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, possessed4 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 entirely5 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 attained6 a sort of fulfilment in him. He carefully chose these few.
He had a subtle, quick, critical intelligence, a mind that was like a scale or balance. There was something of a woman in all this.
In London he had been the favourite pupil of an engineer, a clever man, who became well-known at the time when Tom Brangwen had just finished his studies. Through this master the youth kept acquaintance with various individual, outstanding characters. He never asserted himself. He seemed to be there to estimate and establish the rest. He was like a presence that makes us aware of our own being. So that he was while still young connected with some of the most energetic scientific and mathematical people in London. They took him as an equal. Quiet and perceptive9 and impersonal10 as he was, he kept his place and learned how to value others in just degree. He was there like a judgment11. Besides, he was very good-looking, of medium stature12, but beautifully proportioned, dark, with fine colouring, always perfectly13 healthy.
His father allowed him a liberal pocket-money, besides which he had a sort of post as assistant to his chief. Then from time to time the young man appeared at the Marsh, curiously14 attractive, well-dressed, reserved, having by nature a subtle, refined manner. And he set the change in the farm.
Fred, the younger brother, was a Brangwen, large-boned, blue-eyed, English. He was his father’s very son, the two men, father and son, were supremely16 at ease with one another. Fred was succeeding to the farm.
Between the elder brother and the younger existed an almost passionate17 love. Tom watched over Fred with a woman’s poignant18 attention and self-less care. Fred looked up to Tom as to something miraculous19, that which he himself would aspire20 to be, were he great also.
So that after Anna’s departure, the Marsh began to take on a new tone. The boys were gentlemen; Tom had a rare nature and had risen high. Fred was sensitive and fond of reading, he pondered Ruskin and then the Agnostic writings. Like all the Brangwens, he was very much a thing to himself, though fond of people, and indulgent to them, having an exaggerated respect for them.
There was a rather uneasy friendship between him and one of the young Hardys at the Hall. The two households were different, yet the young men met on shy terms of equality.
It was young Tom Brangwen, with his dark lashes3 and beautiful colouring, his soft, inscrutable nature, his strange repose21 and his informed air, added to his position in London, who seemed to emphasise22 the superior foreign element in the Marsh. When he appeared, perfectly dressed, as if soft and affable, and yet quite removed from everybody, he created an uneasiness in people, he was reserved in the minds of the Cossethay and Ilkeston acquaintances to a different, remote world.
He and his mother had a kind of affinity23. The affection between them was of a mute, distant character, but radical24. His father was always uneasy and slightly deferential25 to his eldest26 son. Tom also formed the link that kept the Marsh in real connection with the Skrebenskys, now quite important people in their own district.
So a change in tone came over the Marsh. Tom Brangwen the father, as he grew older, seemed to mature into a gentleman-farmer. His figure lent itself: burly and handsome. His face remained fresh and his blue eyes as full of light, his thick hair and beard had turned gradually to a silky whiteness. It was his custom to laugh a great deal, in his acquiescent27, wilful28 manner. Things had puzzled him very much, so he had taken the line of easy, good-humoured acceptance. He was not responsible for the frame of things. Yet he was afraid of the unknown in life.
He was fairly well-off. His wife was there with him, a different being from himself, yet somewhere vitally connected with him:-who was he to understand where and how? His two sons were gentlemen. They were men distinct from himself, they had separate beings of their own, yet they were connected with himself. It was all adventurous29 and puzzling. Yet one remained vital within one’s own existence, whatever the off-shoots.
So, handsome and puzzled, he laughed and stuck to himself as the only thing he could stick to. His youngness and the wonder remained almost the same in him. He became indolent, he developed a luxuriant ease. Fred did most of the farm-work, the father saw to the more important transactions. He drove a good mare30, and sometimes he rode his cob. He drank in the hotels and the inns with better-class farmers and proprietors31, he had well-to-do acquaintances among men. But one class suited him no better than another.
His wife, as ever, had no acquaintances. Her hair was threaded now with grey, her face grew older in form without changing in expression. She seemed the same as when she had come to the Marsh twenty-five years ago, save that her health was more fragile. She seemed always to haunt the Marsh rather than to live there. She was never part of the life. Something she represented was alien there, she remained a stranger within the gates, in some ways fixed32 and impervious33, in some ways curiously refining. She caused the separateness and individuality of all the Marsh inmates34, the friability35 of the household.
When young Tom Brangwen was twenty-three years old there was some breach36 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 misery37 which he wore with the same ease and pleasantness as he wore his close-sitting clothes.
