The children went for a time to the little church school just near the Marsh2. It was the only place within reach, and being so small, Mrs. Brangwen felt safe in sending her children there, though the village boys did nickname Ursula “Urtler”, and Gudrun “Good-runner”, and Theresa “Tea-pot”.
Gudrun and Ursula were co-mates. The second child, with her long, sleepy body and her endless chain of fancies, would have nothing to do with realities. She was not for them, she was for her own fancies. Ursula was the one for realities. So Gudrun left all such to her elder sister, and trusted in her implicitly3, indifferently. Ursula had a great tenderness for her co-mate sister.
It was no good trying to make Gudrun responsible. She floated along like a fish in the sea, perfect within the medium of her own difference and being. Other existence did not trouble her. Only she believed in Ursula, and trusted to Ursula.
The eldest child was very much fretted4 by her responsibility for the other young ones. Especially Theresa, a sturdy, bold-eyed thing, had a faculty5 for warfare6.
“Our Ursula, Billy Pillins has lugged7 my hair.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I said nothing.”
Then the Brangwen girls were in for a feud8 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 freckled9, red-haired boy.
“Why shan’t I?” retorted Billy Pillins.
“You won’t because you dursn’t,” said the tiresome10 Theresa.
“You come here, then, Tea-pot, an’ see if I dursna.”
Up marched Tea-pot, and immediately Billy Pillins lugged her black, snaky locks. In a rage she flew at him. Immediately in rushed Ursula and Gudrun, and little Katie, in clashed the other Phillipses, Clem and Walter, and Eddie Anthony. Then there was a fray12. The Brangwen girls were well-grown and stronger than many boys. But for pinafores and long hair, they would have carried easy victories. They went home, however, with hair lugged and pinafores torn. It was a joy to the Phillips boys to rip the pinafores of the Brangwen girls.
Then there was an outcry. Mrs. Brangwen would not have it; no, she would not. All her innate13 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 castigation14, and the name of coward, for no boy who was not a coward-etc., etc.”
Meanwhile much hang-dog fury in the Pillinses’ hearts, much virtue15 in the Brangwen girls’, particularly in Theresa’s. And the feud continued, with periods of extraordinary amity16, 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 intimacy17 with the Phillips boys. It was a sort of fiction to them, this alliance and this dubbing18 of sweethearts.
Again Mrs. Brangwen rose up.
“Ursula, I will not have you raking the roads with lads, so I tell you. Now stop it, and the rest will stop it.”
How Ursula hated always to represent the little Brangwen club. She could never be herself, no, she was always Ursula-Gudrun-Theresa-Catherine-and later even Billy was added on to her. Moreover, she did not want the Phillipses either. She was out of taste with them.
However, the Brangwen-Pillins coalition20 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 spoke21 to them on equal terms. The Brangwen girls presumed, they tossed their heads.
“You’re not ivrybody, Urtler Brangwin, ugly-mug,” said Clem Phillips, his face going very red.
“I’m better than you, for all that,” retorted Urtler.
“You think you are-wi’ a face like that-Ugly Mug,-Urtler Brangwin,” he began to jeer22, trying to set all the others in cry against her. Then there was hostility23 again. How she hated their jeering24. She became cold against the Phillipses. Ursula was very proud in her family. The Brangwen girls had all a curious blind dignity, even a kind of nobility in their bearing. By some result of breed and upbringing, they seemed to rush along their own lives without caring that they existed to other people. Never from the start did it occur to Ursula that other people might hold a low opinion of her. She thought that whosoever knew her, knew she was enough and accepted her as such. She thought it was a world of people like herself. She suffered bitterly if she were forced to have a low opinion of any person, and she never forgave that person.
This was maddening to many little people. All their lives, the Brangwens were meeting folk who tried to pull them down to make them seem little. Curiously25, the mother was aware of what would happen, and was always ready to give her children the advantage of the move.
When Ursula was twelve, and the common school and the companionship of the village children, niggardly26 and begrudging27, 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 passionate29 craving30 to escape from the belittling31 circumstances of life, the little jealousies32, the little differences, the little meannesses. It was a torture to her that the Phillipses were poorer and meaner than herself, that they used mean little reservations, took petty little advantages. She wanted to be with her equals: but not by diminishing herself. She did want Clem Phillips to be her equal. But by some puzzling, painful fate or other, when he was really there with her, he produced in her a tight feeling in the head. She wanted to beat her forehead, to escape.
