance into a messy, chaotic, and lifeless space. There was always the peak of the hill shining in the distance; yet, once she reached the top, it revealed just another grim valley full of indistinct, grimy 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!
No worries! Every hilltop was a little different, every valley felt somehow new. Cossethay and her childhood with her dad; the Marsh and the little church school by the Marsh, along with her grandma and her uncles; the High School in Nottingham and Anton Skrebensky; Anton Skrebensky and the dance under the moonlight between the fires; then there was the time she couldn't think of without being overwhelmed, Winifred Inger, and the months leading up to becoming a teacher; then the struggles on Brinsley Street, drifting into a sense of calm, Maggie, and Maggie’s brother, whose presence she could still feel inside her when she thought of him; then college, and Dorothy Russell, who was now in France, followed by the next step 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.
Already it was a story. In every phase, she was so different. Yet she was always Ursula Brangwen. But what did it mean, Ursula Brangwen? She didn’t know who she was. All she felt was full of rejection, of refusal. Always, always she was spitting out the ash and grit of disillusion, of falsity. She could only stiffen in rejection, in rejection. She always seemed negative in her actions.
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.
What she truly was remained dark and hidden; it couldn’t come out. It was like a seed buried in dry ash. The world she lived in felt like a circle illuminated by a lamp. She thought this lit area, brightened by human awareness, was all there was: that everything was revealed forever. Yet, all along, she sensed points of light in the darkness, like the eyes of wild animals, shining, probing, fading away. Her soul had only recognized the outer darkness with a shudder of fear. The circle of light where she lived and moved—in which trains sped by and factories churned out machinery, and where plants and animals thrived under the glow of science and knowledge—suddenly felt like the area beneath an arc lamp, where moths and children played in the safety of bright light, not even realizing there was 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.
But she could see the faint movement just out of reach, the eyes of the wild creature shining from the shadows, observing the foolishness of the campfire and the people sleeping; she felt the odd, silly pride of the camp, which insisted, “Outside our light and order, there’s nothing,” always turning their faces inward towards the fading glow of awareness, which included the sun, the stars, the Creator, and the System of Righteousness, constantly ignoring the vast darkness swirling around them, with half-seen shapes hiding at the edges.
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?”
Yeah, and no one even dared to throw a torch into the darkness. Because if they did, they were mocked to death by the others, who shouted, “Fool, anti-social idiot, why would you disturb us with nonsense? There is no darkness. We move and live and exist in the light, and we have been given the eternal light of knowledge. We understand the deepest essence and roots of knowledge. Fool and idiot, how dare you undermine us with the idea of 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.
Nevertheless, the darkness swirled around, filled with the gray shapes of wild animals, as well as the dark forms of angels, whom the light kept out, just like it kept out the more familiar creatures of the dark. Some, having briefly witnessed the darkness, noticed it filled with the tufts of hyenas and wolves; others, who had abandoned their pride in the light, having died in their own arrogance, recognized the gleam in the eyes of the wolf and the hyena as the flash of angels’ swords, shimmering at the entrance, revealing that the angels in the darkness were powerful and fearsome, not to be ignored, much like the glint of sharp teeth.
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.
It was a little while before Easter, in her last year of college, when Ursula was twenty-two years old, that she heard from Skrebensky again. He had written to her once or twice from South Africa during the early months of his service out there in the war, and since then, he had sent her a postcard occasionally, but with increasing gaps in between. He had become a first lieutenant and had stayed in Africa. She had not heard from him in over 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.
Often, her thoughts drifted back to him. He felt like the bright dawn, yellow and glowing, breaking through a long, gray, dull day. Remembering him was like thinking of those first beautiful hours of morning. And here was the bland, gray emptiness of the later hours. Ah, if he had only stayed true to her, she might have experienced the sunshine, without all this struggle, pain, and the disappointment of a wasted day. He would have been her angel. He had the keys to the sunshine. He still held them. He could open the doors to future freedom and joy for her. If he had been faithful, he would have been the gateway to a limitless sky of happiness and endless freedom, which was the paradise of her soul. Ah, the vast possibilities he would have unveiled for her, the endless space for self-discovery and joy forever.
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:
The one thing she believed in was the love she had for him. It stayed bright and whole, something to look back on. And she told herself, when current things felt like a letdown:
“Ah, I was fond of him,” as if with him the leading flower of her life had died.
“Ah, I was fond of him,” as if with him the most important part 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.
Now she heard from him again. The main feeling was pain. The pleasure, the spontaneous joy was gone. But her will was happy. Her will had attached itself to him. And the old thrill of her dreams stirred and came to life. He had arrived, the man with the amazing lips that could send a kiss drifting to the farthest reaches of space. Had he really come back to her? She couldn’t believe it.
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.
My dear Ursula, I'm back in England for a few months before heading out again, this time to India. I wonder if you still remember the times we spent together. I still have the little photo of you. You must have changed since then, as it's been about six years. I've definitely aged six years—I’ve gone through a whole different life since I met you at Cossethay. I’m curious if you’d like to see me. I’ll be in Derby next week, and I could stop by Nottingham so we can have tea together. Please let me know. I’ll be waiting for your reply.
Anton Skrebensky
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.
Ursula had grabbed this letter from the rack in the hall at college and ripped it open as she walked to the Women’s room. The world seemed to fade away 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.
Where could she go to be alone? She ran upstairs and through the private entrance to the reference library. Grabbing a book, she sat down and thought about the letter. Her heart raced, and her hands shook. Like in a dream, she heard one gong sound in the college, then, oddly, another. The first lecture was over.
Hurriedly she took one of her note-books and began to write.
Hurriedly, she grabbed one of her notebooks and started writing.
“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——”
“Dear Anton, Yes, I still have the ring. I would be very happy to see you again. You can come to my college, or I can meet you somewhere in 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.
Trembling, she asked the librarian, who was her friend, if he could give her an envelope. She sealed and addressed her letter and went out, without a hat, to post it. When she dropped it into the mailbox, the world turned into a quiet, pale place with no boundaries. She wandered back to college, to her faint dream, like the first soft 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.
Skrebensky came one afternoon the next week. Every day, she rushed to the letter rack as soon as she got to college in the morning, and during the breaks between lectures. Several times, quickly and quietly, she had grabbed his letter from its public place and scurried across the hall, clutching it tightly and keeping it hidden. She read her letters in the botany lab, where her corner was always saved for 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.
Several letters, and then he was on his way. He was set to arrive on Friday afternoon. She was working over her microscope with intense energy, barely able to focus her mind entirely, yet she worked quickly and closely. She had some special samples on her slide that had just come in from London that day, and the professor was particular and excited about it. Meanwhile, as she adjusted the light on her field and saw the plant-animal appearing vaguely in an endless glow, she was worried about a conversation she’d had a few days earlier with Dr. Frankstone, a female physics professor at 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——”
“No, really,” Dr. Frankstone said, “I don’t see why we should think there’s some special mystery to life—do you? We don’t understand it the way we understand electricity, but that doesn’t mean we should say it’s something special, something fundamentally different from everything else in the universe—do you think it does? Couldn’t it be that life is just a mix of physical and chemical activities, just like the processes we already understand in science? I really don’t see why we should believe there’s a unique 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?
The conversation had ended with a feeling of uncertainty, vague and nostalgic. But what was the purpose? Electricity didn't have a soul, and neither did light or heat. Was she just an impersonal force, or a combination of forces, like one of these? She continued to gaze at the tiny shadow that lay within the light, under her microscope. It was alive. She watched it move—she noticed the bright haze of its ciliary movement, and the shine of its nucleus as it glided across the light. So what was its will? If it was a combination of physical and chemical forces, what kept these forces together, and for what purpose were they joined?
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?
For what reason were the countless physical and chemical activities concentrated in this shadowy, moving speck under her microscope? What was the force that organized them and formed the one thing she observed? What was its intention? Was it just to exist? Was its purpose merely mechanical and confined 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.
It aimed to be itself. But what did that really mean? Suddenly, her mind lit up in a strange way, shining brightly like the core of a creature under a microscope. In an instant, she found herself enveloped in a brilliant light of understanding. She couldn't fully grasp what it all meant. All she knew was that it wasn't just mechanical energy or a simple drive for survival and self-assertion. It was a culmination, an infinite existence. Being oneself was a unity with the infinite. To truly be oneself was a magnificent, shining victory 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.
Ursula sat absorbed in her microscope, tense. Her mind was occupied, endlessly occupied, in the new world. In the new world, Skrebensky was waiting for her—he would be waiting for her. She couldn't leave yet because her mind 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.
A calmness, like fading away, enveloped her. In the distance, down the hallways, she heard the gong sounding five o’clock. She had to go. Still, she remained seated.
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.
The other students were pushing back their chairs and putting their microscopes away. Chaos erupted. She saw, through the window, students heading down the steps, with books under their arms, chatting, all chatting.
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.
A strong desire to leave washed over her. She also wanted to escape. She feared the physical world and feared her own change. She wanted to run towards 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.
Very quickly, she wiped her slides and put them away, cleared her spot at the bench, busy, busy, busy. She wanted to run to meet Skrebensky, rush—rush. She didn’t know what she was going to encounter. But it would be a fresh start. She had to 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.
She hurried down the hallway on quick feet, her razor, notebooks, and pencil in one hand, her apron draped over her arm. Her face was lifted and tight with excitement. 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.
Stepping out of the hallway, she spotted him immediately. She recognized him at once. Yet he seemed so different. He had that odd, understated shyness that unsettled her in the polite young men she was familiar with. He stood as if he wanted to be invisible. He was dressed impeccably. She couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge the chill, like sunlight tinged with frost, that washed over her. This was him, the key, the essence of 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.
He saw her walking quickly across the hall, a slender girl in a white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with a certain mystery and shine of the unknown about her, and he felt a rush of excitement. He was really nervous. Other students were hanging out in the hall.
She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him her hand. He too could not perceive her.
She laughed, her face bright and dazed, as she offered him her hand. He also couldn't see 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.
In a moment, she was gone to grab her outdoor clothes. Then, just like when they were at school, they headed out into town for tea. 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.
She sensed a significant change in him. The connection was still there, the familiar bond, but he belonged to a different world than hers. It felt like they had established a kind of truce between them, and within that truce, they had met. She knew, vaguely, from the very first moment, that they were enemies who had come together in this temporary peace. Every gesture and word from him felt foreign to her.
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.
Yet she still loved the smooth texture of his face and skin. He was noticeably browner and physically stronger. He was a man now. She felt that his masculinity added to the strangeness in him. When he was just a young boy, more flexible, he felt closer to her. She believed that a man inevitably falls into this strange separateness, this cold otherness of existence. He spoke, but not to her. She tried to talk to him, but she couldn’t connect with 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.
He seemed so composed and self-assured, projecting a confident presence. He was an excellent rider, which gave him a kind of surety and decisiveness typical of a horseman, along with a bit of the horseman’s primal intensity. Yet, his inner self was even more uncertain and unclear. It felt like he was made up of a series of predictable actions and choices. The delicate, changeable core of the man was out of reach. She knew nothing about it. She could only sense the dark, heavy weight of his primal 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.
This foolish desire of his had brought him to her? She was confused, pained by some unchanging quality in him that filled her with a chilling sense of despair. What did he want? His wants were so buried. Why couldn’t he acknowledge them? What did he want? He wanted something that shouldn’t be named. She recoiled 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.
Yet she lit up with excitement. In his dark, hidden male soul, he was kneeling before her, revealing his true self. She shivered, the dark fire coursing through her. He was waiting at her feet. He was vulnerable, completely at her mercy. She could accept him or turn him away. If she turned him away, something would die in him. For him, it was a matter of life or death. And yet, everything had to remain so dark; his awareness must acknowledge nothing.
“How long,” she said, “are you staying in England?”
“How long,” she asked, “are you going to be in England?”
“I am not sure—but not later than July, I believe.”
“I’m not sure—but I think it will be no later than July.”
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.
Then they were both quiet. He had been in England for six months. They had a gap of six months between them. He waited. The same unyielding tension, as if the world were made of steel, took hold of her again. It was pointless to approach this setup of molded metal with flesh and blood.
Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation.
Quickly, her imagination adapted to the situation.
“Have you an appointment in India?” she asked.
“Do you have an appointment in India?” she asked.
“Yes—I have just the six months’ leave.”
“Yes—I have exactly six months of leave.”
“Will you like being out there?”
“Do you think you'll enjoy 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.”
“I think so—there’s a lot of social life, and plenty happening—hunting, polo—and always a good horse—and a lot of work, tons 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.
He was always getting sidetracked, always distracting himself from his true self. She could see him so clearly out there in India—part of the ruling class, imposed over an ancient civilization, a master of a more primitive culture than his own. It was his decision. He would become an aristocrat again, endowed with authority and responsibility, overseeing a vast, helpless population. As a member of the ruling elite, he would dedicate himself to realizing and executing the state's higher ideals. And in India, there would be plenty of meaningful work to do. The country really did need the civilization that he represented: it required his roads and bridges, and the enlightenment he embodied. He would go to India. But that path wasn’t for her.
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.
Yet she loved him, his whole being, no matter what choices he made. He seemed to want something from her. He was waiting for her to make a decision about him. It had been settled long ago in her mind when he had kissed her for the first time. He was her lover, even if right and wrong shouldn't matter anymore. Her determination never weakened, even though her heart and soul felt trapped and silenced. He was there for her, and she accepted him. Because he had returned 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.