To Ursula he was a romantic, alluring38 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 glimmering39 and exquisite40; or he sent her a little necklace of rough stones, amethyst41 and opal and brilliants and garnet. He spoke42 other languages easily and fluently, his nature was curiously gracious and insinuating43. With all that, he was undefinably an outsider. He belonged to nowhere, to no society.
Anna Brangwen had left her intimacy44 with her father undeveloped since the time of her marriage. At her marriage it had been abandoned. He and she had drawn45 a reserve between them. Anna went more to her mother.
Then suddenly the father died.
It happened one springtime when Ursula was about eight years old, he, Tom Brangwen, drove off on a Saturday morning to the market in Nottingham, saying he might not be back till late, as there was a special show and then a meeting he had to attend. His family understood that he would enjoy himself.
The season had been rainy and dreary46. In the evening it was pouring with rain. Fred Brangwen, unsettled, uneasy, did not go out, as was his wont47. He smoked and read and fidgeted, hearing always the trickling48 of water outside. This wet, black night seemed to cut him off and make him unsettled, aware of himself, aware that he wanted something else, aware that he was scarcely living. There seemed to him to be no root to his life, no place for him to get satisfied in. He dreamed of going abroad. But his instinct knew that change of place would not solve his problem. He wanted change, deep, vital change of living. And he did not know how to get it.
Tilly, an old woman now, came in saying that the labourers who had been suppering up said the yard and everywhere was just a slew49 of water. He heard in indifference50. But he hated a desolate51, raw wetness in the world. He would leave the Marsh.
His mother was in bed. At last he shut his book, his mind was blank, he walked upstairs intoxicated52 with depression and anger, and, intoxicated with depression and anger, locked himself into sleep.
Tilly set slippers53 before the kitchen fire, and she also went to bed, leaving the door unlocked. Then the farm was in darkness, in the rain.
At eleven o’clock it was still raining. Tom Brangwen stood in the yard of the “Angel”, Nottingham, and buttoned his coat.
“Oh, well,” he said cheerfully, “it’s rained on me before. Put ’er in, Jack54, my lad, put her in-Tha’rt a rare old cock, Jacky-boy, wi’ a belly55 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 fowl56 ’ll be king o’ the castle at this rate-dove an’ olive branch an’ all. Stand up then, gel, stand up, we’re not stoppin’ here all night, even if you thought we was. I’m dashed if the jumping rain wouldn’t make anybody think they was drunk. Hey, Jack-does rain-water wash the sense in, or does it wash it out?” And he laughed to himself at the joke.
He was always ashamed when he had to drive after he had been drinking, always apologetic to the horse. His apologetic frame made him facetious57. He was aware of his inability to walk quite straight. Nevertheless his will kept stiff and attentive58, in all his fuddleness.
He mounted and bowled off through the gates of the innyard. The mare went well, he sat fixed, the rain beating on his face. His heavy body rode motionless in a kind of sleep, one centre of attention was kept fitfully burning, the rest was dark. He concentrated his last attention on the fact of driving along the road he knew so well. He knew it so well, he watched for it attentively59, with an effort of will.
He talked aloud to himself, sententious in his anxiety, as if he were perfectly sober, whilst the mare bowled along and the rain beat on him. He watched the rain before the gig-lamps, the faint gleaming of the shadowy horse’s body, the passing of the dark hedges.
“It’s not a fit night to turn a dog out,” he said to himself, aloud. “It’s high time as it did a bit of clearing up, I’ll be damned if it isn’t. It was a lot of use putting those ten loads of cinders60 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 naught61. That’s the story, my boy, if you understand it. There’s no more to-day than there was a thousand years ago-nor no less either. You can’t wear water out. No, my boy: it’ll give you the go-by. Try to wear it out, and it takes its hook into vapour, it has its fingers at its nose to you. It turns into cloud and falleth as rain on the just and unjust. I wonder if I’m the just or the unjust.”
He started awake as the trap lurched deep into a rut. And he wakened to the point in his journey. He had travelled some distance since he was last conscious.
But at length he reached the gate, and stumbled heavily down, reeling, gripping fast to the trap. He descended62 into several inches of water.
“Be damned!” he said angrily. “Be damned to the miserable63 slop.”
And he led the horse washing through the gate. He was quite drunk now, moving blindly, in habit. Everywhere there was water underfoot.
The raised causeway of the house and the farm-stead was dry, however. But there was a curious roar in the night which seemed to be made in the darkness of his own intoxication64. Reeling, blinded, almost without consciousness he carried his parcels and the rug and cushions into the house, dropped them, and went out to put up the horse.