Then she found that the way to escape was easy. One departed from the whole circumstance. One went away to the Grammar School, and left the little school, the meagre teachers, the Phillipses whom she had tried to love but who had made her fail, and whom she could not forgive. She had an instinctive33 fear of petty people, as a deer is afraid of dogs. Because she was blind, she could not calculate nor estimate people. She must think that everybody was just like herself.
She measured by the standard of her own people: her father and mother, her grandmother, her uncles. Her beloved father, so utterly34 simple in his demeanour, yet with his strong, dark soul fixed35 like a root in unexpressed depths that fascinated and terrified her: her mother, so strangely free of all money and convention and fear, entirely36 indifferent to the world, standing37 by herself, without connection: her grandmother, who had come from so far and was centred in so wide an horizon: people must come up to these standards before they could be Ursula’s people.
So even as a girl of twelve she was glad to burst the narrow boundary of Cossethay, where only limited people lived. Outside, was all vastness, and a throng38 of real, proud people whom she would love.
Going to school by train, she must leave home at a quarter to eight in the morning, and she did not arrive again till half-past five at evening. Of this she was glad, for the house was small and overful. It was a storm of movement, whence there had been no escape. She hated so much being in charge.
The house was a storm of movement. The children were healthy and turbulent, the mother only wanted their animal well-being39. 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 “Fecundity40”, she shuddered41, and the world became abhorrent42 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, passionately43 against her mother, she craved44 for some spirituality and stateliness.
In bad weather, home was a bedlam45. Children dashed in and out of the rain, to the puddles46 under the dismal47 yew48 trees, across the wet flagstones of the kitchen, whilst the cleaning-woman grumbled49 and scolded; children were swarming50 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 latch51, 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 dispel52 the lure53. These children hung on to her with round-eyed excited questions.
The mother flourished amid all this.
“Better have them noisy than ill,” she said.
But the growing girls, in turn, suffered bitterly. Ursula was just coming to the stage when Andersen and Grimm were being left behind for the “Idylls of the King” and romantic love-stories.
“Elaine the fair Elaine the lovable, Elaine the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber55 in a tower to the east Guarded the sacred shield of Launcelot.”
How she loved it! How she leaned in her bedroom window with her black, rough hair on her shoulders, and her warm face all rapt, and gazed across at the churchyard and the little church, which was a turreted56 castle, whence Launcelot would ride just now, would wave to her as he rode by, his scarlet57 cloak passing behind the dark yew trees and between the open space: whilst she, ah, she, would remain the lonely maid high up and isolated58 in the tower, polishing the terrible shield, weaving it a covering with a true device, and waiting, waiting, always remote and high.
At which point there would be a faint scuffle on the stairs, a light-pitched whispering outside the door, and a creaking of the latch: then Billy, excited, whispering:
“It’s locked-it’s locked.”
Then the knocking, kicking at the door with childish knees, and the urgent, childish:
“Ursula-our Ursula? Ursula? Eh, our Ursula?”
No reply.
“Ursula! Eh-our Ursula?” the name was shouted now Still no answer.
“Mother, she won’t answer,” came the yell. “She’s dead.”
“Go away-I’m not dead. What do you want?” came the angry voice of the girl.
“Open the door, our Ursula,” came the complaining cry. It was all over. She must open the door. She heard the screech59 of the bucket downstairs dragged across the flagstones as the woman washed the kitchen floor. And the children were prowling in the bedroom, asking:
“What were you doing? What had you locked the door for?” Then she discovered the key of the parish room, and betook herself there, and sat on some sacks with her books. There began another dream.
She was the only daughter of the old lord, she was gifted with magic. Day followed day of rapt silence, whilst she wandered ghost-like in the hushed, ancient mansion62, or flitted along the sleeping terraces.
Here a grave grief attacked her: that her hair was dark. She must have fair hair and a white skin. She was rather bitter about her black mane.
Never mind, she would dye it when she grew up, or bleach63 it in the sun, till it was bleached64 fair. Meanwhile she wore a fair white coif of pure Venetian lace.
She flitted silently along the terraces, where jewelled lizards65 basked66 upon the stone, and did not move when her shadow fell upon them. In the utter stillness she heard the tinkle67 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, underneath68 a great oak, a doe all dappled lay with her four fine feet together, her fawn69 nestling sun-coloured beside her.
Oh, and this doe was her familiar. It would talk to her, because she was a magician, it would tell her stories as if the sunshine spoke.