A glow appeared on his face, on his smooth skin, and his gold-grey eyes shone warmly at her. He ignited with passion, transforming into something magnificent, almost like a tiger. She was captivated by his dazzling, radiant charm. Her heart and soul were securely locked away, hidden from view. She felt liberated from them. She was ready to find her fulfillment.
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 stood tall and proud like a flower showcasing its true strength. His warmth revitalized her. His striking beauty, which stood out against everyone else, filled her with pride. It felt like he was showing respect to her, making her feel like she embodied all the grace and beauty of humanity before him. She was not just Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman; she represented all of Woman within the human experience. All-encompassing and universal, how could she be confined to just one individual?
She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him. She had her place by him. Who should take her away?
She was thrilled; she didn’t want to leave him. She belonged with him. Who could take her away?
They came out of the café.
They walked out of the café.
“Is there anything you would like to do?” he said. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Is there anything you want to do?” he asked. “Is there anything we can do?”
It was a dark, windy night in March.
It was a dark, windy night in March.
“There is nothing to do,” she said.
“There’s nothing to do,” she said.
Which was the answer he wanted.
Which was the answer he was looking for.
“Let us walk then—where shall we walk?” he asked.
“Let’s walk then—where should we go?” he asked.
“Shall we go to the river?” she suggested, timidly.
“Should we go to the river?” she suggested, hesitantly.
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.
In no time, they were on the tram heading to Trent Bridge. She felt so happy. The idea of walking in the dark, expansive water-meadows next to the full river thrilled her. The dark water silently flowing through the vast, restless night made her feel adventurous.
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.
They crossed the bridge, went down, and moved away from the lights. In a moment, in the darkness, he took her hand and they walked in silence, quietly treading through the shadows. The town faded away on their left, filled with strange lights and sounds; the wind whipped through the trees and under the bridge. They walked close together, strong in their togetherness. He pulled her even closer, holding her with a quiet, stealthy, intense passion, as if they shared a secret pact that thrived in the deep darkness. The deep darkness was their universe.
“It is like it was before,” she said.
“It’s 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.
Yet it was not at all like it was before. Still, his heart completely matched hers. They shared one thought.
“I knew I should come back,” he said at length.
“I knew I had to come back,” he said after a moment.
She quivered.
She trembled.
“Did you always love me?” she asked.
“Did you always love me?” she asked.
The directness of the question overcame him, submerged him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along.
The straightforwardness of the question hit him hard, overwhelming him for a moment. The darkness moved on heavily.
“I had to come back to you,” he said, as if hypnotized. “You were always at the back of everything.”
“I had to come back to you,” he said, as if under a spell. “You were always behind everything.”
She was silent with triumph, like fate.
She was quietly triumphant, like destiny.
“I loved you,” she said, “always.”
“I've always loved you,” she said.
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.
The dark flame ignited inside him. He had to give her himself. He had to give her the core of who he was. He pulled her in closer, and they continued on in silence.
She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows.
She jumped violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark fields.
“It’s only lovers,” he said to her, softly.
“It’s just lovers,” he said to her, gently.
She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited.
She glanced at the dark shapes against the fence, curious that the darkness was alive with presence.
“Only lovers will walk here to-night,” he said.
“Only lovers will walk here tonight,” he said.
Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear.
Then in a low, vibrating voice, he told her about Africa, the eerie darkness, the unusual, pressing fear of blood.
“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.”
“I’m not scared of the darkness in England,” he said. “It’s soft and natural to me; it’s my element, especially when you’re here. But in Africa, it feels overwhelming and filled with terror—not fear of anything specific—just fear. You can feel it, like the smell of blood. The black people know it. They really do worship the darkness. It's almost appealing—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.
She felt excited again by him. To her, he was a voice emerging from the darkness. He spoke to her the entire time, softly, about Africa, sharing something strange and sensual with her: the black man, with his loose, soft passion that could wrap around someone like a warm bath. Gradually, he passed on to her the hot, fertile darkness that coursed through his own veins. He was mysteriously secretive. The whole world seemed to disappear. He drove her wild with his soft, persuasive, vibrating tones. He wanted her to respond, to grasp what he was saying. A heavy, bustling night, filled with fertility where every particle seemed to swell with growth, quietly alive with a desire for creation, seemed to envelop them. She trembled, tense and vibrating, almost overwhelmed. As he slowly stopped talking about Africa, silence fell between them while they walked through the darkness by the enormous river. Her limbs felt rich and tense; she sensed they must be vibrating with a deep, profound energy. She could hardly walk. The deep vibration of the darkness was something to be felt, not heard.
Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him fast, as if she were turned to steel.
Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him tightly, as if she had turned to steel.
“Do you love me?” she cried in anguish.
“Do you love me?” she shouted in despair.
“Yes,” he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself. “Yes, I love you.”
“Yes,” he said, in a curious, smooth voice, not like him at all. “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 felt like living darkness surrounding her; she was wrapped in strong shadows. He held her close, soft and incredibly soft, with the unyielding softness of fate and the relentless softness of life. She trembled, like something tense being struck. But he kept holding her, softly and endlessly, like darkness enveloping her, everywhere like the night. He kissed her, and she trembled as if she were being torn apart, shattered. The illuminated vessel shook and shattered within her soul, the light faded, struggled, and went dark. She was entirely dark, with no will of her own, only the will to receive.
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.
He kissed her with soft, enveloping kisses, and she fully responded, completely lost in the moment. Darkness mingling with darkness, she stayed close to him, immersing herself in the warm flow of his kiss, sinking deeper and deeper to the essence of it, wrapped up and surrounded by the rich warmth of his kisses that moved over her, enveloping her, covering every part of her, becoming one continuous stream, one dark richness. She clung to his core, her lips holding open the deepest part 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.
So they stood in the complete, dark embrace, which conquered them both, bound them together, creating one fertile core in the flowing 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.
It was pure bliss, the beginning of fertile darkness. Once the vessel had vibrated until it broke, the light of awareness vanished, and then darkness took over, bringing an indescribable 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.
They stood relishing the intense kiss, receiving it and giving to it endlessly, yet it never faded. Their veins pulsed, their blood flowed together like 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.
Till gradually, a sleepiness, a heaviness settled on them, a drowsiness, and from that drowsiness, a small flicker of awareness stirred. Ursula became aware of the night surrounding her, the water lapping and flowing nearby, the trees roaring and rustling in the 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.
She stayed close to him, in touch with him, but she became more and more herself. And she knew she had to leave to catch her train. But she didn’t want to pull away from being close to 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.
At last, they woke up and headed out. They were no longer in the pure darkness. There was the shine of a bridge, the sparkle of lights across the river, and the bright glow of the town in front of them and to their right.
But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arrogant.
But still, dark and soft and undeniable, their bodies moved untouched by the lights, darkness powerful and proud.
“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.”
“The stupid lights,” Ursula said to herself, in her dark, sensual arrogance. “The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town, pouring out its lights. It doesn’t actually exist. It sits on the endless darkness, like a gleam of colored 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.
On the tram, on the train, she felt the same way. The lights and the uniforms were a trick, and the people moving or sitting around her seemed like dummies on display. Underneath their pale, wooden façade of calmness and civic duty, she could see the dark undercurrent that held them all. They were like little paper boats in motion. But in reality, each one was a dark, blind wave pushing forward, filled with the same uniform desire. All their conversations and behaviors were fake; they were just dressed-up beings. It reminded her of the Invisible Man, a piece of darkness that was only made visible 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.
During the next few weeks, she always moved through the same dark richness, her eyes wide and shining like a wild animal's, a strange half-smile that seemed to mock the phony civility of the people around 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.”
“What are you, you pale citizens?” her face seemed to say, gleaming. “You tamed beast in sheep’s clothing, you ancient darkness dressed up as a social system.”
She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time, mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest.
She moved through life in a dreamy, sensual state, sneering at the fake, artificial daylight everyone else was living in.
“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.”
“They take on identities just like they put on suits,” she thought, glancing with mock disdain at the stiff, unfeeling men. “They believe it’s better to be clerks or professors than to be the rich, vibrant beings that lie hidden in the depths. What do you think you are?” her soul challenged the professor as she sat across from him in class. “What do you think you are, sitting there in your robe and glasses? You’re a lurking, desire-seeking creature with eyes peering out from the shadows, sniffing out what you want. That’s what you are, even if nobody would believe it, and you would be the last one to admit 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.
Her soul laughed at all this fake stuff. Still, she went on pretending. She dressed up nicely, attended her lectures, and took notes. But it was all with a vibe of superficial, mocking ease. She understood their basic tricks just fine. She was just as smart as they were. But did she really care about their silly little tricks of knowledge, learning, or proper behavior? Not at all.
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?
There was Skrebensky, and there was her intense, vibrant self. Outside the college, in the deep darkness, Skrebensky was waiting. On the brink of the night, he was focused. Did he even 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.
She was as free as a leopard roaring in the night. She had the powerful, dark flow of her own blood, the shining essence of fertility, her partner, her perfect match, her companion in creation. So, she had it 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!
Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham the whole time. He was free too. He didn’t know anyone in this town, and he had no social identity to uphold. He was free. Their trams, markets, theaters, and public meetings were like a jumbled kaleidoscope to him; he observed them like a lion or tiger lying in wait, eyes half-closed, watching the crowd pass by its cage, the colorful unreality of people, or a leopard blinking, observing the baffling tricks of the keepers. He looked down on it all—it felt completely unreal. Their respectable professors, their good clergymen, their earnest political speakers, their dedicated women—all the while, he could feel his soul smirking at the sight of them. So many puppets in a show, all wooden and ragged for the act!
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 watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a role model, noticed the stiff legs that had almost become like wood in their desire to move like a puppet. He saw the trousers shaped for this puppet-like movement: man’s legs, but man’s legs turned 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 oddly happy being alone now. A bright smile was on his face. He no longer needed to participate in the antics of everyone else. He had figured out who he really was; he had broken free from the circus, like a wild animal returning to its jungle. Staying in a quiet hotel, he rented a horse and rode out into the countryside, sometimes spending the night in a village and coming back 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.
He felt wealthy and fulfilled within himself. Everything he did was a pure joy for him—whether it was riding a horse, walking, lying in the sun, or having a drink at a bar. He didn’t have any need for people or words. He found amusement in everything, experiencing a deep sense of rich pleasure in himself and in the abundant life surrounding him. The puppet-like figures of people, with their robotic voices, felt distant to him.
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.
For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Most of the time, she didn’t go to college in the afternoon but walked with him instead. Or he would take a car or a dog-cart, and they’d drive out to the countryside, leaving the car behind and venturing off into the woods together. He hadn’t taken her yet. With a subtle, instinctive sense of restraint, they experienced the full depth of each kiss, each embrace, each moment of closeness, knowing deep down that the end was near. It was meant to be their final encounter with the essence 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.
She brought him home, and he spent a weekend at Beldover with her family. She loved having him around. It was odd how he fit into her family’s vibe, with his playful, charming demeanor. They all adored him; he felt like one of them. His teasing, warm, and captivating presence was a source of happiness for the Brangwen household. This house was often filled with a heavy atmosphere, and when they came home, they shed their public personas to relax and soak up 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.
There was a sense of freedom among all of them, mixed with an underlying darkness. But here, at home, Ursula felt resentful about it. It became unpleasant for her. She knew that if they discovered the true nature of her relationship with Skrebensky, her parents—especially her father—would be furious. So, she played the part of any other girl who was being courted by a man. And she was just like any other girl. But for her, the resistance to societal expectations was absolute and definitive at that moment.
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.
She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss. She acknowledged it to herself in a mix of shame and delight. Almost instinctively, she waited. He waited too, but more unconsciously until the moment came. When the time arrived for him to kiss her again, anything that stood in the way felt like a total loss to him. He felt drained, like his body was fading away; if the moment slipped by without being fulfilled, he felt like he didn't exist.
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.
He finally reached her in a perfect climax. It was very dark, and once more a windy, heavy night. They had walked down the lane toward Beldover, into the valley. They were at the conclusion of their kisses, and there was silence between them. They stood as if at the edge of a cliff, with a vast darkness below.
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.
Emerging from the shadowy lane, with darkness spreading into the wind and the station’s twinkling lights below, the distant sound of a shunting train echoed, and the faint clink-clink-clink of wagons was carried by the breeze. The light from Beldover-edge sparkled against the blackness of the hill opposite, while the glow of furnaces along the railway to the right flickered. Their steps began to hesitate. They were about to move from the darkness into the light. It felt like a retreat. It was unfulfillment. Two trembling, reluctant beings, they hesitated at the edge of the darkness, looking out at the lights and the glimmer of machines beyond. They couldn’t return to the world—they just couldn’t.
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.
So they hung around and came to a huge oak tree beside the path. In all its budding glory, it roared in the wind, and its trunk resonated in every fiber, powerful and unyielding.
“We will sit down,” he said.
“We're going to 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.
And in the lively circle beneath the tree, which was nearly invisible but whose strong presence welcomed them, they lay for a moment gazing at the twinkling lights in the darkness across from them, watching the bright trail of a train glide 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.
Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him. The pain she felt was the pain she craved, the agony was the agony she desired. She was caught up, tangled in the intense energy of the night. The man—what was he?—a dark, powerful force that surrounded her. She drifted away like a whisper on a dark breeze, far, far away, into the pure darkness of paradise, into the essence of immortality. She stepped into the shadowy realms of eternity.
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.
When she got up, she felt oddly free and strong. She wasn’t ashamed—why should she be? He was walking next to her, the man who had been with her. She had chosen him, and they had been together. Where they had gone, she didn’t know. But it felt like she had gained a new essence. She belonged to the eternal, unchanging space they had jumped into 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.