Now he was at home, he was a sleep-walker, waiting only for the moment of activity to stop. Very deliberately65 and carefully, he led the horse down the slope to the cart-shed. She shied and backed.
“Why, wha’s amiss?” he hiccupped, plodding66 steadily67 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 rippling68 surface of water.
“Well, that’s a knock-out,” he said, as he came to the cart-shed, and was wading69 in six inches of water. But everything seemed to him amusing. He laughed to think of six inches of water being in the cart- shed.
He backed in the mare. She was restive71. 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 undone72 the traces, she walked quickly away.
He hung up the shafts73 and took the gig-lamp. As he came out of the familiar jumble74 of shafts and wheels in the shed, the water, in little waves, came washing strongly against his legs. He staggered and almost fell.
“Well, what the deuce!” he said, staring round at the running water in the black, watery75 night.
He went to meet the running flood, sinking deeper and deeper. His soul was full of great astonishment76. He had to go and look where it came from, though the ground was going from under his feet. He went on, down towards the pond, shakily. He rather enjoyed it. He was knee-deep, and the water was pulling heavily. He stumbled, reeled sickeningly.
Fear took hold of him. Gripping tightly to the lamp, he reeled, and looked round. The water was carrying his feet away, he was dizzy. He did not know which way to turn. The water was whirling, whirling, the whole black night was swooping77 in rings. He swayed uncertainly at the centre of all the attack, reeling in dismay. In his soul, he knew he would fall.
As he staggered something in the water struck his legs, and he fell. Instantly he was in the turmoil78 of suffocation79. He fought in a black horror of suffocation, fighting, wrestling, but always borne down, borne inevitably80 down. Still he wrestled81 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 anguish82 went over him, then the blackness covered him entirely.
In the utter darkness, the unconscious, drowning body was rolled along, the waters pouring, washing, filling in the place. The cattle woke up and rose to their feet, the dog began to yelp83. And the unconscious, drowning body was washed along in the black, swirling84 darkness, passively.
Mrs. Brangwen woke up and listened. With preternaturally sharp senses she heard the movement of all the darkness that swirled85 outside. For a moment she lay still. Then she went to the window. She heard the sharp rain, and the deep running of water. She knew her husband was outside.
“Fred,” she called, “Fred!”
Away in the night was a hoarse86, brutal87 roar of a mass of water rushing downwards88.
She went downstairs. She could not understand the multiplied running of water. Stepping down the step into the kitchen, she put her foot into water. The kitchen was flooded. Where did it come from? She could not understand.
Water was running in out of the scullery. She paddled through barefoot, to see. Water was bubbling fiercely under the outer door. She was afraid. Then something washed against her, something twined under her foot. It was the riding whip. On the table were the rug and the cushion and the parcel from the gig.
He had come home.
“Tom!” she called, afraid of her own voice.
She opened the door. Water ran in with a horrid89 sound. Everywhere was moving water, a sound of waters.
“Tom!” she cried, standing8 in her nightdress with the candle, calling into the darkness and the flood out of the doorway90.
“Tom! Tom!”
And she listened. Fred appeared behind her, in trousers and shirt.
“Where is he?” he asked.
He looked at the flood, then at his mother. She seemed small and uncanny, elvish, in her nightdress.
“Go upstairs,” he said. “He’ll be in th’ stable.”
“To-om! To-om!” cried the elderly woman, with a long, unnatural91, penetrating92 call that chilled her son to the marrow93. He quickly pulled on his boots and his coat.
“Go upstairs, mother,” he said; “I’ll go an’ see where he is.”
“To-om! To-o-om!” rang out the shrill94, unearthly cry of the small woman. There was only the noise of water and the mooing of uneasy cattle, and the long yelping95 of the dog, clamouring in the darkness.
Fred Brangwen splashed out into the flood with a lantern. His mother stood on a chair in the doorway, watching him go. It was all water, water, running, flashing under the lantern.
“Tom! Tom! To-o-om!” came her long, unnatural cry, ringing over the night. It made her son feel cold in his soul.
And the unconscious, drowning body of the father rolled on below the house, driven by the black water towards the high-road.
Tilly appeared, a skirt over her nightdress. She saw her mistress clinging on the top of a chair in the open doorway, a candle burning on the table.
“God’s sake!” cried the old serving-woman. “The cut’s burst. That embankment’s broke down. Whativer are we goin’ to do!”