Then one day, she left the door of the parish room unlocked, careless and unheeding as she always was; the children found their way in, Katie cut her finger and howled, Billy hacked70 notches71 in the fine chisels72, and did much damage. There was a great commotion73.
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 notched74 tools, his forehead knotted.
“Who the deuce opened the door?” he cried in anger.
“It was Ursula who opened the door,” said her mother. He had a duster in his hand. He turned and flapped the cloth hard across the girl’s face. The cloth stung, for a moment the girl was as if stunned75. Then she remained motionless, her face closed and stubborn. But her heart was blazing. In spite of herself the tears surged higher, in spite of her they surged higher.
In spite of her, her face broke, she made a curious gulping76 grimace77, and the tears were falling. So she went away, desolate78. But her blazing heart was fierce and unyielding. He watched her go, and a pleasurable pain filled him, a sense of triumph and easy power, followed immediately by acute pity.
“I’m sure that was unnecessary-to hit the girl across the face,” said the mother coldly.
“A flip79 with the duster won’t hurt her,” he said.
“Nor will it do her any good.”
For days, for weeks, Ursula’s heart burned from this rebuff. She felt so cruelly vulnerable. Did he not know how vulnerable she was, how exposed and wincing80? 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 maim81 her with insult.
Her heart burnt in isolation82, 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 defiance83 burned unquenched, though covered up far from sight. She no longer belonged to him unquestioned. Slowly, slowly, the fire of mistrust and defiance burned in her, burned away her connection with him.
She ran a good deal alone, having a passion for all moving, active things. She loved the little brooks85. 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 brook84 or stream, on the roots of the alders86, and watch the water hasten dancing over the stones, or among the twigs87 of a fallen branch. Sometimes, little fish vanished before they had become real, like hallucinations, sometimes wagtails ran by the water’s brink88, sometimes other little birds came to drink. She saw a kingfisher darting89 blue-and then she was very happy. The kingfisher was the key to the magic world: he was witness of the border of enchantment90.
But she must move out of the intricately woven illusion of her life: the illusion of a father whose life was an Odyssey91 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 sledges92 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 mirage93 of her reading: out of the multicoloured illusion of this her life, she must move on, to the Grammar School in Nottingham.
She was shy, and she suffered. For one thing, she bit her nails, and had a cruel consciousness in her finger-tips, a shame, an exposure. Out of all proportion, this shame haunted her. She spent hours of torture, conjuring94 how she might keep her gloves on: if she might say her hands were scalded, if she might seem to forget to take off her gloves.
For she was going to inherit her own estate, when she went to the High School. There, each girl was a lady. There, she was going to walk among free souls, her co-mates and her equals, and all petty things would be put away. Ah, if only she did not bite her nails! If only she had not this blemish95! She wanted so much to be perfect-without spot or blemish, living the high, noble life.
It was a grief to her that her father made such a poor introduction. He was brief as ever, like a boy saying his errand, and his clothes looked ill-fitting and casual. Whereas Ursula would have liked robes and a ceremonial of introduction to this, her new estate.
She made a new illusion of school. Miss Grey, the headmistress, had a certain silvery, school-mistressy beauty of character. The school itself had been a gentleman’s house. Dark, sombre lawns separated it from the dark, select avenue. But its rooms were large and of good appearance, and from the back, one looked over lawns and shrubbery, over the trees and the grassy96 slope of the Arboretum97, to the town which heaped the hollow with its roofs and cupolas and its shadows.
So Ursula seated herself upon the hill of learning, looking down on the smoke and confusion and the manufacturing, engrossed98 activity of the town. She was happy. Up here, in the Grammar School, she fancied the air was finer, beyond the factory smoke. She wanted to learn Latin and Greek and French and mathematics. She trembled like a postulant when she wrote the Greek alphabet for the first time.
She was upon another hill-slope, whose summit she had not scaled. There was always the marvellous eagerness in her heart, to climb and to see beyond. A Latin verb was virgin99 soil to her: she sniffed100 a new odour in it; it meant something, though she did not know what it meant. But she gathered it up: it was significant. When she knew that:
x2-y2 = (x + y)(x-y)
then she felt that she had grasped something, that she was liberated101 into an intoxicating102 air, rare and unconditioned. And she was very glad as she wrote her French exercise:
“J’AI DONNE LE PAIN A MON PETIT FRERE.”
In all these things there was the sound of a bugle103 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 Algebra104 book. There was always a magic in them.