Her soul was certain and unconcerned with what the superficial world thought. As they climbed the steps of the footbridge over the railroad and encountered the train passengers, she felt like she belonged to a different realm; she walked past them untouched, a complete darkness separating her from them. When she entered the bright dining room at home, she was unaffected by the lights and the gazes of her parents. Her everyday self remained unchanged. She simply had another, more powerful self that understood 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.
This unique inner strength, which thrived in the shadows and confidence of night, always stayed with her. She had never felt more like herself. It never crossed her mind that anyone, not even the worldly young man, Skrebensky, should be connected to her true self. As for her temporary, social self, she allowed it to take care of 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.
Her entire being was connected to Skrebensky—not the worldly young man, but the raw, unrefined man he was. She felt completely confident in herself, incredibly strong, stronger than anyone or anything. The world wasn’t strong—she was strong. The world only existed in a secondary way; she existed fully.
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 carried on with her college life, sticking to her usual routine, just as a front for her intense, hidden life. The reality of her relationship with Skrebensky was so strong that it allowed her to find peace in everything else. She went to college in the morning and attended her classes, blossoming yet distant.
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.
She had lunch with him at his hotel; every evening she spent with him, whether in the city, at his place, or in the countryside. She told her family she was studying for her degree in the evenings. But she didn’t put any real effort into her studies.
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.
They were completely happy and at peace. Their perfect existence made everything else seem unimportant, granting them true freedom. All they desired, as the days passed, was more time for themselves. They wanted that time to belong entirely to them.
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.
The Easter break was coming up. They decided to go immediately. It didn’t matter if they never returned. They were unaffected by the actual situation.
“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.
“I guess we should get married,” he said, a bit wistfully. It was so wonderfully free and in a deeper world, as it was. Making their relationship public would tie it to all the things that brought him down, and from which he was completely detached for the moment. If he got married, he would have to take on his social persona. And the thought of taking on that persona made him feel both shy and distant. If she became his social wife, if she became part of that complicated, lifeless reality, then what would his true self have to do with her? A social wife was almost a tangible symbol. But right now, she meant more to him than anything in conventional life could. She completely contradicted all of conventional life; together, they were dark, fluid, infinitely powerful, giving life to the dead whole that contained them.
He watched her pensive, puzzled face.
He watched her thoughtful, confused face.
“I don’t think I want to marry you,” she said, her brow clouded.
“I don’t think I want to marry you,” she said, her forehead furrowing.
It piqued him rather.
It intrigued him quite a bit.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Let’s think about it afterwards, shall we?” she said.
"Let's think about it later, okay?" she said.
He was crossed, yet he loved her violently.
He was angry, yet he loved her fiercely.
“You’ve got a museau, not a face,” he said.
“You’ve got a muzzle, 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.
“Have I?” she exclaimed, her face lighting up like a bright flame. She thought she had gotten away. Yet he came back—he wasn't satisfied.
“Why?” he asked, “why don’t you want to marry me?”
“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.”
“I don’t want to be with other people,” she said. “I want to be like this. I’ll let you know if I ever want to marry you.”
“All right,” he said.
“Okay,” he said.
He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she took the responsibility.
He would prefer it if things were left open-ended and she took on the responsibility.
They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of complete enjoyment.
They talked about the Easter break. She only thought about having a great time.
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 went to a hotel in Piccadilly. She was meant to be his wife. They bought a wedding ring for a shilling from a store in a rough area.
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 had completely rejected the ordinary human world. Their confidence felt like an inherent part of them. They were consumed by it. They felt perfectly and utterly free, proud beyond any doubt, and above human limitations.
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.
They were flawless, so nothing else mattered. The world consisted of servants who were politely overlooked. Wherever they went, they were the sophisticated elites, vibrant, radiant, exuding sheer pride in their 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.
The impact on other people was amazing. The charm from the young couple radiated to everyone they encountered, whether it was waiters or random acquaintances.
“Oui, Monsieur le baron,” she would reply with a mocking courtesy to her husband.
“Yeah, Mr. Baron,” she would respond with a sarcastic politeness 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.
So they were treated like people of rank. He was an officer in the engineers. They had just gotten married and were heading to India right away.
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.
Thus, a web of romance surrounded them. She thought she was a young wife of a titled husband, about to leave for India. This social reality was a delightful fantasy. The true reality was that he and she were just a man and a woman, completely free and without any limitations.
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.
The days passed—they had three weeks together—and everything went really well. During that time, they felt like the center of the universe, and everything outside was just a tribute to them. They didn't worry too much about money, though they weren't overly extravagant. He was a bit surprised to find that he had spent twenty pounds in just under a week, but it was mainly the hassle of having to go to the bank that bothered him. The old system still worked for him, just not the actual system itself. Money just didn’t seem to exist for him.
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:
Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home from the theater, had dinner, then wandered around in their robes. They had a spacious bedroom and a cozy corner sitting room high up, quiet and very comfortable. They ate all their meals in their own rooms, served by a young German named Hans, who thought they were both amazing and always responded eagerly:
“Gewiss, Herr Baron—bitte sehr, Frau Baronin.”
“Of course, Baron—go ahead, Lady Baroness.”
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.
Often, they saw the pink of dawn stretching across the park. The tower of Westminster Cathedral was coming into view, the lamps of Piccadilly, scattered along the trees of the park, were turning pale and ghostly, the morning traffic was moving steadily down the shadowy road, which had shone all night like metal, running far ahead into the night below the lamps, and which was now blurry, as if in a fog, 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.
Then, as the brightness of dawn grew stronger, they opened the glass doors and stepped onto the dizzying balcony, feeling triumphant like two angels in bliss, looking down at the still-sleeping world, which would soon wake to a dutiful, rumbling, sluggish chaos 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.
[But the air was cold. They went into their bedroom and bathed before going to bed, leaving the bathroom partition doors open so that the steam filled the bedroom and faintly blurred the mirror. She was always in bed first. She watched him as he bathed, his quick, unconscious movements, the electric light shimmering on his wet shoulders. He stepped out of the bath, his hair slicked down over his forehead, and wiped the water from his eyes. He was slim and, to her, perfect—a clean-cut young man without an ounce of unnecessary flesh. The brown hair on his body was soft, fine, and adorable; he looked beautifully flushed as he stood in the white bathroom.]
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.
He saw her warm, dark, illuminated face watching him from the pillow—but he didn’t really see it—it was always there, familiar to him like his own eyes. He was never conscious of her as a separate person. She was like his own eyes and his own heart beating for 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.
So he walked over to her to grab his pajamas. It was always an exciting adventure to be close to her. She wrapped her arms around him and breathed in his warm, soft skin.
“Scent,” she said.
“Smell,” she said.
“Soap,” he answered.
"Soap," he replied.
“Soap,” she repeated, looking up with bright eyes. They were both laughing, always laughing.]
“Soap,” she said again, 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.
Soon they were fast asleep, sleeping until midday, close together, sharing one dream. Then they woke up to the constantly shifting reality of their situation. They alone existed in the realm of reality. Everyone else lived on a lower level.
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.
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 guys, who called her Mrs. Skrebensky without a second thought. They treated her with such respect that she started to feel like she truly belonged to the entire universe, to both the old world and the new. She forgot that she was outside the bounds of the old world. She believed she had brought it under the influence of her own, real world. And in a way, 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.
In this constantly changing reality, the weeks passed. They remained unknown to each other all the time. Every action from one was a reality and an adventure to the other. They didn’t seek outside excitement. They went to very few theaters, and spent a lot of time in their living room high above Piccadilly, with windows open on two sides and the door leading to the balcony, overlooking Green Park or watching the tiny flow of traffic below.
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 suddenly, as she watched the sunset, she felt the urge to leave. She needed to go. She had to go right away. In two hours, they were at Charing Cross catching a train to Paris. Paris was his idea. She didn’t care where it was. The real excitement was in the journey. For a few days, she felt happy in the thrill of being in 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.
Then, for some reason, she had to stop in Rouen on her way back to London. He instinctively felt uneasy about her wanting to go there. But, for some reason, she was determined to visit. It was as if she wanted to see how it would affect 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.
For the first time, in Rouen, he felt a chilling sense of death; not afraid of anyone else, but of her. She seemed to drift away from him. She was chasing after something that wasn't him. She didn't want him. The old streets, the cathedral, the age, and the monumental calm of the town pulled her away from him. She turned toward it as if it were something she had forgotten and longed for. This was the new reality; this massive stone cathedral resting there in its grandeur, which knew no change and heard no rejection. It was impressive in its permanence, its magnificent certainty.
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.
Her soul started to move on its own. He didn't notice it, and neither did she. But in Rouen, he experienced his first real anguish, the first awareness of the death they were heading towards. And she felt the first intense longing, a deep, overwhelming sense of hopelessness, almost like a heavy, unsettling descent into apathy and despair.
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.
They went back to London. But they still had two days left. He started to shake and felt feverish with the fear of her leaving. She seemed to possess a fatal intuition that kept her calm. Whatever would happen, would happen.
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.
He stayed pretty relaxed, though still caught up in his heightened sense of style, until she left, and he turned away from St. Pancras. Then he sat on the tram going up Pimlico to the "Angel," heading toward 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?
Then the cold horror gradually seeped into him. He saw the terror of City Road and recognized the grim, dirty reality of the tram car he was in. He was surrounded by cold, bleak, ashen sterility. Where was the bright, wonderful world he was supposed to belong to? How did he end up on this heap of trash?
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.
He felt like he was going crazy. The horrifying brick buildings, the tram, and the dull, grey people on the street made him dizzy and blind like he was drunk. He went insane. He had lived with her in a close, vibrant world where everything had a rich, lively energy. Now he found himself struggling in a dry, cold world of stiffness, dead walls, and mechanical traffic, surrounded by ghost-like people. Life had vanished; only ash moved and stirred or stood still, with a horrible, clattering noise, like the sound of dry slag falling, cold and lifeless. It was as if the sunshine that fell was an unnatural light revealing the town’s ashes, as if the lights at night were a sinister glow of decay.
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.
Completely insane and at his wit's end, he went to his club and sat with a glass of whiskey, unmoving, like he had turned to stone. He felt like a corpse that had just enough life left to resemble any other of the ghostly, lifeless figures we refer to as people in our outdated language. Her absence was worse than any pain for him. It shattered his existence.
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.
Dead, he moved from lunch to tea. His face was always expressionless and pale, his life a dry, mechanical routine. Yet even he felt a slight wonder at the terrible misery that had taken over him. How could he be so lifeless and exhausted? 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——”
“I’ve been thinking that we should get married soon. My salary will be higher when I go to India, and we’ll be able to manage. Or if you don’t want to go to India, I could probably stay here in England. But I think you’d enjoy India. You could ride, and you’d know just about everyone out there. Maybe if you stay to finish your degree, we could get married right after that. I’ll write to your dad 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 kept talking, pushing her away. If only he could be with her! All he wanted now was to marry her, to have her for sure. Yet all the while, he felt completely, completely hopeless, numb, lifeless, without any 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 felt like his life was over. His soul was gone. His entire being had become barren; he was a ghost, disconnected from life. He had no substance; he was just a flat outline. Day by day, the madness built up inside him. The terror of not existing consumed 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.
He went everywhere and nowhere at the same time. But no matter what he did, he realized that he was just an empty shell; nothing meaningful was there. He went to the theater; what he heard and saw just grazed the surface of his mind, which was all he had left—there was nothing beneath it, he couldn’t really experience anything at all. He was just mechanically processing things, nothing more. He had no essence, no substance. The people he interacted with were the same. They were just variations of familiar ideas. This world he now lived in lacked soul or depth; everything was a flat, lifeless arrangement of thoughts, devoid of vitality or presence.
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.
Much of the time, he was with friends and comrades. Then he forgot everything. Their activities filled the void of his own inaction; they distracted him from his deep-seated dread.
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.
He only felt happy when he drank, and he drank a lot. Then he was completely different from how he was before. He turned into a warm, fuzzy, glowing presence, in a soft and carefree way. Everything blended into a rosy light, and he was that light, and everything around him was that light, everyone else was that light, and it felt really nice, really 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.
Ursula returned to Beldover feeling determined and strong. She loved Skrebensky, and she was set on that. She wouldn't allow anything to change her mind.
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 read his lengthy, passionate letter about getting married and moving to India without any real reaction. She appeared to overlook his comments about marriage. It didn’t resonate with her. For most of his letter, he seemed to be speaking without much substance.
She replied to him pleasantly and easily. She rarely wrote long letters.
She replied to him in a friendly and relaxed way. She hardly ever 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.
“India sounds amazing. I can totally picture myself on an elephant swaying between lanes of eager locals. But I’m not sure if Dad would let me go. We’ll 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 keep reliving the wonderful times we've had. But I don’t think you liked me as much towards the end, did you? You didn’t like me when we left Paris. Why was that?”
“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.”
"I love you so much. I love your body. It's so beautiful and well-defined. I'm glad you don't go around naked, or all the women would fall for you. I'm really jealous of it because 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 was somewhat satisfied with this letter. But day after day, he walked around feeling empty, like he didn't exist.
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.
He couldn't return to Nottingham until the end of April. Then he convinced her to join him for a weekend at a friend's house near Oxford. By that time, they were engaged. He had written to her father, and everything was agreed upon. He gave her an emerald ring, which she cherished.
Her people treated her now with a little distance, as if she had already left them. They left her very much alone.