Mrs. Brangwen watched her son, and the lantern, go along the upper causeway to the stable. Then she saw the dark figure of a horse: then her son hung the lamp in the stable, and the light shone out faintly on him as he untackled the mare. The mother saw the soft blazed face of the horse thrust forward into the stable-door. The stables were still above the flood. But the water flowed strongly into the house.
“It’s getting higher,” said Tilly. “Hasn’t master come in?”
Mrs. Brangwen did not hear.
“Isn’t he the-ere?” she called, in her far-reaching, terrifying voice.
“No,” came the short answer out of the night.
“Go and loo-ok for him.”
His mother’s voice nearly drove the youth mad.
He put the halter on the horse and shut the stable door. He came splashing back through the water, the lantern swinging.
The unconscious, drowning body was pushed past the house in the deepest current. Fred Brangwen came to his mother.
“I’ll go to th’ cart-shed,” he said.
“To-om, To-o-om!” rang out the strong, inhuman96 cry. Fred Brangwen’s blood froze, his heart was very angry. He gripped his veins97 in a frenzy98. Why was she yelling like this? He could not bear the sight of her, perched on a chair in her white nightdress in the doorway, elvish and horrible.
“He’s taken the mare out of the trap, so he’s all right,” he said, growling99, pretending to be normal.
But as he descended to the cart-shed, he sank into a foot of water. He heard the rushing in the distance, he knew the canal had broken down. The water was running deeper.
The trap was there all right, but no signs of his father. The young man waded100 down to the pond. The water rose above his knees, it swirled and forced him. He drew back.
“Is he the-e-ere?” came the maddening cry of the mother.
“No,” was the sharp answer.
“To-om-To-o-om!” came the piercing, free, unearthly call. It seemed high and supernatural, almost pure. Fred Brangwen hated it. It nearly drove him mad. So awfully101 it sang out, almost like a song.
The water was flowing fuller into the house.
“You’d better go up to Beeby’s and bring him and Arthur down, and tell Mrs. Beeby to fetch Wilkinson,” said Fred to Tilly. He forced his mother to go upstairs.
“I know your father is drowned,” she said, in a curious dismay.
The flood rose through the night, till it washed the kettle off the hob in the kitchen. Mrs. Brangwen sat alone at a window upstairs. She called no more. The men were busy with the pigs and the cattle. They were coming with a boat for her.
Towards morning the rain ceased, the stars came out over the noise and the terrifying clucking and trickling of the water. Then there was a pallor in the east, the light began to come. In the ruddy light of the dawn she saw the waters spreading out, moving sluggishly102, the buildings rising out of a waste of water. Birds began to sing, drowsily103, and as if slightly hoarse with the dawn. It grew brighter. Up the second field was the great, raw gap in the canal embankment.
Mrs. Brangwen went from window to window, watching the flood. Somebody had brought a little boat. The light grew stronger, the red gleam was gone off the flood-waters, day took place. Mrs. Brangwen went from the front of the house to the back, looking out, intent and unrelaxing, on the pallid104 morning of spring.
She saw a glimpse of her husband’s buff coat in the floods, as the water rolled the body against the garden hedge. She called to the men in the boat. She was glad he was found. They dragged him out of the hedge. They could not lift him into the boat. Fred Brangwen jumped into the water, up to his waist, and half carried the body of his father through the flood to the road. Hay and twigs105 and dirt were in the beard and hair. The youth pushed through the water crying loudly without tears, like a stricken animal. The mother at the window cried, making no trouble.
The doctor came. But the body was dead. They carried it up to Cossethay, to Anna’s house.
When Anna Brangwen heard the news, she pressed back her head and rolled her eyes, as if something were reaching forward to bite at her throat. She pressed back her head, her mind was driven back to sleep. Since she had married and become a mother, the girl she had been was forgotten. Now, the shock threatened to break in upon her and sweep away all her intervening life, make her as a girl of eighteen again, loving her father. So she pressed back, away from the shock, she clung to her present life.
It was when they brought him to her house dead and in his wet clothes, his wet, sodden106 clothes, fully7 dressed as he came from market, yet all sodden and inert107, that the shock really broke into her, and she was terrified. A big, soaked, inert heap, he was, who had been to her the image of power and strong life.
Almost in horror, she began to take the wet things from him, to pull off him the incongruous market-clothes of a well-to-do farmer. The children were sent away to the Vicarage, the dead body lay on the parlour floor, Anna quickly began to undress him, laid his fob and seals in a wet heap on the table. Her husband and the woman helped her. They cleared and washed the body, and laid it on the bed.