At learning she was quick, intelligent, instinctive, but she was not “thorough”. If a thing did not come to her instinctively105, she could not learn it. And then, her mad rage of loathing106 for all lessons, her bitter contempt of all teachers and schoolmistresses, her recoil107 to a fierce, animal arrogance108 made her detestable.
She was a free, unabateable animal, she declared in her revolts: there was no law for her, nor any rule. She existed for herself alone. Then ensued a long struggle with everybody, in which she broke down at last, when she had run the full length of her resistance, and sobbed109 her heart out, desolate; and afterwards, in a chastened, washed-out, bodiless state, she received the understanding that would not come before, and went her way sadder and wiser.
Ursula and Gudrun went to school together. Gudrun was a shy, quiet, wild creature, a thin slip of a thing hanging back from notice or twisting past to disappear into her own world again. She seemed to avoid all contact, instinctively, and pursued her own intent way, pursuing half-formed fancies that had no relation to anyone else.
She was not clever at all. She thought Ursula clever enough for two. Ursula understood, so why should she, Gudrun, bother herself? The younger girl lived her religious, responsible life in her sister, by proxy110. For herself, she was indifferent and intent as a wild animal, and as irresponsible.
When she found herself at the bottom of the class, she laughed, lazily, and was content, saying she was safe now. She did not mind her father’s chagrin111 nor her mother’s tinge112 of mortification113.
“What do I pay for you to go to Nottingham for?” her father asked, exasperated114.
“Well, Dad, you know you needn’t pay for me,” she replied, nonchalant. “I’m ready to stop at home.”
She was happy at home, Ursula was not. Slim and unwilling115 abroad, Gudrun was easy in her own house as a wild thing in its lair116. Whereas Ursula, attentive117 and keen abroad, at home was reluctant, uneasy, unwilling to be herself, or unable.
Nevertheless Sunday remained the maximum day of the week for both. Ursula turned passionately to it, to the sense of eternal security it gave. She suffered anguish118 of fears during the week-days, for she felt strong powers that would not recognise her. There was upon her always a fear and a dislike of authority. She felt she could always do as she wanted if she managed to avoid a battle with Authority and the authorised Powers. But if she gave herself away, she would be lost, destroyed. There was always the menace against her.
This strange sense of cruelty and ugliness always imminent119, ready to seize hold upon her this feeling of the grudging28 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 abated120 herself, made herself smaller, feigned121 to be less than she was, for fear that her undiscovered self should be seen, pounced122 upon, attacked by brutish resentment123 of the commonplace, the average Self.
She was fairly safe at school, now. She knew how to take her place there, and how much of herself to reserve. But she was free only on Sundays. When she was but a girl of fourteen, she began to feel a resentment growing against her in her own home. She knew she was the disturbing influence there. But as yet, on Sundays, she was free, really free, free to be herself, without fear or misgiving124.
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 revoked125, put back. Only the Sunday world existed.
She loved the very confusion of the household. It was lucky if the children slept till seven o’clock. Usually, soon after six, a chirp126 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, scampering127 in their shirts, with pink legs and glistening128, flossy hair all clean from the Saturday’s night bathing, their souls excited by their bodies’ cleanliness.
As the house began to teem129 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 ruffled130 black hair and shirt unbuttoned at the neck.
Then the girls upstairs heard the continual:
“Now then, Billy, what are you up to?” in the father’s strong, vibrating voice: or the mother’s dignified131:
“I have said, Cassie, I will not have it.”
It was amazing how the father’s voice could ring out like a gong, without his being in the least moved, and how the mother could speak like a queen holding an audience, though her blouse was sticking out all round and her hair was not fastened up and the children were yelling a pandemonium132.
Gradually breakfast was produced, and the elder girls came down into the babel, whilst half-naked children flitted round like the wrong ends of cherubs134, as Gudrun said, watching the bare little legs and the chubby135 tails appearing and disappearing.
Gradually the young ones were captured, and nightdresses finally removed, ready for the clean Sunday shirt. But before the Sunday shirt was slipped over the fleecy head, away darted136 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 noose137, and the father’s bronze voice rang out, and the naked child wallowing on its back in the deep sheepskin announced gleefully:
“I’m bading in the sea, mother.”
“Why should I walk after you with your shirt?” said the mother. “Get up now.”
“I’m bading in the sea, mother,” repeated the wallowing, naked figure.
“We say bathing, not bading,” said the mother, with her strange, indifferent dignity. “I am waiting here with your shirt.”