Her people now treated her with a bit of distance, as if she had already left them. They left her quite 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 spent three days with him at the country house near Oxford. It was wonderful, and she felt really happy. But what stood out the most for her was when, after he had quietly slipped back to his own room following a night spent with her, she woke up in the morning and felt incredibly rich just being alone. Enjoying her solitary room to the fullest, she pulled up the blind and saw the plum trees in the garden below, all glittering and snowy, basking in the sunshine, in full bloom under a blue sky. They scattered their blossoms, flinging them out under the blue heavens, the purest blossoms! It filled her with excitement.
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 had to rush through getting dressed so she could walk in the garden under the plum trees before anyone came to talk to her. She slipped out and walked gracefully, like a queen in a fairy tale. The blossoms looked silver-shadowed when she glanced up from under the tree at the blue sky. There was a light fragrance, a soft buzzing of bees, and a delightful energy of a happy morning.
She heard the breakfast gong and went indoors.
She heard the breakfast bell and went inside.
“Where have you been?” asked the others.
“Where have you been?” the others asked.
“I had to go out under the plum trees,” she said, her face glowing like a flower. “It is so lovely.”
“I had to go out under the plum trees,” she said, her face glowing like a flower. “It’s so beautiful.”
A shadow of anger crossed Skrebensky’s soul. She had not wanted him to be there. He hardened his will.
A flash of anger crossed Skrebensky's mind. She hadn’t wanted him there. He steeled his resolve.
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.
At night, there was a moon, and the blossoms shimmered eerily; they went together to admire it. She noticed the moonlight on his face as he stood close to her, and his features looked like silver while his eyes remained mysterious in the shadows. She was in love with him. He was very still.
They went indoors and she pretended to be tired. So she went quickly to bed.
They went inside and she acted like she was tired. So, she quickly went to bed.
“Don’t be long coming to me,” she whispered, as she was supposed to be kissing him good night.
“Don’t take too long to come back 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.
And he waited, focused, fixated, for the moment when he could be with 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 liked him a lot and paid him a lot of attention. She loved to touch the soft skin on his sides or the smoothness of his back when his muscles tensed up underneath, muscles that had grown really strong from riding. She felt a rush of excitement and passion because of the unyielding strength of his body, which was so soft and smooth under her touch, giving her such complete devotion.
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.
She possessed his body and enjoyed it with all the pleasure and disregard of someone who owns it. But he had slowly started to fear her body. He wanted her, he wanted her endlessly. But there was now a tension in his desire, a restraint that kept him from fully enjoying the delightful closeness and the affectionate intimacy of their 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.
Her final exam was in the middle of summer. She insisted on taking it, even though she had fallen behind in her studies over the past few months. He also wanted her to pursue the degree. Then, he thought, she would feel fulfilled. Deep down, he hoped she would fail so that she would appreciate him more.
“Would you rather live in India or in England when we are married?” he asked her.
“Would you rather live in India or in England after we get married?” he asked her.
“Oh, in India, by far,” she said, with a careless lack of consideration which annoyed him.
“Oh, definitely in India,” she said, with a casual disregard that irritated him.
Once she said, with heat:
Once she said passionately:
“I shall be glad to leave England. Everything is so meagre and paltry, it is so unspiritual—I hate democracy.”
“I'll be happy to leave England. Everything feels so small and insignificant; it's so lacking in spirit—I can’t stand 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.
He got mad listening to her talk like that, and he didn't really know why. For some reason, he couldn't stand it when she criticized things. It felt like she was criticizing him.
“What do you mean?” he asked her, hostile. “Why do you hate democracy?”
“What do you mean?” he asked her, defensively. “Why do you dislike 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.”
“Only the greedy and ugly people make it to the top in a democracy,” she said, “because they’re the only ones willing to 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.
“What do you want then—an aristocracy?” he asked, secretly moved. He always felt that by rights he belonged to the ruling aristocracy. Yet hearing her speak for his class gave him a strange, painful pleasure. He felt like he was agreeing to something wrong, taking for himself some unfair 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.”
“I do want an aristocracy,” she shouted. “And I’d much prefer an aristocracy based on heritage rather than wealth. Who are the aristocrats today—who gets picked as the elite to lead? Those who have money and the smarts to make it. It doesn’t matter what else they possess: they just need to be sharp with money,—because they are in charge in the name of wealth.”
“The people elect the government,” he said.
“The people vote for 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.”
“I know they do. But what about the people? Each one of them is just about the money. I can’t stand that anyone is my equal just because they have the same amount of money as I do. I know I’m better than all of them. I can’t stand them. They’re not my equals. I hate equality based on money. It’s 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.
Her eyes were on fire as she looked at him, making him feel like she wanted to ruin him. She had a tight hold on him and was trying to shatter him. His anger flared up, directed at her. At the very least, he would stand up for his own survival with her. A fierce, instinctual resistance took over 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.”
“I don’t care about money,” he said, “and I don’t want to get involved in that. I’m too sensitive about my involvement.”
“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.”
“What does your finger mean to me?” she shouted, frustrated. “You with your delicate fingers, planning to go to India because you want to be one of the important people there! It’s just a trick, your trip to India.”
“In what way a dodge?” he cried, white with anger and fear.
“In what way is that a dodge?” he shouted, pale 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!”
“You think the Native Americans are more straightforward than we are, and that you'll enjoy being around them and having power over them,” she said. “And you’ll feel so virtuous, ruling them for their own benefit. Who do you think you are, to feel virtuous? What makes you think you're virtuous in your rule? Your leadership is terrible. What are you ruling for, if not to make things there as lifeless and miserable as they are here!”
“I don’t feel righteous in the least,” he said.
“I don’t feel righteous at all,” he said.
“Then what do you feel? It’s all such a nothingness, what you feel and what you don’t feel.”
“Then what do you feel? It’s all just so empty, what you feel and what you don’t feel.”
“What do you feel yourself?” he said. “Aren’t you righteous in your own mind?”
“What do you think of yourself?” he said. “Aren’t you right in your own mind?”
“Yes, I am, because I’m against you, and all your old, dead things,” she cried.
“Yes, I am, because I’m against you and all your outdated, irrelevant stuff,” 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.
She seemed, with her final words, spoken with harsh understanding, to bring down the flag he had been holding up. He felt like he’d been struck down, rendered useless. A terrible sickness overwhelmed him, as if his legs had actually been taken away, leaving him immobile, like a lifeless trunk, relying on others, worthless. The dreadful feeling of helplessness, as if he were just a shadow of someone who didn’t truly exist, drove him to madness.
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.
Now, even while he was with her, he felt a sense of dying inside, as if he were a shell of a person, stripped of all individual life. In this state, he neither heard nor saw nor felt anything; only the mechanical functions of his life kept going.
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.
He hated her, at least as much as he was capable of hating in this state. His cleverness showed him all the ways to get her to appreciate him. But she didn't appreciate him. He walked away from her and didn’t reach out. He flirted with other women, including 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.
This made her really angry. She was still very jealous of his body. In a fit of passionate anger, she scolded him because, not being man enough to satisfy one woman, he was hanging around with others.
[“Don’t I satisfy you?” he asked of her, again going white to the throat.
[“Am I not enough for you?” he asked her, again turning pale 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.
“No,” she said. “You’ve never satisfied me since the first week in London. You don’t satisfy me now. What does it mean to me, your having me—” She shrugged and turned her face away in a gesture of cold, indifferent worthlessness. He felt like he could 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.
When she had awakened him to a frenzy, when she saw his eyes filled with darkness and madness from pain, then an immense suffering washed over her soul, an overwhelming, unyielding suffering. And she loved him. Because, oh, she longed to love him. Stronger than life or death was her desire 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.
And in those moments, when she was the one destroying him, when all his self-satisfaction was gone, all his usual self was shattered, and only the basic, raw version of himself was left, driven crazy by suffering, her desire to love him turned into real love. She took him back, and they united in an intense passion, where he knew he fulfilled 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.
But it all held a growing spark of death. After each encounter, her intense longing for him, or for what she never got from him, became stronger, and her love felt more hopeless. After each interaction, his crazed dependence on her grew, while his hope of being strong enough to take her in his own strength faded. He felt like just an extension 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.
Whitsuntide arrived right before her exam. She was looking forward to a few days of rest. Dorothy had inherited her family estate and had rented a cottage in Sussex. She invited them to come 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.
They went down to Dorothy’s tidy, small cottage at the base of the hills. Here, they could do whatever they wanted. Ursula always wanted to climb to the top of the hills. The white path snaked up to the rounded peak. And she had to 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.
Up there, she could see the Channel a few miles off, the sea shimmering faintly in the sky, the Isle of Wight a distant shadow, the river sparkling as it wound through the patterned landscape towards the sea, Arundel Castle a dark shape, and then the rolling, smooth hills creating a flat expanse beneath the sky, acknowledging only the heavens in their strong, sunlit glory, allowing just a few bushes to intrude upon the connection between their vast, unyielding land and the ever-changing 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.
Below, she saw the villages and the woods of the weald, and the train moving bravely, a small yet determined thing, traveling with all the importance in the world over the water meadows and into the gap of the downs, puffing out its white steam, yet all the while so tiny. So tiny, yet its courage took it from one end of the earth to the other, until there was no place it didn’t reach. Yet the downs, in magnificent indifference, stretching its limbs and body to the sun, soaking up sunshine, sea breeze, and moist sea clouds into its golden skin, with stunning stillness and calm existence, were they not even more amazing? The blind, heartbreaking, energetic courage of the train as it chugged along so small through the patterned fields toward the dimness of the sea, so fast and full of energy, made her weep. Where was it heading? It was heading nowhere, it was just moving. So aimless, so without purpose, yet so hurried! She sat on an old prehistoric earth work and cried, and the tears ran down her face. The train had burrowed through all the land, blindly and ugly.
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.
And she lay face down on the hills, which were so solid, focused only on their connection with the endless sky, and she wished she could become a strong mound, smooth under the sky, with her body and limbs exposed to all winds, 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.
But she has to get up again and look down from her sunny spot, down at the flat, patterned land, with its villages, smoke, and energy. The train looked so small as it raced away, and the villages seemed so tiny, with their trivial activities.
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.
Skrebensky walked around in a daze, unsure of where he was or what he was doing with her. All her excitement seemed to be about wandering up on the hills, but when she had to come back down to reality, she felt weighed down. Up there, she felt energized and liberated.
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 wouldn’t love him in a house anymore. She said she hated houses, and especially hated beds. There was something unpleasant about him 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.
She would spend the night on the hills, up there, with him. It was midsummer, and the days were wonderfully long. Around 10:30, when the dark blue-black night finally set in, they grabbed blankets and climbed the steep path to the top of the hills, just the two of them.
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.
Up there, the stars were huge, and the ground below had disappeared into darkness. She felt free up there with the stars. In the distance, they spotted tiny yellow lights—but they were really far away, out at sea or on land. She was free 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.
She took off her clothes and made him take off all his too, and they ran over the smooth, moonless grass, a long way, more than a mile from where they left their clothes, running in the dark, soft wind, completely naked, just like the hills around them. Her hair was loose and blew around her shoulders as she ran quickly, wearing sandals when she started 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.
In the circular pond, the stars were undisturbed. She stepped gently into the water, reaching for 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.
And then suddenly she pulled back, running fast. He was there next to her, but only because she allowed it. He was a shield for her fears. He was useful to her. She took him, held him tight, but her eyes were open looking at the stars, as if the stars were lying with her and exploring the endless darkness within her, finally understanding her. It wasn't about 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 dawn broke. They stood together on a high spot, an ancient earthwork, waiting for the light. It spread across the land. But the land remained dark. She noticed a lightening edge in the sky contrasting with the shadowy earth. The darkness turned a shade of blue. A gentle breeze was coming in from the sea behind them. It felt like it was heading towards the soft glow of dawn. And there they were, standing in the dimness, waiting for the sunrise.
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 light intensified, spilling against the dark blue of the clear night. The light became brighter and whiter, then a hint of pink appeared above it. A hint of pink, followed by a soft, fresh yellow, all shimmering and hovering briefly above the fountain at the edge of the sky.
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 rose floated and trembled, ignited, merging with fire, a fleeting red, while the yellow surged forth in huge waves, ejected from the growing fountain, massive waves of yellow shooting into the sky, spraying its mist over the dark, which turned bluer and bluer, lighter, until soon it would transform into a glow that had once 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.
The sun was rising. There was a flickering, a strong, frightening rush of glowing light. Then the bright source itself burst forth, showing itself. The sun was in the sky, too intense 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.
And the ground below was completely still and peaceful. Only now and then did a rooster crow. Otherwise, from the distant yellow hills to the pine trees at the bottom of the hills, everything was freshly brought to life in a wave 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.
It was incredibly still and full of promise, the golden-lit, clear landscape, that Ursula felt overwhelmed and cried. Suddenly, he looked at her. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and her mouth was moving in a strange way.
“What is the matter?” he asked.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
After a moment’s struggle with her voice.
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.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said, gazing at the glowing, stunning landscape. It was incredibly beautiful, so perfect, and completely untouched.
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 also understood what England would become in just a few hours—a chaotic, grim, relentless hustle, all meaningless, filled with dirty smoke and rushing trains and digging deep underground, all for nothing. A sense of dread washed 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.
He looked at Ursula. Her face was wet with tears, very bright, like a transformation in the shining light. Nor did he have the strength to wipe away the stinging, bright tears. He stood back, overwhelmed by a painful helplessness.
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.
Gradually, a deep and helpless sadness was overwhelming him. But for now, he was pushing it aside, fighting for his own survival. He grew very quiet and lost touch with his surroundings, waiting, as if for her verdict 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.
They went back to Nottingham, and when it was time for her exam, she had to go to London. However, she refused to stay with him in a hotel. Instead, she planned to stay at a cozy little guesthouse 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?