There, it looked still and grand. He was perfectly calm in death, and, now he was laid in line, inviolable, unapproachable. To Anna, he was the majesty108 of the inaccessible109 male, the majesty of death. It made her still and awe-stricken, almost glad.
Lydia Brangwen, the mother, also came and saw the impressive, inviolable body of the dead man. She went pale, seeing death. He was beyond change or knowledge, absolute, laid in line with the infinite. What had she to do with him? He was a majestic110 Abstraction, made visible now for a moment, inviolate111, absolute. And who could lay claim to him, who could speak of him, of the him who was revealed in the stripped moment of transit112 from life into death? Neither the living nor the dead could claim him, he was both the one and the other, inviolable, inaccessibly113 himself.
“I shared life with you, I belong in my own way to eternity,” said Lydia Brangwen, her heart cold, knowing her own singleness.
“I did not know you in life. You are beyond me, supreme15 now in death,” said Anna Brangwen, awe-stricken, almost glad.
It was the sons who could not bear it. Fred Brangwen went about with a set, blanched114 face and shut hands, his heart full of hatred115 and rage for what had been done to his father, bleeding also with desire to have his father again, to see him, to hear him again. He could not bear it.
Tom Brangwen only arrived on the day of the funeral. He was quiet and controlled as ever. He kissed his mother, who was still dark-faced, inscrutable, he shook hands with his brother without looking at him, he saw the great coffin116 with its black handles. He even read the name-plate, “Tom Brangwen, of the Marsh Farm. Born ——. Died ——.”
The good-looking, still face of the young man crinkled up for a moment in a terrible grimace117, then resumed its stillness. The coffin was carried round to the church, the funeral bell tanged at intervals119, 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 winsome120, he with a face like wood, stiff, unyielding.
Only afterwards Ursula, flitting between the currant bushes down the garden, saw her Uncle Tom standing in his black clothes, erect121 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 grimaces122 with torment123, 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 bestial124 look of torture, the teeth all showing, the nose wrinkled up, the eyes, unseeing, fixed.
Terrified, Ursula slipped away. And when her Uncle Tom was in the house again, grave and very quiet, so that he seemed almost to affect gravity, to pretend grief, she watched his still, handsome face, imagining it again in its distortion. But she saw the nose was rather thick, rather Russian, under its transparent125 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 corrupt126. And she was frightened. She never forgot to look for the bestial, frightening side of him, after this.
He said “Good-bye” to his mother and went away at once. Ursula almost shrank from his kiss, now. She wanted it, nevertheless, and the little revulsion as well.
At the funeral, and after the funeral, Will Brangwen was madly in love with his wife. The death had shaken him. But death and all seemed to gather in him into a mad, over-whelming passion for his wife. She seemed so strange and winsome. He was almost beside himself with desire for her.
And she took him, she seemed ready for him, she wanted him.
The grandmother stayed a while at the Yew Cottage, till the Marsh was restored. Then she returned to her own rooms, quiet, and it seemed, wanting nothing. Fred threw himself into the work of restoring the farm. That his father was killed there, seemed to make it only the more intimate and the more inevitably his own place.
There was a saying that the Brangwens always died a violent death. To them all, except perhaps Tom, it seemed almost natural. Yet Fred went about obstinate127, his heart fixed. He could never forgive the Unknown this murder of his father.
After the death of the father, the Marsh was very quiet. Mrs. Brangwen was unsettled. She could not sit all the evening peacefully, as she could before, and during the day she was always rising to her feet and hesitating, as if she must go somewhere, and were not quite sure whither.
She was seen loitering about the garden, in her little woollen jacket. She was often driven out in the gig, sitting beside her son and watching the countryside or the streets of the town, with a childish, candid128, uncanny face, as if it all were strange to her.
The children, Ursula and Gudrun and Theresa went by the garden gate on their way to school. The grandmother would have them call in each time they passed, she would have them come to the Marsh for dinner. She wanted children about her.
Of her sons, she was almost afraid. She could see the sombre passion and desire and dissatisfaction in them, and she wanted not to see it any more. Even Fred, with his blue eyes and his heavy jaw129, 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 seething130 and suffering and dissatisfactions? She was too old.
Tom was more restrained, reserved. He kept his body very still. But he troubled her even more. She could not but see the black depths of disintegration131 in his eyes, the sudden glance upon her, as if she could save him, as if he would reveal himself.