At length shirts were on, and stockings were paired, and little trousers buttoned and little petticoats tied behind. The besetting138 cowardice139 of the family was its shirking of the garter question.
“Where are your garters, Cassie?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, look for them.”
But not one of the elder Brangwens would really face the situation. After Cassie had grovelled141 under all the furniture and blacked up all her Sunday cleanliness, to the infinite grief of everybody, the garter was forgotten in the new washing of the young face and hands.
Later, Ursula would be indignant to see Miss Cassie marching into church from Sunday school with her stocking sluthered down to her ankle, and a grubby knee showing.
“It’s disgraceful!” cried Ursula at dinner. “People will think we’re pigs, and the children are never washed.”
“Never mind what people think,” said the mother superbly. “I see that the child is bathed properly, and if I satisfy myself I satisfy everybody. She can’t keep her stocking up and no garter, and it isn’t the child’s fault she was let to go without one.”
The garter trouble continued in varying degrees, but till each child wore long skirts or long trousers, it was not removed.
On this day of decorum, the Brangwen family went to church by the high-road, making a detour142 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 wardens143 of the Sabbath decency144, very jealous and instant with each other.
It came to be, gradually, that after church on Sundays the house was really something of a sanctuary145, 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 subdued146, afraid of being excommunicated.
The children themselves preserved the Sabbath. If Ursula in her vanity sang:
“Il était un’ bergère Et ron-ron-ron petit patapon,”
Theresa was sure to cry:
“That’s not a Sunday song, our Ursula.”
“You don’t know,” replied Ursula, superior. Nevertheless, she wavered. And her song faded down before she came to the end.
Because, though she did not know it, her Sunday was very precious to her. She found herself in a strange, undefined place, where her spirit could wander in dreams, unassailed.
The white-robed spirit of Christ passed between olive trees. It was a vision, not a reality. And she herself partook of the visionary being. There was the voice in the night calling, “Samuel, Samuel!” And still the voice called in the night. But not this night, nor last night, but in the unfathomed night of Sunday, of the Sabbath silence.
There was Sin, the serpent, in whom was also wisdom. There was Judas with the money and the kiss.
But there was no actual Sin. If Ursula slapped Theresa across the face, even on a Sunday, that was not Sin, the everlasting147. It was misbehaviour. If Billy played truant148 from Sunday school, he was bad, he was wicked, but he was not a Sinner.
Sin was absolute and everlasting: wickedness and badness were temporary and relative. When Billy, catching149 up the local jargon150, called Cassie a “sinner”, everybody detested151 him. Yet when there came to the Marsh a flippetty-floppetty foxhound puppy, he was mischievously152 christened “Sinner”.
The Brangwens shrank from applying their religion to their own immediate11 actions. They wanted the sense of the eternal and immortal153, not a list of rules for everyday conduct. Therefore they were badly- behaved children, headstrong and arrogant154, 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 Christian155. So that they were always extraordinary, outside of the ordinary.
How bitterly Ursula resented her first acquaintance with evangelical teachings. She got a peculiar156 thrill from the application of salvation157 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 dreariness158. 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, repelled159 her. She was enemy of those who insisted on the humanity of Christ. If He were just a man, living in ordinary human life, then she was indifferent.
But it was the jealousy160 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, desecrating161 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 impudent162 suburban163 soul which would ask, “What would Jesus do, if he were in my shoes?”
Against all this, the Brangwens stood at bay. If any one, it was the mother who was caught by, or who was most careless of the vulgar clamour. She would have nothing extra-human. She never really subscribed164, all her life, to Brangwen’s mystical passion.
But Ursula was with her father. As she became adolescent, thirteen, fourteen, she set more and more against her mother’s practical indifference166. To Ursula, there was something callous167, almost wicked in her mother’s attitude. What did Anna Brangwen, in these years, care for God or Jesus or Angels? She was the immediate life of to-day. Children were still being born to her, she was throng with all the little activities of her family. And almost instinctively she resented her husband’s slavish service to the Church, his dark, subject hankering to worship an unseen God. What did the unrevealed God matter, when a man had a young family that needed fettling for? Let him attend to the immediate concerns of his life, not go projecting himself towards the ultimate.
But Ursula was all for the ultimate. She was always in revolt against babies and muddled168 domesticity. To her Jesus was another world, He was not of this world. He did not thrust His hands under her face and, pointing to His wounds, say:
“Look, Ursula Brangwen, I got these for your sake. Now do as you’re told.”