Those peaceful residential squares of London left a strong impression on her. They felt perfect and whole. Her thoughts seemed trapped in their stillness. Who would set her free?
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.
In the evening, after her practical exams were finished, he took her to dinner at a hotel down the river, near Richmond. It was golden and beautiful, with yellow water and white and red 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.
“When are we getting married?” he asked her, quietly and simply, as if it were just a matter of comfort.
She watched the changing pleasure-traffic of the river. He looked at her golden, puzzled museau. The knot gathered in his throat.
She watched the shifting pleasure boats on the river. He looked at her golden, confused muzzle. A knot formed in his throat.
“I don’t know,” she said.
"I don't know," she said.
A hot grief gripped his throat.
A burning grief tightened around his throat.
“Why don’t you know—don’t you want to be married?” he asked her.
“Why don’t you know—don’t you want to get 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.
Her head turned slowly, her face, puzzled, like a boy’s face, blank because she was trying to think, looked towards his face. She didn’t really see him, because she was distracted. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say.
“I don’t think I want to be married,” she said, and her naïve, troubled, puzzled eyes rested a moment on his, then travelled away, pre-occupied.
“I don’t think I want to get married,” she said, and her naïve, troubled, confused eyes lingered on his for a moment before drifting away, lost in thought.
“Do you mean never, or not just yet?” he asked.
“Are you saying never, or just not yet?” he asked.
The knot in his throat grew harder, his face was drawn as if he were being strangled.
The knot in his throat tightened, and his face looked tense as if he were being choked.
“I mean never,” she said, out of some far self which spoke for once beyond her.
“I mean never,” she said, from some distant part of herself that 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.
His gaunt, strained face stared at her blankly for a moment, then a strange sound came from his throat. She flinched, snapped back to reality, and, horrified, saw him. His head moved oddly, his chin jerked back against his throat, and the peculiar, crowing, hiccupping sound happened again. His face contorted with an insane look, and he was crying, crying in a blind, twisted way as if something inside him had shattered that held him together.
“Tony—don’t,” she cried, starting up.
"Tony—don't," she said, standing 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.
It overwhelmed her to see him. He awkwardly tried to get out of his chair. But he was crying silently and uncontrollably, his face twisted in a grimace, and tears streamed down the deep lines in his cheeks. With his face stuck in that terrible expression, he fumbled for his hat, trying to find his way down from the terrace. It was eight o’clock, but still bright outside. Other people were staring. In a mix of anxiety and frustration, she lingered behind, paid the waiter with a half-sovereign, grabbed her yellow silk coat, and 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.
She saw him walking with fragile, unsteady steps along the path by the river. She could tell by the unusual stiffness and fragility of his body that he was still crying. Rushing after him, she ran and 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.”
“Tony,” she shouted, “don’t! Why are you acting this way? What’s the point? Don’t. It’s not needed.”
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.
He heard, and his masculinity was brutally, coldly damaged. But there was no use. He couldn't control his expression. His face and chest were crying uncontrollably, almost like it was automatic. His will and understanding had nothing to do with it. He just couldn't 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.
She walked, holding his arm, quiet with frustration, confusion, and hurt. He took the hesitant steps of a blind man, because his mind was clouded with tears.
“Shall we go home? Shall we have a taxi?” she said.
"Should we go home? Should we get 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.
He couldn’t focus at all. Very flustered and agitated, she waved at a taxi that was slowly passing by. The driver nodded and pulled over. She opened the door and pushed Skrebensky inside, then got in herself. Her face was lifted, her mouth tightened; she looked intense, cold, and ashamed. She flinched as the driver’s dark red face turned toward her, a robust, animal-like face with thick eyebrows and a short, bushy mustache.
“Where to, lady?” he said, his white teeth showing. Again for a moment she was flustered.
“Where to, lady?” he asked, flashing a smile that revealed his white teeth. For a moment, she felt flustered again.
“Forty, Rutland Square,” she said.
“40 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.
He tipped his cap and calmly started the car. It felt like they had an agreement 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.
The latter sat as if he was stuck inside the taxi, his face still contorting, while occasionally making quick, small movements of his head to shake away his tears. He didn’t move his hands at all. She couldn’t stand to look at him. She sat with her face upturned and turned away towards 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.
At last, when she had regained some control over herself, she turned back to him. He was much quieter. His face was wet and twitched occasionally, his hands still lay motionless. But his eyes were calm, like a clear sky after rain, filled with a pale light, and quite steady, almost ghostly.
A pain flamed in her womb, for him.
A pain burned in her belly, 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.”
“I didn’t think I should hurt you,” she said, placing her hand gently, almost hesitantly, on his arm. “The words just came out without me realizing. They didn’t really mean anything.”
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.
He stayed completely still, listening, but appearing pale and emotionless. She watched him, as if he were some strange, incomprehensible being.
“You won’t cry again, will you, Tony?”
“You're not going to cry again, are 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.
Some shame and bitterness toward her burned in his question. She noticed how his mustache was soaked with tears. Taking her handkerchief, she wiped his face. The driver’s heavy, solid back was always turned to them, as if aware but uncaring. Skrebensky sat still while Ursula wiped his face, gently, carefully, and yet awkwardly, not as well as he would have done 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.
Her handkerchief was too small. It got soaked quickly. She reached into his pocket for his. With its larger size, she gently dried his face. He stayed still the entire time. Then she pulled his cheek to hers and kissed him. His face was cold. Her heart ached. She saw tears filling his eyes again. Like a child, she wiped away his tears once more. At this point, she was about to cry herself. Her bottom lip 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.
So she sat quietly, afraid of her own tears, sitting close to him, holding his hand warmly and affectionately. Meanwhile, the car continued on, and a gentle midsummer twilight began to settle in. For a long time, they sat still. Every now and then, her hand would grip his hand tighter, lovingly, then slowly loosen.
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.
The evening started to settle in. A few lights popped up. The driver pulled over to light his lamps. Skrebensky shifted for the first time, leaning forward to observe the driver. His face always had the same calm, clear, almost childlike expression—neutral and detached.
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.
They saw the driver’s odd, full, dark face looking into the lights under furrowed brows. Ursula shuddered. It was a face that was almost animalistic, yet it belonged to a quick, strong, cautious creature that seemed to know them, almost have power over them. She held onto Krebensky tighter.
“My love?” she said to him, questioningly, when the car was again running in full motion.
“My love?” she asked him, curiously, once the car was moving again.
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.
He stayed completely still and silent. He allowed her to hold his hand, to lean in, in the fading light, and kiss his cheek. The tears had passed—he wouldn’t cry anymore. He felt complete and like himself again.
“My love,” she repeated, trying to make him notice her. But as yet he could not.
“My love,” she repeated, trying to get his attention. But he still couldn't see her.
He watched the road. They were running by Kensington Gardens. For the first time his lips opened.
He watched the road. They were running by Kensington Gardens. For the first time, he spoke up.
“Shall we get out and go into the park,” he asked.
“Should we go outside and head to the park?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, quietly, not sure what was coming.
“Yes,” she said softly, unsure of what was about to happen.
After a moment he took the tube from its peg. She saw the stout, strong, self-contained driver lean his head.
After a moment, he took the tube from its hook. She watched the sturdy, confident driver lean his head.
“Stop at Hyde Park Corner.”
“Stop at Hyde Park Corner.”
The dark head nodded, the car ran on just the same.
The dark head nodded, and the car kept going 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.
They stopped now. Skrebensky paid the driver. Ursula stepped back. She noticed the driver nod as he took his tip, and then, before he started the car, he turned to look at her with his intense, animal-like gaze, his eyes focused and the whites flickering. Then he drove off into the crowd. He had let her go. She had felt 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.
Skrebensky walked with her into the park. A band was still playing, and the place was packed with people. They listened to the fading music, then moved to a secluded spot where they sat closely together, hand in hand.
Then at length, as out of the silence, she said to him, wondering:
Then finally, breaking the silence, she said to him, curious:
“What hurt you so?”
“What hurt you?”
She really did not know, at this moment.
She really didn't know, at that moment.
“When you said you wanted never to marry me,” he replied, with a childish simplicity.
“When you said you never wanted to marry me,” he replied, with a childish innocence.
“But why did that hurt you so?” she said. “You needn’t mind everything I say so particularly.”
“But why did that hurt you so much?” she said. “You don’t have to take everything I say so personally.”
“I don’t know—I didn’t want to do it,” he said, humbly, ashamed.
“I don’t know—I didn’t want to do it,” he said, feeling humble and 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.
She held his hand warmly. They sat close together, watching the soldiers pass by with their partners, the lights trailing in countless streams down the busy streets that bordered the park.
“I didn’t know you cared so much,” she said, also humbly.
“I didn’t know you cared that much,” she said, sounding humble as well.
“I didn’t,” he said. “I was knocked over myself.—But I care—all the world.”
"I didn't," he said. "I was knocked over too. But I care—about everything."
His voice was so quiet and colourless, it made her heart go pale with fear.
His voice was so soft and lifeless that it made her heart sink with fear.
“My love!” she said, drawing near to him. But she spoke out of fear, not out of love.
“My love!” she said, moving closer to him. But she spoke from fear, not from 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.
“I care about the whole world—I care for nothing else—neither in life nor in death,” he said, in the same calm, emotionless voice of undeniable truth.
“Than for what?” she murmured duskily.
“Than for what?” she murmured quietly.
“Than for you—to be with me.”
“More than anything—to be with you.”
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.
And once more, she felt fear. Was she really going to be defeated by this? She huddled close to him, really close. They sat completely still, listening to the deep, heavy sounds of the town, the whispers of couples walking by, the footsteps of soldiers.
She shivered against him.
She trembled against him.
“You are cold?” he said.
"Are you cold?" he asked.
“A little.”
"Just a bit."
“We will go and have some supper.”
“We're going to get some dinner.”
He was now always quiet and decided and remote, very beautiful. He seemed to have some strange, cold power over her.
He was now always quiet, determined, and distant, really attractive. He seemed to have some weird, icy hold over her.
They went to a restaurant, and drank chianti. But his pale, wan look did not go away.
They went to a restaurant and had Chianti. But his pale, tired look didn't change.
“Don’t leave me to-night,” he said at length, looking at her, pleading. He was so strange and impersonal, she was afraid.
“Don’t leave me tonight,” he finally said, looking at her, his eyes pleading. He felt so distant and unemotional that it scared her.
“But the people of my place,” she said, quivering.
“But the people in my area,” she said, trembling.
“I will explain to them—they know we are engaged.”
“I'll let them know—we're already engaged.”
She sat pale and mute. He waited.
She sat there, pale and silent. He waited.
“Shall we go?” he said at length.
"Should we head out?" he asked after a moment.
“Where?”
"Where at?"
“To an hotel.”
"To a 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.
Her heart had hardened. Without responding, she stood up to go along with it. But now she felt cold and disconnected. Still, she couldn’t say no to him. It felt like destiny, a destiny she didn’t 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.
They went to an Italian hotel somewhere and had a gloomy bedroom with a very large bed—clean, but dark. The ceiling was painted with a bunch of flowers in a big medallion above the bed. She thought it was nice.
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.
He approached her and held her tightly, like steel gripping onto her. Her passion was awakened; it was intense but restrained. Yet it was strong, extreme, and genuine, their passion that night. He slept with her securely in his arms. All night long, he held her close. She was receptive and compliant. But her sleep wasn't very deep or truly restful.
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 woke up in the morning to the sound of water splashing in the courtyard and sunlight pouring through the lattice. She felt like she was in a foreign country. And Skrebensky was there, like an incubus on 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 lay still, thinking, while his arm was around her, his head resting on her shoulders, his body pressed 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 watched the sunlight streaming in through the shutters, and her immediate surroundings faded away again.
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:
She was in another place, another world, where the old limitations had dissolved and disappeared, where people could move freely, not fearing others, nor being cautious, nor defensive, but calm, indifferent, and relaxed. Vaguely, in a sort of silver light, she wandered around freely and comfortably. The ties to the world were broken. This world of England had faded away. She heard a voice in the yard below calling:
“O Giovann’—O’-O’-O’-Giovann’——!”
“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.
And she realized she was in a new country, starting a new life. It felt so good to lie there, still, with her soul freely drifting in the silver light of a simpler, more beautiful 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.
But there was always a sense of dread waiting to take over her. She became more aware of Skrebensky. She knew he was waking up. She had to change her whole self, leave behind her previous 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:
She knew he was awake. He lay still, with an unyielding stillness, not like when he was asleep. Then his arm tightened almost instinctively around her, and he said, half nervously:
“Did you sleep well?”
"Did you sleep okay?"
“Very well.”
“Alright.”
“So did I.”
"Me too."
There was a pause.
There was a break.
“And do you love me?” he asked.
“And do you love me?” he asked.
She turned and looked at him searchingly. He seemed outside her.
She turned and looked at him intently. He felt distant to her.
“I do,” she said.
“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.
But she said it out of self-satisfaction and a wish not to be stressed. There was a strange gap of silence between them, which scared 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.
They stayed in bed a bit late, then he called for breakfast. She wanted to head straight downstairs and get away from the place as soon as she got up. She liked being in this room, but the idea of the crowded hallway downstairs made her a little uneasy.
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.
A young Italian, a Sicilian, with dark skin and a few acne scars, wearing a grey tunic, came in with the tray. His face had a calmness that was almost African, expressionless and hard to read.
“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.
“One might be in Italy,” Skrebensky said to him, with a friendly tone. A blank expression, almost resembling fear, appeared on the guy's face. He didn’t get it.
“This is like Italy,” Skrebensky explained.