And how could age save youth? Youth must go to youth. Always the storm! Could she not lie in peace, these years, in the quiet, apart from life? No, always the swell132 must heave upon her and break against the barriers. Always she must be embroiled133 in the seethe134 and rage and passion, endless, endless, going on for ever. And she wanted to draw away. She wanted at last her own innocence135 and peace. She did not want her sons to force upon her any more the old brutal story of desire and offerings and deep, deep-hidden rage of unsatisfied men against women. She wanted to be beyond it all, to know the peace and innocence of age.
She had never been a woman to work much. So that now she would stand often at the garden-gate, watching the scant136 world go by. And the sight of children pleased her, made her happy. She had usually an apple or a few sweets in her pocket. She liked children to smile at her.
She never went to her husband’s grave. She spoke of him simply, as if he were alive. Sometimes the tears would run down her face, in helpless sadness. Then she recovered, and was herself again, happy.
On wet days, she stayed in bed. Her bedroom was her city of refuge, where she could lie down and muse137 and muse. Sometimes Fred would read to her. But that did not mean much. She had so many dreams to dream over, such an unsifted store. She wanted time.
Her chief friend at this period was Ursula. The little girl and the musing70, 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 throng138 of babies, all the time many lives beating against each other.
So that for the eldest child, the peace of the grandmother’s bedroom was exquisite. Here Ursula came as to a hushed, paradisal land, here her own existence became simple and exquisite to her as if she were a flower.
Always on Saturdays she came down to the Marsh, and always clutching a little offering, either a little mat made of strips of coloured, woven paper, or a tiny basket made in the kindergarten lesson, or a little crayon drawing of a bird.
When she appeared in the doorway, Tilly, ancient but still in authority, would crane her skinny neck to see who it was.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” she said. “I thought we should be seein’ you. My word, that’s a bobby-dazzlin’ posy you’ve brought!”
It was curious how Tilly preserved the spirit of Tom Brangwen, who was dead, in the Marsh. Ursula always connected her with her grandfather.
This day the child had brought a tight little nosegay of pinks, white ones, with a rim118 of pink ones. She was very proud of it, and very shy because of her pride.
“Your gran’mother’s in her bed. Wipe your shoes well if you’re goin’ up, and don’t go burstin’ in on her like a skyrocket. My word, but that’s a fine posy! Did you do it all by yourself, an’ all?”
Tilly stealthily ushered140 her into the bedroom. The child entered with a strange, dragging hesitation141 characteristic of her when she was moved. Her grandmother was sitting up in bed, wearing a little grey woollen jacket.
The child hesitated in silence near the bed, clutching the nosegay in front of her. Her childish eyes were shining. The grandmother’s grey eyes shone with a similar light.
“How pretty!” she said. “How pretty you have made them! What a darling little bunch.”
Ursula, glowing, thrust them into her grandmother’s hand, saying, “I made them you.”
“That is how the peasants tied them at home,” said the grandmother, pushing the pinks with her fingers, and smelling them. “Just such tight little bunches! And they make wreaths for their hair-they weave the stalks. Then they go round with wreaths in their hair, and wearing their best aprons142.”
Ursula immediately imagined herself in this story-land.
“Did you used to have a wreath in your hair, grandmother?”
“When I was a little girl, I had golden hair, something like Katie’s. Then I used to have a wreath of little blue flowers, oh, so blue, that come when the snow is gone. Andrey, the coachman, used to bring me the very first.”
They talked, and then Tilly brought the tea-tray, set for two. Ursula had a special green and gold cup kept for herself at the Marsh. There was thin bread and butter, and cress for tea. It was all special and wonderful. She ate very daintily, with little fastidious bites.
“Why do you have two wedding-rings, grandmother?-Must you?” asked the child, noticing her grandmother’s ivory coloured hand with blue veins, above the tray.
“If I had two husbands, child.”
Ursula pondered a moment.
“Then you must wear both rings together?”
“Yes.”
“Which was my grandfather’s ring?”
The woman hesitated.
“This grandfather whom you knew? This was his ring, the red one. The yellow one was your other grandfather’s whom you never knew.”
Ursula looked interestedly at the two rings on the proffered143 finger.
“Where did he buy it you?” she asked.
“This one? In Warsaw, I think.”
“You didn’t know my own grandfather then?”
“Not this grandfather.”
Ursula pondered this fascinating intelligence.
“Did he have white whiskers as well?”
“No, his beard was dark. You have his brows, I think.”
Ursula ceased and became self-conscious. She at once identified herself with her Polish grandfather.
“And did he have brown eyes?”