To her, Jesus was beautifully remote, shining in the distance, like a white moon at sunset, a crescent moon beckoning169 as it follows the sun, out of our ken170. Sometimes dark clouds standing very far off, pricking171 up into a clear yellow band of sunset, of a winter evening, reminded her of Calvary, sometimes the full moon rising blood-red upon the hill terrified her with the knowledge that Christ was now dead, hanging heavy and dead upon the Cross.
On Sundays, this visionary world came to pass. She heard the long hush61, she knew the marriage of dark and light was taking place. In church, the Voice sounded, re-echoing not from this world, as if the Church itself were a shell that still spoke the language of creation.
“The Sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair: and they took them wives of all which they chose.
“And the Lord said, My spirit shall not always strive with Man, for that he also is flesh; yet his days shall be an hundred and twenty years.
“There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the Sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children unto them, the same became mighty172 men which were of old, men of renown173.”
Over this Ursula was stirred as by a call from far off. In those days, would not the Sons of God have found her fair, would she not have been taken to wife by one of the Sons of God? It was a dream that frightened her, for she could not understand it.
Who were the sons of God? Was not Jesus the only begotten174 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 derive175 from God. Had God many offspring, besides Adam and besides Jesus, children whose origin the children of Adam cannot recognise? And perhaps these children, these sons of God, had known no expulsion, no ignominy of the fall.
These came on free feet to the daughters of men, and saw they were fair, and took them to wife, so that the women conceived and brought forth176 men of renown. This was a genuine fate. She moved about in the essential days, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men.
Nor would any comparison of myths destroy her passion in the knowledge. Jove had become a bull, or a man, in order to love a mortal woman. He had begotten in her a giant, a hero.
Very good, so he had, in Greece. For herself, she was no Grecian woman. Not Jove nor Pan nor any of those gods, not even Bacchus nor Apollo, could come to her. But the Sons of God who took to wife the daughters of men, these were such as should take her to wife.
She clung to the secret hope, the aspiration177. She lived a dual133 life, one where the facts of daily life encompassed178 everything, being legion, and the other wherein the facts of daily life were superseded179 by the eternal truth. So utterly did she desire the Sons of God should come to the daughters of men; and she believed more in her desire and its fulfilment than in the obvious facts of life. The fact that a man was a man, did not state his descent from Adam, did not exclude that he was also one of the unhistoried, unaccountable Sons of God. As yet, she was confused, but not denied.
Again she heard the Voice:
“It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into heaven.”
But it was explained, the needle’s eye was a little gateway180 for foot passengers, through which the great, humped camel with his load could not possibly squeeze himself: or perhaps. at a great risk, if he were a little camel, he might get through. For one could not absolutely exclude the rich man from heaven, said the Sunday school teachers.
It pleased her also to know, that in the East one must use hyperbole, or else remain unheard; because the Eastern man must see a thing swelling181 to fill all heaven, or dwindled182 to a mere183 nothing, before he is suitably impressed. She immediately sympathised with this Eastern mind.
Yet the words continued to have a meaning that was untouched either by the knowledge of gateways184 or hyperboles. The historical, or local, or psychological interest in the words was another thing. There remained unaltered the inexplicable185 value of the saying. What was this relation between a needle’s eye, a rich man, and heaven? What sort of a needle’s eye, what sort of a rich man, what sort of heaven? Who knows? It means the Absolute World, and can never be more than half interpreted in terms of the relative world.
But must one apply the speech literally186? Was her father a rich man? Couldn’t he get to heaven? Or was he only a half-rich man? Or was he merely a poor man? At any rate, unless he gave everything away to the poor, he would find it much harder to get to heaven. The needle’s eye would be too tight for him. She almost wished he were penniless poor. If one were coming to the base of it, any man was rich who was not as poor as the poorest.
She had her qualms187, when in imagination she saw her father giving away their piano and the two cows, and the capital at the bank, to the labourers of the district, so that they, the Brangwens, should be as poor as the Wherrys. And she did not want it. She was impatient.
“Very well,” she thought, “we’ll forego that heaven, that’s all-at any rate the needle’s eye sort.” And she dismissed the problem. She was not going to be as poor as the Wherrys, not for all the sayings on earth-the miserable188 squalid Wherrys.
So she reverted189 to the non-literal application of the scriptures190. 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 renderings191 of the Adoration192 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 huddled193 earth on either side, the seemly heaven arranged above, the singing process to paradise on the one hand, the stuttering descent to hell on the other, completed and satisfied him. He did not care whether or not he believed in devils or angels. The whole conception gave him the deepest satisfaction, and he wanted nothing more.