“This is like Italy,” Skrebensky said.
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.
The Italian's face lit up with a confused smile, he finished arranging the tray, and then he was gone. He didn’t get it: he wouldn’t understand anything. He slipped out the door like a semi-tame wild animal. It made Ursula shiver a little at the man's quick, sharp-eyed, focused animal nature.
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.
Skrebensky looked beautiful to her this morning, his face softened by pain and love, his movements very calm and gentle. He was beautiful to her, but she felt a cold distance between them. She always seemed to be fighting against the gap that separated them. But he was oblivious. This morning he was radiant and lovely. She admired 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.
When breakfast was over, she lay still on the pillows while he got ready. She watched him as he washed himself and quickly dried off with a towel. His body was stunning, his movements focused and swift; she admired him and appreciated him completely. He seemed whole now. He didn’t spark any desire in her. He felt like a finished product. She knew him inside out; there was nothing mysterious about him. She felt a deep, almost passionate appreciation for him, but none of that unsettling wonder, none of the thrilling fear, the connection to the unknown, or the reverence of love. However, he was unaware of this in the morning. His body was relaxed and content, his veins filled 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.
Again she went home. But this time he went with her. He wanted to stay close to her. He wanted her to marry him. It was already July. In early September, he had to sail for India. He couldn't stand the thought of going alone. She had to come with him. Nervously, he stayed by her side.
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.
Her exams were done, and her college life was over. Now, she had the choice to get married or work again. She didn’t apply for any jobs. It was assumed she would get married. India intrigued her—the peculiar, unique country. But when she considered Calcutta, Bombay, or Simla, and the European community there, India seemed just as unappealing to her as 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.
She failed her exam: she didn’t pass: she didn’t earn her degree. It hit her hard. It toughened her spirit.
“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.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “What are the odds, whether you have a Bachelor of Arts or not, according to the London University? What you know is what you know, and if you’re Mrs. Skrebensky, the B.A. doesn’t mean anything.”
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?
Instead of comforting her, this made her tougher and more ruthless. She was now facing her own fate. It was up to her to choose between being Mrs. Skrebensky, or even Baroness Skrebensky, the wife of a lieutenant in the Royal Engineers, the Sappers, as he referred to them, living with the European community in India—or being Ursula Brangwen, a single woman and schoolteacher. She had passed her Intermediate Arts examination. She could probably get a job easily as an assistant in one of the higher grade schools, or even at Willey Green School. What should she choose?
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.
She absolutely hated the idea of going back into the constraints of teaching. She really loathed it. But when she thought about marrying Skrebensky and living among the European community in India, her spirit felt trapped and wouldn’t move. She had very little emotion about it: there was just a stalemate.
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.
Skrebensky waited, she waited, everybody waited for the decision. When Anton talked to her and seemed to subtly suggest himself as a husband, she realized just how completely out of the picture he was. On the other hand, when she saw Dorothy and talked about it, she felt like she would marry him right away, as a clear rejection of Dorothy’s views.
The situation was almost ridiculous.
The situation was nearly absurd.
“But do you love him?” asked Dorothy.
“But do you love him?” Dorothy asked.
“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?”
“It’s not about loving him,” Ursula said. “I love him enough—definitely more than I love anyone else in the world. And I’ll never love anyone else the same way again. We’ve had the best of each other. But I don’t care about love. I don’t think it’s important. I don’t care whether I love or not, whether I have love or don’t. What does it matter to me?”
And she shrugged her shoulders in fierce, angry contempt.
And she shrugged her shoulders in fierce, angry disdain.
Dorothy pondered, rather angry and afraid.
Dorothy thought about it, feeling both angry and scared.
“Then what do you care about?” she asked, exasperated.
“Then what do you care about?” she asked, frustrated.
“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.”
“I don’t know,” said Ursula. “But something impersonal. Love—love—love—what does it mean—what does it lead to? So much personal satisfaction. It doesn’t go 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.”
“It’s not supposed to go anywhere, right?” Dorothy said sarcastically. “I thought it was the one thing that exists for its own sake.”
“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 what does it matter to me?” Ursula exclaimed. “If love is just for itself, I could date a hundred men, one after the other. Why should I settle for a Skrebensky? Why shouldn’t I keep going and love all the types I like, one after another, if love is its own purpose? There are plenty of men who aren’t Anton that I could love—who I would want to love.”
“Then you don’t love him,” said Dorothy.
“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.”
“I really do;—just as much, and maybe even more than I would love any of the others. It’s just that there are a lot of things in the other guys that I don’t see in Anton that I would love.”
“What, for instance?”
"What, for example?"
“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——”
“It doesn’t matter. But there’s a certain strong understanding in some men, along with a dignity, a straightforwardness, something undeniable that you find in working men, and then there’s that cheerful, adventurous intensity you notice—a man who could really let loose——”
Dorothy could feel that Ursula was already hankering after something else, something that this man did not give her.
Dorothy could tell that Ursula was already craving something else, something that this man didn't provide for her.
“The question is, what do you want,” propounded Dorothy. “Is it just other men?”
“The question is, what do you want,” Dorothy asked. “Is it just other guys?”
Ursula was silenced. This was her own dread. Was she just promiscuous?
Ursula was quieted. This was her own fear. Was she just being promiscuous?
“Because if it is,” continued Dorothy, “you’d better marry Anton. The other can only end badly.”
“Because if it is,” continued Dorothy, “you’d better marry Anton. The other will only end badly.”
So out of fear of herself Ursula was to marry Skrebensky.
So, out of fear of herself, Ursula was going 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.
He was really busy now, getting ready to go to India. He had to visit family and secure business deals. He was pretty sure about Ursula now. She seemed to have relented. And he felt like he was becoming important and confident again.
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.
It was the first week of August, and he was part of a big group in a bungalow on the Lincolnshire coast. It was a tennis, golf, car, and boat party, hosted by his great-aunt, a woman with social aspirations. Ursula was invited to join the group for the week.
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 went a bit unwillingly. Her marriage was pretty much arranged for the twenty-eighth of the month. They were set to leave for India on September fifth. One thing she knew deep down was that she would never go to 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.
She and Anton, being important guests because of the upcoming wedding, had rooms in the large bungalow. It was a huge place, with a spacious central hall, two smaller writing rooms, and two corridors that led to eight or nine bedrooms. Skrebensky was assigned to one corridor, and Ursula to the other. They felt very out of place 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.
Being lovers, they could spend as much time alone together as they wanted. Still, she felt really strange in this crowd of unfamiliar people, uneasy, as if she had no privacy. She wasn't used to these uniform crowds. She was scared.
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 felt different from everyone else, with their tough, casual, shallow connections that seemed to require so little from them. She thought she wasn't noticeable enough. It was a kind of hold-your-own, unconventional vibe.
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.
She didn’t like it. In crowds, in gatherings of people, she preferred formality. She felt she wasn’t making the right impression. She wasn’t effective; she wasn’t beautiful; she felt like nothing. Even in front of Skrebensky, she felt unimportant, almost inferior. He fit in well with everyone else.
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 and she stepped out into the night. The moon was hidden behind clouds, casting a soft light that occasionally shimmered like smoky mother-of-pearl. They walked together on the damp, ribbed sands by the sea, listening to the crashing of the long, heavy waves that created a ghostly glow and a gentle 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 felt confident. As she walked, the soft silk of her dress—she wore a blue shantung, full-skirted—blew away from the sea and flapped against her legs. She wished it wouldn't. Everything seemed to betray her, and she couldn't find the energy to deny it; 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.
He led her to a secluded spot in the sand dunes, hidden away among the gray thorn bushes and the shiny, grass-like strands. He held her tight, feeling every curve of her body through the delicate silk draping over her limbs. The silk slid over her hidden but very much present shape, sending waves of heat through him that made his head spin. She enjoyed the electric sensation of the fabric under his touch on her skin as he inched closer to uncovering her completely. She felt alive, like a surge of electricity coursing through her. Still, she didn’t see herself as beautiful; she thought she was just thrilling to him. [She allowed him to take her, and he seemed wild with passionate excitement. But as she lay afterward on the cool, soft sand, staring up at the dimly glowing sky, she felt as cold as she had before. Meanwhile, he, breathing heavily, appeared almost fiercely satisfied. It seemed like he was getting his revenge.
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?
A gentle breeze brushed the sea grass and swept across her face. Where was the ultimate happiness she would never experience? Why did she feel so cold, so unresponsive, 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:
As they walked home and she saw the numerous, unwelcoming lights of the bungalow, along with several bungalows clustered together, he said softly:
“Don’t lock your door.”
“Keep your door unlocked.”
“I’d rather, here,” she said.
"I'd prefer, here," she said.
“No, don’t. We belong to each other. Don’t let us deny it.”
“No, don’t. We’re meant for each other. Don’t let us pretend otherwise.”
She did not answer. He took her silence for consent.
She didn't answer. He took her silence as agreement.
He shared his room with another man.
He shared his room with another guy.
“I suppose,” he said, “it won’t alarm the house if I go across to happier regions.”
“I guess,” he said, “it won’t bother anyone if I head over to happier places.”
“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.
“So long as you don't make a big fuss about leaving, 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.]
Skrebensky stepped out in his striped pajamas. He walked through the large dining hall, where the dim light smelled of cigars, whisky, and coffee, then entered the other hallway and found Ursula’s room. She was lying awake, her eyes wide and filled with pain. She was grateful he had come, even if it was just for comfort. There was comfort in being held in his arms, feeling his body against hers. Yet, his arms and body still felt so unfamiliar! Still, they weren’t as unsettling 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.
She didn’t realize how much she was suffering in this house. She was healthy and overflowing with curiosity. So, she played tennis, learned to golf, rowed out, and swam in the deep sea, enjoying it all with great enthusiasm. Yet, all the while, among those others, she felt shocked and uncomfortable, as if her intensely sensitive vulnerability was exposed to the harsh, brutal, material reality of everyone else.
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 days passed without any particular significance, filled with an intense, almost overwhelming appreciation of one's body. Skrebensky was just one of the crowd, until evening arrived, and he claimed her for himself. She enjoyed a lot of freedom and was treated with considerable respect, as a girl on the brink of marriage, preparing to leave 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.
The trouble started in the evening. A longing for something unknown washed over her, a desire for something she couldn’t identify. She would stroll along the shore alone after dark, waiting for something, as if she were heading to a meeting. The salty, bitter passion of the sea, its indifference to the land, its rhythmic, powerful motion, its strength, its forceful presence, and its stinging salt seemed to push her to the edge of madness, teasing her with hints of fulfillment. And then, there would be Skrebensky, Skrebensky, whom she knew, whom she liked, who was charming, but whose spirit couldn’t contain her within its waves of strength, nor could his heart draw her in with 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.
One evening, they went out after dinner, walking across the low golf course to the dunes and the sea. The sky had small, faint stars, and everything was still and dim. They walked together in silence, then struggled through the heavy, loose sand in the gap between the dunes. They moved quietly under the even, faint darkness, deeper into the shadows 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.
Suddenly, as she reached the heavy, sandy hill, Ursula lifted her head and stepped back, momentarily scared. There was a bright white light in front of her; the moon shone like a blazing furnace door, pouring out a powerful blast of moonlight over the ocean side of the world, creating a dazzling and frightening glare of white. They stepped back into the shadows for a moment, letting out a cry. He felt exposed, where a secret was deeply buried. He felt himself melting away into nothingness, like a bead quickly disappearing in a bright flame.
“How wonderful!” cried Ursula, in low, calling tones. “How wonderful!”
“How amazing!” Ursula exclaimed in a quiet, beckoning voice. “How amazing!”
And she went forward, plunging into it. He followed behind. She too seemed to melt into the glare, towards the moon.
And she moved ahead, diving into it. He followed closely. She also appeared to blend into the brightness, heading toward 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.
The sand looked like powdered silver, the sea shimmered brightly as it came toward them, and she stepped forward to greet the sparkling, lively water. [She offered her chest to the moon, her belly to the shimmering, rising waves.] He stood back, enveloped, a shadow fading away.
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.
She stood at the water's edge, where the solid, shimmering sea met her, and the wave crashed over her feet.
“I want to go,” she cried, in a strong, dominant voice. “I want to go.”
“I want to go,” she shouted, with a powerful, commanding tone. “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.
He saw the moonlight on her face, and it made her look 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.
She moved around the edge of the water like she was in a trance, and he followed her. He watched the froth of the waves swirl over her feet and ankles as she swung her arms to keep her balance. He expected at any moment to see her walk into the sea, fully dressed, and get swept away.
But she turned, she walked to him.
But she turned and walked over to him.
“I want to go,” she cried again, in the high, hard voice, like the scream of gulls.
“I want to go,” she shouted again, in a high, harsh voice, like the cry of seagulls.
“Where?” he asked.
“Where?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
"I have no idea."
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.
And she grabbed his arm, held onto him tightly, as if he were trapped, and guided him a short distance along the edge of the bright, mesmerizing 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.
Then, in the bright flare of light, she grabbed him tightly, as if she suddenly had the power to destroy. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him in her grip while her mouth sought his in a fierce, passionate kiss that kept intensifying until his body was powerless in her hold, his heart racing with fear from her aggressive, piercing kiss. The water washed over their feet again, but she ignored it. She seemed oblivious, pressing her mouth against him as if trying to possess his heart. Finally, she pulled away and looked at him—really looked at him. He understood what she wanted. He took her hand and led her across the shoreline, back to the sand dunes. She followed silently. He felt like the weight of the world was on him, as if it was a test 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.