“Yes, dark eyes. He was a clever man, as quick as a lion. He was never still.”
Lydia still resented Lensky. When she thought of him, she was always younger than he, she was always twenty, or twenty-five, and under his domination. He incorporated her in his ideas as if she were not a person herself, as if she were just his aide-de-camp, or part of his baggage, or one among his surgical144 appliances. She still resented it. And he was always only thirty: he had died when he was thirty-four. She did not feel sorry for him. He was older than she. Yet she still ached in the thought of those days.
“Did you like my first grandfather best?” asked Ursula.
“I liked them both,” said the grandmother.
And, thinking, she became again Lensky’s girl-bride. He was of good family, of better family even than her own, for she was half German. She was a young girl in a house of insecure fortune. And he, an intellectual, a clever surgeon and physician, had loved her. How she had looked up to him! She remembered her first transports when he talked to her, the important young man with the severe black beard. He had seemed so wonderful, such an authority. After her own lax household, his gravity and confident, hard authority seemed almost God-like to her. For she had never known it in her life, all her surroundings had been loose, lax, disordered, a welter.
“Miss Lydia, will you marry me?” he had said to her in German, in his grave, yet tremulous voice. She had been afraid of his dark eyes upon her. They did not see her, they were fixed upon her. And he was hard, confident. She thrilled with the excitement of it, and accepted. During the courtship, his kisses were a wonder to her. She always thought about them, and wondered over them. She never wanted to kiss him back. In her idea, the man kissed, and the woman examined in her soul the kisses she had received.
She had never quite recovered from her prostration145 of the first days, or nights, of marriage. He had taken her to Vienna, and she was utterly146 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, crouching147 at his feet, embracing his knees.
Children had come, he had followed his ideas. She was there for him, just to keep him in condition. She was to him one of the baser or material conditions necessary for his welfare in prosecuting148 his ideas, of nationalism, of liberty, of science.
But gradually, at twenty-three, twenty-four, she began to realise that she too might consider these ideas. By his acceptance of her self-subordination, he exhausted149 the feeling in her. There were those of his associates who would discuss the ideas with her, though he did not wish to do so himself. She adventured into the minds of other men. His, then, was not the only male mind! She did not exist, then, just as his attribute! She began to perceive the attention of other men. An excitement came over her. She remembered now the men who had paid her court, when she was married, in Warsaw.
Then the rebellion broke out, and she was inspired too. She would go as a nurse at her husband’s side. He worked like a lion, he wore his life out. And she followed him helplessly. But she disbelieved in him. He was so separate, he ignored so much. He counted too much on himself. His work, his ideas,-did nothing else matter?
Then the children were dead, and for her, everything became remote. He became remote. She saw him, she saw him go white when he heard the news, then frown, as if he thought, “Why have they died now, when I have no time to grieve?”
“He has no time to grieve,” she had said, in her remote, awful soul. “He has no time. It is so important, what he does! He is then so self-important, this half-frenzied man! Nothing matters, but this work of rebellion! He has not time to grieve, nor to think of his children! He had not time even to beget150 them, really.”
She had let him go on alone. But, in the chaos151, she had worked by his side again. And out of the chaos, she had fled with him to London.
He was a broken, cold man. He had no affection for her, nor for anyone. He had failed in his work, so everything had failed. He stiffened152, and died.
She could not subscribe153. He had failed, everything had failed, yet behind the failure was the unyielding passion of life. The individual effort might fail, but not the human joy. She belonged to the human joy.
He died and went his way, but not before there was another child. And this little Ursula was his grandchild. She was glad of it. For she still honoured him, though he had been mistaken.
She, Lydia Brangwen, was sorry for him now. He was dead-he had scarcely lived. He had never known her. He had lain with her, but he had never known her. He had never received what she could give him. He had gone away from her empty. So, he had never lived. So, he had died and passed away. Yet there had been strength and power in him.
She could scarcely forgive him that he had never lived. If it were not for Anna, and for this little Ursula, who had his brows, there would be no more left of him than of a broken vessel154 thrown away, and just remembered.
Tom Brangwen had served her. He had come to her, and taken from her. He had died and gone his way into death. But he had made himself immortal155 in his knowledge with her. So she had her place here, in life, and in immortality156. 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 mansions157.”
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 honourably158, and become her man, one with her.
She was established in this stretch of life, she had come to herself. During her first marriage, she had not existed, except through him, he was the substance and she the shadow running at his feet. She was very glad she had come to her own self. She was grateful to Brangwen. She reached out to him in gratitude159, into death.