Ursula, accustomed to these pictures from her childhood, hunted out their detail. She adored Fra Angelico’s flowers and light and angels, she liked the demons194 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 culmination195 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 banality196 for God!
She was dissatisfied, but not fit as yet to criticise197. 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, starry198, straight track of a pheasant’s footsteps across the snow imprinted199 so clear; there was the lobbing mark of the rabbit, two holes abreast200, two holes following behind; the hare shoved deeper shafts201, slanting202, and his two hind54 feet came down together and made one large pit; the cat podded little holes, and birds made a lacy pattern.
Gradually there gathered the feeling of expectation. Christmas was coming. In the shed, at nights, a secret candle was burning, a sound of veiled voices was heard. The boys were learning the old mystery play of St. George and Beelzebub. Twice a week, by lamplight, there was choir203 practice in the church, for the learning of old carols Brangwen wanted to hear. The girls went to these practices. Everywhere was a sense of mystery and rousedness. Everybody was preparing for something.
The time came near, the girls were decorating the church, with cold fingers binding204 holly205 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 grove140.
In the cow-shed the boys were blacking their faces for a dress-rehearsal; the turkey hung dead, with opened, speckled wings, in the dairy. The time was come to make pies, in readiness.
The expectation grew more tense. The star was risen into the sky, the songs, the carols were ready to hail it. The star was the sign in the sky. Earth too should give a sign. As evening drew on, hearts beat fast with anticipation206, 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, strife207 had passed away, every hand was linked in hand, every heart was singing.
It was bitter, though, that Christmas Day, as it drew on to evening, and night, became a sort of bank holiday, flat and stale. The morning was so wonderful, but in the afternoon and evening the ecstasy208 perished like a nipped thing, like a bud in a false spring. Alas209, that Christmas was only a domestic feast, a feast of sweetmeats and toys! Why did not the grown-ups also change their everyday hearts, and give way to ecstasy? Where was the ecstasy?
How passionately the Brangwens craved for it, the ecstasy. The father was troubled, dark-faced and disconsolate210, 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 fiery211 heart of joy, now the coming was fulfilled; where was the star, the Magi’s transport, the thrill of new being that shook the earth?
Still it was there, even if it were faint and inadequate212. 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 transformation213 over the heart of the family. The heart that was big with joy, that had seen the star and had followed to the inner walls of the Nativity, that there had swooned in the great light, must now feel the light slowly withdrawing, a shadow falling, darkening. The chill crept in, silence came over the earth, and then all was darkness. The veil of the temple was rent, each heart gave up the ghost, and sank dead.
They moved quietly, a little wanness214 on the lips of the children, at Good Friday, feeling the shadow upon their hearts. Then, pale with a deathly scent165, came the lilies of resurrection, that shone coldly till the Comforter was given.
But why the memory of the wounds and the death? Surely Christ rose with healed hands and feet, sound and strong and glad? Surely the passage of the cross and the tomb was forgotten? But no-always the memory of the wounds, always the smell of grave-clothes? A small thing was Resurrection, compared with the Cross and the death, in this cycle.
So the children lived the year of christianity, the epic215 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 eternity216 in a ragged60, 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 confirmation217 of death.
What was the hope and the fulfilment? Nay218, was it all only a useless after-death, a wan19, bodiless after-death? Alas, and alas for the passion of the human heart, that must die so long before the body was dead.
For from the grave, after the passion and the trial of anguish, the body rose torn and chill and colourless. Did not Christ say, “Mary!” and when she turned with outstretched hands to him, did he not hasten to add, “Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended219 to my father.”
Then how could the hands rejoice, or the heart be glad, seeing themselves repulsed220. Alas, for the resurrection of the dead body! Alas, for the wavering, glimmering221 appearance of the risen Christ. Alas, for the Ascension into heaven, which is a shadow within death, a complete passing away.
Alas, that so soon the drama is over; that life is ended at thirty-three; that the half of the year of the soul is cold and historiless! Alas, that a risen Christ has no place with us! Alas, that the memory of the passion of Sorrow and Death and the Grave holds triumph over the pale fact of Resurrection!
But why? Why shall I not rise with my body whole and perfect, shining with strong life? Why, when Mary says: Rabboni, shall I not take her in my arms and kiss her and hold her to my breast? Why is the risen body deadly, and abhorrent with wounds?