“No, over here,” she said, stepping onto the slope bathed in moonlight. She lay still, her eyes wide open, gazing at the moon. He approached her directly, without any small talk. She held him down at the chest, intensely. The struggle for completion was overwhelming. It went on until it felt like an agony to his soul, until he gave in, as if he were dead, lying with his face half-buried in her hair and half in the sand, motionless, as if he would remain still there forever, hidden in the dark, buried—just buried—he just wanted to be lost in the comforting darkness, nothing 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 seemed to faint. It took a while for him to regain his senses. He noticed an unusual movement of her chest. He looked up. Her face was illuminated by the moonlight, her eyes wide open and still. But slowly, a tear rolled from her eye, sparkling in the moonlight as it traveled 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 felt like a knife was being pushed into his already lifeless body. With his head thrown back, he watched, tense and focused, for several minutes, observing the unchanging, rigid face that looked metallic in the moonlight, the fixed, unseeing eye where water slowly gathered, shimmered with the moonlight, and then overflowed, trickling down like a tear carrying its load of moonlight, into the darkness, falling onto 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 slowly pulled away, almost like he was scared, and kept moving back—she stayed still. He looked at her—she remained the same. Could he escape? He turned, saw the open shore right in front of him, and he took off, running farther and farther from the terrible figure lying in the moonlight on the sand, tears forming and streaming down the unmoving, timeless 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.
He felt that if he ever saw her again, it would break him; his bones would be shattered, his body crushed, erased forever. And for now, he still had the love of his own living body. He wandered for a really long time until his mind went dark and he collapsed from exhaustion. Then he curled up in the deepest darkness he could find, under the sea grass, and lay there unconscious.
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.
She slowly broke free from her intense pain, though each movement was a sharp reminder of her agony. Bit by bit, she lifted her lifeless body from the sand and finally stood up. There was no moon for her now, no sea. Everything had faded away. She dragged her lifeless body to the house, to her room, where she lay down completely still.
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.
Morning brought her a new wave of superficial life. But everything inside her felt cold, dead, and lifeless. Skrebensky showed up at breakfast. He looked pale and exhausted. They didn’t look at each other or talk to each other. Aside from the usual small talk people make, they were distant, avoiding any mention of what had happened between them during the last two days of their stay. They felt like two dead people who couldn't acknowledge or even 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.
Then she packed her bag and got ready. Several guests were leaving together for the same train. He wouldn't have a chance to talk 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.
He knocked on her bedroom door just in time. She stood there with her umbrella in her hand. He closed the door. He didn't know what to say.
“Have you done with me?” he asked her at length, lifting his head.
“Are you finished with me?” he asked her after a while, lifting his head.
“It isn’t me,” she said. “You have done with me—we have done with each other.”
“It’s not me,” she said. “You’re done with me—we’re 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.
He looked at her, at her expressionless face, which he found so harsh. And he realized he could never touch her again. His resolve was shattered, he was burned, but he held on to the life of his body.
“Well, what have I done?” he asked, in a rather querulous voice.
"Well, what have I done?" he asked, with a somewhat complaining tone.
“I don’t know,” she said, in the same dull, feelingless voice. “It is finished. It had been a failure.”
“I don’t know,” she said, in the same flat, emotionless voice. “It’s over. It was a failure.”
He was silent. The words still burned his bowels.
He was quiet. The words still seethed inside him.
“Is it my fault?” he said, looking up at length, challenging the last stroke.
“Is it my fault?” he asked, looking up for a long moment, confronting the final blow.
“You couldn’t——” she began. But she broke down.
“You couldn’t——” she started. But then 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.
He turned away, scared to hear more. She started to pack her bag, her handkerchief, her umbrella. She had to leave now. He was just waiting for her to go.
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?
At last, the carriage arrived and she left with the others. Once she was gone, he felt a huge relief, a nice sense of normalcy. In an instant, everything faded away. He was almost childishly cheerful and sociable all day long. He was surprised that life could be this pleasant. It was better than it had been before. How easy it was to be free of her! Everything felt so friendly and straightforward to him. What fake thing had she been pushing onto 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.
But at night, he couldn't bear to be alone. His roommate had left, and the hours of darkness were torture for him. He stared out the window in pain and fear. When would this awful darkness be gone? Gathering all his strength, he endured it. He finally fell asleep 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.
He never thought about her. Only his fear of the nighttime hours consumed him, haunting him like an obsession. He slept restlessly, waking up repeatedly in distress. The fear chipped away at the essence of who he was.
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.
His plan was to stay up very late: hang out with friends and drink until one or one-thirty in the morning; then he would get three hours of sleep, a moment of escape. It was light by five o'clock. But he was almost driven to madness if he opened his eyes to 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.
During the day, he was fine, always busy with whatever was happening at the moment, focusing on the trivial present, which felt enough and satisfying to him. No matter how insignificant his activities were, he threw himself into them completely and felt normal and content. He was always active, cheerful, fun-loving, charming, and superficial. But he feared the darkness and silence of his own bedroom, when the darkness would confront him with his own soul. He couldn't handle that, just like he couldn't bear to think about Ursula. He had no soul, no foundation. He never thought of Ursula, not once; he gave her no indication. She represented the darkness, the challenge, the nightmare. He focused on immediate matters. He wanted to get married quickly to shield himself from the darkness and the confrontation with his own soul. He planned to marry his Colonel’s daughter. Without hesitation, driven by his need for action, he wrote to this girl, telling her that his engagement was over—it had been a fleeting infatuation that he couldn't understand now that it was behind him—and asked if he could see his very dear friend soon. He wouldn’t be at peace until 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.
He got a pretty surprised response from the girl, but she was happy to see him. She was living with her aunt. He went to see her right away and proposed on the first evening. She said yes. The wedding happened quietly within two weeks. Ursula wasn't informed about it. A week later, Skrebensky sailed to India with his new wife.
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.
Ursula went home to Beldover feeling faint, dim, and closed off. She could barely speak or pay attention. It was like her energy was frozen. Her family asked her what was wrong. She told them she had ended her engagement with Skrebensky. They looked confused and upset. But she couldn’t feel anything anymore.
The weeks crawled by in apathy. He would have sailed for India now. She was scarcely interested. She was inert, without strength or interest.
The weeks dragged on with indifference. He would have already set sail for India. She hardly cared. She was passive, lacking energy 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?
Suddenly, a shock ran through her, so intense that she felt like she was hit. Could she be pregnant? She had been so overwhelmed by her own pain and his that this thought had never crossed her mind. Now, like a flame, it spread through her limbs and body. Could she be pregnant?
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.
In the first intense moments of wonder, she didn’t understand what she was feeling. She felt as if she were tied to the stake. The flames were licking at her and consuming her. But the flames also felt comforting. They seemed to wear her down to a state of rest. What she felt in her heart and her core was unfamiliar to her. It was a sort of fainting.
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?
Then gradually the weight of her heart pressed more and more into her awareness. What was she doing? Was she having a baby? Having a baby? For what purpose?
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.
Her body felt alive, but her spirit was tired. This child felt like a mark of her own emptiness. Still, she was happy in her body to be pregnant. She started to think about writing to Skrebensky, going to him, marrying him, and living simply as a good wife. What did it matter what her identity or lifestyle was? What mattered was just living day by day, enjoying her existence in her body—rich, peaceful, whole, without anything more to worry about or complicate things. She realized she had been wrong, arrogant, and selfish for wanting something more, that idea of freedom, that imagined fulfillment that she thought she couldn't have with Skrebensky. Who was she to want some grand fulfillment in her life? Wasn’t it enough to have her man, her children, and her safe space under the sun? Wasn't that enough for her, like it had been for her mother? She would marry, love her husband, and take 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.
Suddenly, she saw her mother in a clear and honest light. Her mother was simple and completely genuine. She had accepted the life that was given to her. She didn't, in her arrogant pride, try to shape life to suit her own desires. Her mother was right, deeply right, and she realized that she had been insincere, shallow, and self-absorbed.
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.
A strong sense of humility washed over her, and within that humility was a kind of peaceful submission. She surrendered herself to the constraints, embraced them, and referred to it as 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.
“Since you left me, I’ve been through a lot, and I’ve come to realize many things about myself. I can’t express how much regret I feel for my wrong and twisted actions. I was meant to love you and to experience your love for me. But instead of humbly accepting the gift that God gave me, I insisted on wanting the moon for myself. Because I couldn’t have it, I decided everything else had to 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.
“I don’t know if you can ever forgive me. I could die from shame just thinking about how I treated you in our last moments together, and I’m not sure I could ever look you in the face again. To be honest, the best thing would be for me to die and put my fantasies to rest forever. But I just found out I’m pregnant, so that can’t happen.”
“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——”
“It’s your child, and because of that, I must honor it and give my whole self to its care, not thinking about death, which is really just pride. So, because you once loved me, and because this child is yours, I’m asking you to take me back. If you send me a message, I’ll come to you as soon as I can. I promise to be a loyal wife and to support you in everything. Right now, I only feel hate for myself and my own foolish pride. I love you—I love the idea of you—you were genuine and kind the whole time, while I was so fake. Once I’m with you again, I’ll only want to find peace in your arms for the rest of 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.
This letter she wrote, sentence by sentence, as if it came from her deepest, most genuine heart. She felt that now, at this moment, she was fully in touch with herself. This was her true self, for all time. With this document, she would stand before God on 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.
For what else could a woman do but submit? What was her body for if not for having children, her strength dedicated to her kids and her husband, the giver of life? In the end, she was just 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 sent her letter to his club, which would forward it to him in Calcutta. He would get it shortly after he arrived in India—within three weeks of landing there. In a month, she would hear back 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.
She was completely sure about him. She only thought about getting her clothes ready and living a quiet, peaceful life until the time came for her to join him again and finish her story forever. The calm felt unnatural and lasted for a long time. However, she could sense a growing restlessness, a storm brewing inside her. She tried to escape it. She wished she could get a reply from Skrebensky to her letter so she could figure out her path and be busy fulfilling her fate. It was this inactivity that made her vulnerable to the overwhelming change she feared.
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.
It was interesting how little she cared that he hadn't written to her before. It was enough that she had sent her letter. She would get the response she needed, and 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.
One afternoon in early October, feeling a storm of emotions bubbling inside her, she stepped out into the rain, wanting to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the house. Everything was soaked and empty; the grimy houses glowed a dull red, and the buildings shone bright scarlet in the flickering light beneath the shimmering, dark purple rooftops. Ursula moved toward Willey Green. She tilted her face up and walked quickly, noticing the light moving across the shallow valley, spotting the colliery and its clouds of steam, momentarily glowing in a soft brilliance amidst the chaotic rain. Then the moment faded again. She appreciated the rain’s sense of privacy and closeness.
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.
Heading toward the woods, she caught sight of the pale shimmer of Willey Water through the mist below. She strolled through the open area where hawthorn trees swayed like hair in the wind, and round bushes seemed to linger in the air. It was truly magnificent, wild, and untamed.
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.
Yet she rushed to the woods for cover. There, the loud booming above vibrated down and surrounded her, with countless tree trunks forming a barrier against the intense sound. Massive, water-streaked trunks stood upright like pillars between the roaring overhead and the swirling ground beneath her feet. She slipped between the tree trunks, feeling uneasy around them. They might close in and trap her as she passed through their watchful 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.
So she moved quickly, thinking she was unseen. She felt like a bird that had flown into a room full of great warriors gathered around the table. She hurried between their serious, loud ranks, believing she wasn’t noticed, until she finally slipped through the far window and out into the open, onto the bright 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.
She turned under the cover of the common, watching the heavy sheets of rain moving slowly across the scenery. She was soaked and far from home, completely surrounded by the rain and the swaying landscape. She needed to make her way back through all this chaos, back to safety and comfort.
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.
A solitary figure, she took the path straight across the wilderness, heading back. The trail was a narrow groove in the grass between tall, dry, tussocky grass; it was barely more than a rabbit run. So she moved quickly along, watching her step, gliding like a bird in the wind, completely caught up in the moment. But deep inside her heart, there was a small, living seed of fear as she passed through the emptiness.
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.
Suddenly, she realized there was something more. Some horses were appearing in the rain, not close yet. But they were going to be close. She kept moving forward, without choice. They were horses sheltered by a group of trees in the distance, above her. She continued on her path with her head down. She didn’t want to raise her face to them. She didn’t want to acknowledge their presence. She pressed on along the wild path.
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.
She felt the heaviness in her chest. It was the burden of the horses. But she would find a way around them. She would carry the weight confidently and manage to get away. She would keep going straight ahead and be free.
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.
Suddenly, the weight got heavier and her heart felt tight under it. Her breathing became difficult. But this weight, too, she could handle. Without needing to see, she sensed the horses closing in. What were they? She felt the pounding of their heavy hooves on the ground. What was coming towards her, what pressure was weighing on her heart? She didn't know, and she didn't 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.
Yet now her path was blocked. They were standing behind her. She knew they had gathered on a log bridge over the grassy embankment, a dark, formidable, heavy knot. Still, her feet kept moving. They would break away before her. They would break away before her. Her feet kept moving. And her nerves and veins grew more and more tense; they were burning, they were burning white hot, they were about to fuse, and she was sure she would 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.
But the horses had broken loose in front of her. In a flash of insight, their movement coursed through her, the tremble and tension and force of their strong sides, as they surged ahead and then moved 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 knew they hadn't left; she knew they were still waiting for her. But she walked across the log bridge that their hooves had churned and thudded upon, she continued on, understanding things about them. She felt their chests tightened, constricted in a grip that never loosened, she noticed their red nostrils flaring from long endurance, and their powerful haunches, so rounded, so massive, pressing, pressing, pressing to break free from the hold on their chests, pushing forever until they went insane, running against the walls of time, and never breaking free. Their strong haunches were smooth and darkened by rain. But the darkness and wetness of the rain couldn't extinguish the hard, urgent, intense fire 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.