In her heart she felt a vague tenderness and pity for her first husband, who had been her lord. He was so wrong when he died. She could not bear it, that he had never lived, never really become himself. And he had been her lord! Strange, it all had been! Why had he been her lord? He seemed now so far off, so without bearing on her.
“Which did you, grandmother?”
“What?”
“Like best.”
“I liked them both. I married the first when I was quite a girl. Then I loved your grandfather when I was a woman. There is a difference.”
They were silent for a time.
“Did you cry when my first grandfather died?” the child asked.
Lydia Brangwen rocked herself on the bed, thinking aloud.
“When we came to England, he hardly ever spoke, he was too much concerned to take any notice of anybody. He grew thinner and thinner, till his cheeks were hollow and his mouth stuck out. He wasn’t handsome any more. I knew he couldn’t bear being beaten, I thought everything was lost in the world. Only I had your mother a baby, it was no use my dying.
“He looked at me with his black eyes, almost as if he hated me, when he was ill, and said, ‘It only wanted this. It only wanted that I should leave you and a young child to starve in this London.’ I told him we should not starve. But I was young, and foolish, and frightened, which he knew.
“He was bitter, and he never gave way. He lay beating his brains, to see what he could do. ‘I don’t know what you will do,’ he said. ‘I am no good, I am a failure from beginning to end. I cannot even provide for my wife and child!’
“But you see, it was not for him to provide for us. My life went on, though his stopped, and I married your grandfather.
“I ought to have known, I ought to have been able to say to him: ‘Don’t be so bitter, don’t die because this has failed. You are not the beginning and the end.’ But I was too young, he had never let me become myself, I thought he was truly the beginning and the end. So I let him take all upon himself. Yet all did not depend on him. Life must go on, and I must marry your grandfather, and have your Uncle Tom, and your Uncle Fred. We cannot take so much upon ourselves.”
The child’s heart beat fast as she listened to these things. She could not understand, but she seemed to feel far-off things. It gave her a deep, joyous160 thrill, to know she hailed from far off, from Poland, and that dark-bearded impressive man. Strange, her antecedents were, and she felt fate on either side of her terrible.
Almost every day, Ursula saw her grandmother, and every time, they talked together. Till the grandmother’s sayings and stories, told in the complete hush139 of the Marsh bedroom, accumulated with mystic significance, and became a sort of Bible to the child.
And Ursula asked her deepest childish questions of her grandmother.
“Will somebody love me, grandmother?”
“Many people love you, child. We all love you.”
“But when I am grown up, will somebody love me?”
“Yes, some man will love you, child, because it’s your nature. And I hope it will be somebody who will love you for what you are, and not for what he wants of you. But we have a right to what we want.”
Ursula was frightened, hearing these things. Her heart sank, she felt she had no ground under her feet. She clung to her grandmother. Here was peace and security. Here, from her grandmother’s peaceful room, the door opened on to the greater space, the past, which was so big, that all it contained seemed tiny, loves and births and deaths, tiny units and features within a vast horizon. That was a great relief, to know the tiny importance of the individual, within the great past.
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1
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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perceptive
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| adj.知觉的，有洞察力的，感知的 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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friability
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| n.脆弱，易碎性；脆性；松脆 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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amethyst
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| n.紫水晶 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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43
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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48
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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49
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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50
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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51
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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54
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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55
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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58
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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60
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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61
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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75
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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81
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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82
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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83
yelp
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| vi.狗吠 | |
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84
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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85
swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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87
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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88
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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89
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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90
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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91
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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92
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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93
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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94
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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95
yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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96
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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97
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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98
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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99
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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100
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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102
sluggishly
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| adv.懒惰地；缓慢地 | |
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103
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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104
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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105
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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106
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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107
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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108
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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109
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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110
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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111
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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112
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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113
inaccessibly
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| Inaccessibly | |
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114
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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115
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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116
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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117
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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118
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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119
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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120
winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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121
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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122
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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123
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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124
bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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125
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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126
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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127
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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128
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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129
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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130
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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131
disintegration
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| n.分散，解体 | |
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132
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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133
embroiled
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| adj.卷入的；纠缠不清的 | |
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134
seethe
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| vi.拥挤，云集；发怒，激动，骚动 | |
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135
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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136
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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137
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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138
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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139
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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140
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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142
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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143
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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145
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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146
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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147
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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148
prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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149
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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150
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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151
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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152
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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153
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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154
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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155
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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156
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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157
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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158
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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159
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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160
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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