She kept going, moving closer. She noticed the bright flash of hooves, a bluish, shiny light surrounding a dark void. The bluish, glowing flash of the hoof-iron seemed huge, like a halo of lightning around the tangled darkness of the flanks. The flash of hooves came like flashes of lightning from the strong 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.
They were waiting for her again. They had come together under an oak tree, pressing their terrible, blind, victorious sides against each other, just waiting, waiting. They were anticipating her arrival. As if from a long way off, she was getting closer, moving toward the row of branching oak trees where they created their deep darkness, huddled on a single slope.
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.
She has to come closer. But they pulled away, trotting in a wide circle to avoid seeing her, and then returned to 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.
They were behind her. The path was clear ahead, leading to the gate in the tall hedge not far away, allowing her to enter the smaller, tended field, and then onto the main road and the structured world of people. Her route was unobstructed. She calmed herself. Yet her heart was still filled with fear, filled 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.
Suddenly she hesitated, as if struck by lightning. She seemed to be falling, yet found herself taking small, hesitant steps forward. The sound of horses galloping down the path behind her shook her, the weight pressing down on her, down to the moment of despair. She couldn’t look back, so the horses thundered toward 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.
Cruelly, they swerved and crashed past her on the left. She saw the fierce flanks, crinkled and still not enough, the huge hooves flashing brightly as they were brandished around her, and one by one the horses raced by, focused, 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.
They had come through, making a loud display around her, surrounding her. They eased up on their rapid movement, slowed down, and gathered together again in a cluster by the gate and the trees in front of her. They fidgeted, shifted uneasily, and positioned their restless bodies into one group, sharing one goal. They were confronting 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 heart was gone; she felt completely empty. She knew she couldn’t get too close. The tightly packed group of horses had won. They shifted restlessly, anticipating her, aware of their victory. They moved nervously, reflecting the tension of impending triumph. Her heart was gone, her limbs felt weak; she was like water, completely dissolved. All the strength and imposing power were with the large 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.
Her feet stumbled, and she stopped. This was the moment of truth. The horses shifted restlessly. She turned her gaze away, feeling defeated. To her left, two hundred yards down the slope, a dense hedge stretched out parallel. There was an oak tree at one spot. She could climb into the branches of that oak and then drop down 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.
Shaking, with her limbs feeling loose and weak, afraid of falling at any moment, she started to move as if she were taking a long way around the mass of horses. The horses shifted their bodies tightly against her. She moved forward as if in a daze.
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.
Then suddenly, in a burst of pain, she dashed forward, grabbed the rough knots of the oak tree, and started to climb. Her body felt weak, but her hands were as tough as steel. She knew she was strong. She struggled hard until she was hanging from a branch. She could tell the horses were aware of her presence. She found her footing on the branch. The horses were loosening their ties, moving around, trying to understand what was happening. She worked her way around to the other side of the tree. As they began to canter toward her, she collapsed 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.
For a few moments, she couldn't move. Then she caught sight of the powerful hooves of the horses as they trotted by just beyond the rabbit-cleared bottom of the hedge. She couldn’t take it. She got up and quickly walked diagonally across the field. The horses galloped along the other side of the hedge toward the corner, where they were stopped. She could sense them huddled together while she hurried across the open field. They seemed almost sad now. Her determination alone pushed her forward until, shaking, she climbed over the fence beneath a leaning thorn tree that hung over the grass by the main road. All her energy left her, and she sat on the fence, leaning back against the trunk of the thorn tree, unmoving.
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.
As she sat there, exhausted, time and the flow of change drifted away from her. She lay on the stream bed like a motionless stone, unaware and unchanging, while everything else flowed by in fleeting moments, leaving her there, a stone resting on the stream bed, unchanging and passive, sunk deep in the midst 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 lay still for a long time, with her back against the thorn tree trunk, in her final solitude. Some coal miners passed by, trudging heavily up the wet road, their voices ringing out, their shoulders hunched, their figures looking ghostly in the rain. Some didn’t notice her. She opened her eyes lazily as they walked past. Then one man, walking alone, spotted her. The whites of his eyes contrasted with his dark face as he looked at her in surprise. He hesitated, as if he wanted to speak to her, out of a worried concern for her. She felt a deep dread at the thought of him talking to her, and she feared his questions.
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 got up from her seat and walked aimlessly along the path—doing so aimlessly. It was a long journey home. She felt like she had to keep walking for the rest of her life, tired and exhausted. Step after step, step after step, always on the wet, rainy road between the hedges. Step after step, step after step, the monotony created a deep, cold feeling of nausea within her. How deep was her cold nausea, how deep! It felt like she was destined to reach the bottom of everything today: the bottom of everything. Well, at least she was walking along the lowest point—she was completely safe: completely safe, even if she had to keep going forever, since this was the very bottom, and there was nothing deeper. There was nothing deeper, you see, so one could only feel certain and 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 finally arrived home. The trek up the hill to Beldover had been really challenging. Why did she have to climb the hill? Why climb at all? Why not just stay below? Why push herself up the slope? Why keep pushing up and up when she was already at the bottom? Oh, it was exhausting, tiring, and so heavy. Always burdens, always, always burdens. But still, she had to reach the top and get to bed. She needed to 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 got in and went upstairs in the dim light without anyone noticing she was in such a wet condition. She was too exhausted to go downstairs again. She climbed into bed and lay shivering from the cold, yet too indifferent to get up or ask for help. Then gradually she became more sick.
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 was very sick for two weeks, feverish, shaken, and in pain. But even through the chaos of her delirium, she had a quiet strength, a sense of stability. She was somewhat like the stone at the bottom of the river, untouched and unchanged, no matter what storms raged inside her. Her spirit remained calm and constant, filled with pain, but enduring. Beneath all her suffering, a deep, unchanging understanding persisted.
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.
She knew, and she no longer cared. During her illness, twisted into unclear shapes, the question of herself and Skrebensky lingered like a nagging discomfort that was still on the surface, not reaching her isolated, unshakeable core of reality. But the damage he caused burned inside her until it eventually faded away.
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.
Must she really belong to him, must she stick by him? Something drew her in, but it didn’t feel genuine. There was always this pain, the pain of it not being real, of her connection to Skrebensky. What linked her to him when she wasn’t actually tied to him? Why did the falsehood stick around? Why did the untruth eat away at her, why couldn’t she wake up to clarity, to reality? If only she could wake up, if only she could wake up, the illusion of the dream, of her bond with Skrebensky, would disappear. But the sleep, the confusion kept her trapped. Even when she was calm and clear-headed, she was under 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?
Yet she was never under its spell. What outside force connected her to him? There was some kind of bond placed on her. Why couldn’t she break free from it? 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.
In her delirium, she pounded away at the question. Finally, her exhaustion provided the answer—it was the child. The child connected her to him. The child was like a strap around her mind, squeezing down on her thoughts. It tied 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.
But why, why was she tied to Skrebensky? Couldn’t she have a child of her own? Wasn’t the child her own business? All of it her own business? What did it have to do with him? Why did she have to feel constricted and suffocated by the connection to Skrebensky and his world? Anton’s world: it became this tight space in her restless mind that trapped her. If she couldn’t escape this tightness, she would lose her mind. This tightness was Anton and his world, not the Anton she had, but the Anton she didn’t have, the one owned by some other force, 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.
She fought and fought and fought through her illness to be free of him and his world, to set it aside, to put it in its place. Yet time and again it took control over her, it gripped her tighter. Oh, the unbearable exhaustion of her body, which she couldn’t shake off or escape. If only she could break free, if only she could detach herself from feeling, from her body, from all the overwhelming burdens of the world that surrounded her, from her father, her mother, her lover, and all her acquaintances.
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.”
Repeatedly, in a deep sense of exhaustion, she said, “I have no father, no mother, no lover. I don’t have a defined place in the world, I don’t belong to Beldover, Nottingham, England, or this world. None of them exist. I feel trapped and tangled in all of them, but they’re all fake. I need to break free, like a nut escaping its shell, which is a fiction.”
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.
And again, in her feverish mind, the vivid image of acorns in February lying on the forest floor with their shells broken and discarded, leaving the kernel exposed to emerge. She was that exposed, clear kernel pushing out the strong, fresh shoot, while the world around her was a distant winter—her parents, Anton, college, and all her friends—everything left behind like a year that has passed. The kernel was free and exposed, trying to take root and create a new understanding of Eternity in the flow of Time. The kernel was the only reality; everything else had faded into nothingness.
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.
This grew and grew within her. When she opened her eyes in the afternoon and saw the window of her room and the faint, smoky landscape outside, it was all just husk and shell lying around, all husk and shell; she could see nothing else. She was still contained, but loosely so. There was a gap between her and the shell. It was broken, there was a tear in it. Soon she would plant her roots in a new Day, her bare self would take on the foundation of a new sky and new air, and 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.
Gradually, she started to really sleep. She slept with confidence in her new reality. She breathed in the fresh air of a new world with her soul. The peace was profound and uplifting. She had her roots in new soil, and she was slowly embraced by 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.
When she finally woke up, it felt like a new day had arrived on Earth. How long, how long had she struggled through the dust and darkness for this new beginning? She felt so delicate and pure, like the most fragile flower blooming at the end of winter. But the night was passing, and dawn was breaking.
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.
Very far away was her past with Skrebensky and their goodbye—very far away. Some things were real; those first exciting weeks. Before, they had felt like a dream. Now, they felt like everyday life. Everything else seemed fake. She realized that Skrebensky had never truly become real. During those weeks of intense passion, he had been part of her desire, and she had made him up for that time. But in the end, he let her down and fell apart.
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.
It's strange how much space kept them apart. She liked him now, like she liked a memory of a former self. He was part of the past, finite. He was something known. She felt a deep affection for him, just as one does for what is gone. But when she looked ahead, he wasn’t there. No, when she glanced forward into the uncharted territory before her, all she could see was a bright, fresh light and mysterious trees rising from the ground like smoke. It was the unknown, the unexplored, the uncharted land where she found herself, alone, after crossing the void, the darkness that separated the New World from 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 wouldn't be a child: she was relieved. Even if there had been a child, it wouldn't have changed much. She would have kept the child and herself; she wouldn't have gone to Skrebensky. Anton was part of her 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.
The message from Skrebensky arrived: “I’m married.” Old pain, anger, and contempt bubbled up inside her. Did he really belong so completely to her discarded past? She rejected him. He was who he was. It was good that he was who he was. Who was she to expect a man to fit her desires? It wasn’t her role to create, but to recognize a man made by God. The man should emerge from the Infinite, and she should greet him. She was relieved she couldn't create her own man. She was relieved she had nothing to do with his creation. She was grateful that this was part of that greater power where she finally found rest. The man would come from 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.
As she started to feel better, she perched by her window to observe something new. Looking down at the street, she noticed people passing by—miners, women, children—each trapped in the shell of an old existence, but beneath that shell, she could see the signs of a new growth forming. In the still, quiet figures of the miners, she sensed a kind of tension, a painful waiting for a fresh release; she recognized the same in the false bravado of the women. The women's confidence was fragile. It would shatter easily, exposing the strength and steady determination of the new growth emerging.
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.
In everything she saw, she reached out, trying to find the handiwork of the living God, instead of the old, rigid remnants of past life. Sometimes she was consumed by great fear. Sometimes she felt disconnected, unable to sense anything, only aware of the old dread of the shell that trapped her and all humanity. They were all imprisoned; they were all losing their minds.
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.
She saw the stiffened bodies of the coal miners, who already looked like they were in coffins; she saw their unchanging eyes, the eyes of those who are buried alive. She saw the harsh, sharp edges of the new houses that seemed to spread over the hillside in their unfeeling triumph, a triumph of horrible, shapeless angles and straight lines, the expression of unchecked corruption—corruption so pure that it was hard and brittle. She saw the dreary atmosphere over the blackened hills opposite, the dark blotches of homes with slate roofs, and the old church tower standing in ugly obsolescence above raw new houses at the top of the hill. The shapeless, brittle, hard-edged new homes advanced from Beldover to meet the corrupt new houses from Lethley, with the houses of Lethley moving to mix with the houses of Hainor, creating a dry, brittle, terrible corruption spreading over the land. She was overwhelmed with a nausea so deep that she felt as though she would perish as she sat. Then, through the swirling clouds, she saw a band of faint iridescence coloring a portion of the hill in soft hues. Startled and forgetting her despair, she looked for the glowing colors and saw a rainbow forming. In one spot, it shone brightly, and her heart ached with hope as she sought the shadow of the iris where the bow should be. Gradually, the colors gathered mysteriously from nowhere, taking shape, forming a faint, vast rainbow. The arc bent and strengthened until it arched powerfully, creating a grand structure of light and color in the expanse of the sky, its pedestals glowing amidst the corruption of new houses on the low hill, its arch becoming the pinnacle 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.
And the rainbow stood on the ground. She knew that the corrupt people who crawled separately across the face of the world’s decay were still alive, that the rainbow was arched in their blood and would come to life in their spirit, that they would shed their tough outer layer of decay, and that new, clean, naked bodies would emerge for a new beginning, for new growth, reaching toward the light, the wind, and the fresh rain from the sky. She saw in the rainbow the earth’s new design, the old, crumbling decay of houses and factories swept away, the world built anew in a vibrant fabric of Truth, fitting with the expansive sky above.
THE END
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