The Resurrection is to life, not to death. Shall I not see those who have risen again walk here among men perfect in body and spirit, whole and glad in the flesh, living in the flesh, loving in the flesh, begetting222 children in the flesh, arrived at last to wholeness, perfect without scar or blemish, healthy without fear of ill health? Is this not the period of manhood and of joy and fulfilment, after the Resurrection? Who shall be shadowed by Death and the Cross, being risen, and who shall fear the mystic, perfect flesh that belongs to heaven?
Can I not, then, walk this earth in gladness, being risen from sorrow? Can I not eat with my brother happily, and with joy kiss my beloved, after my resurrection, celebrate my marriage in the flesh with feastings, go about my business eagerly, in the joy of my fellows? Is heaven impatient for me, and bitter against this earth, that I should hurry off, or that I should linger pale and untouched? Is the flesh which was crucified become as poison to the crowds in the street, or is it as a strong gladness and hope to them, as the first flower blossoming out of the earth’s humus?
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1
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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2
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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lugged
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| vt.用力拖拉（lug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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castigation
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| n.申斥，强烈反对 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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16
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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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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dubbing
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| n.配音v.给…起绰号( dub的现在分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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19
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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coalition
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| n.结合体，同盟，结合，联合 | |
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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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jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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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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niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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begrudging
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| 嫉妒( begrudge的现在分词 )； 勉强做； 不乐意地付出； 吝惜 | |
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grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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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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30
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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belittling
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| 使显得微小，轻视，贬低( belittle的现在分词 ) | |
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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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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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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fecundity
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| n.生产力；丰富 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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50
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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51
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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52
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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56
turreted
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| a.(像炮塔般)旋转式的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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63
bleach
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| vt.使漂白；vi.变白；n.漂白剂 | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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66
basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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67
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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68
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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69
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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70
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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71
notches
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| n.（边缘或表面上的）V型痕迹( notch的名词复数 )；刻痕；水平；等级 | |
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72
chisels
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| n.凿子，錾子( chisel的名词复数 )；口凿 | |
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73
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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74
notched
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| a.有凹口的，有缺口的 | |
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75
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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76
gulping
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的现在分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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77
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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78
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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79
flip
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| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
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80
wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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81
maim
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| v.使残废，使不能工作，使伤残 | |
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82
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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83
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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84
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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85
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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86
alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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87
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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88
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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89
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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90
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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91
odyssey
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| n.长途冒险旅行；一连串的冒险 | |
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92
sledges
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| n.雪橇，雪车( sledge的名词复数 )v.乘雪橇( sledge的第三人称单数 )；用雪橇运载 | |
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93
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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94
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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95
blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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96
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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97
arboretum
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| n.植物园 | |
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98
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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99
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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100
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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101
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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102
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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103
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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104
algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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105
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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106
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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107
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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108
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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109
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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110
proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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111
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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112
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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113
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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114
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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115
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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116
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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117
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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118
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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119
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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120
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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121
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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122
pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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123
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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124
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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125
revoked
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| adj.[法]取消的v.撤销，取消，废除( revoke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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127
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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128
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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129
teem
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| vi.(with)充满，多产 | |
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130
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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131
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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132
pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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133
dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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134
cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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135
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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136
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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137
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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138
besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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139
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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140
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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141
grovelled
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| v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的过去式和过去分词 )；趴 | |
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142
detour
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| n.绕行的路，迂回路；v.迂回，绕道 | |
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143
wardens
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| n.看守人( warden的名词复数 )；管理员；监察员；监察官 | |
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144
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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145
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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146
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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147
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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148
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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149
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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150
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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151
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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153
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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154
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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155
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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156
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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157
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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158
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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159
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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160
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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161
desecrating
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的现在分词 ) | |
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162
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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163
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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164
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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165
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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166
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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167
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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168
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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169
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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170
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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171
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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172
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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173
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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174
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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175
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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176
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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177
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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178
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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179
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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180
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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181
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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182
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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184
gateways
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| n.网关( gateway的名词复数 )；门径；方法；大门口 | |
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185
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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186
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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187
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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188
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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189
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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190
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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191
renderings
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| n.（戏剧或乐曲的）演奏( rendering的名词复数 )；扮演；表演；翻译作品 | |
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192
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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193
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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194
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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195
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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196
banality
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| n.陈腐；平庸；陈词滥调 | |
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197
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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198
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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199
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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200
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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201
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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202
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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203
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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204
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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205
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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206
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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207
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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208
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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209
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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210
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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211
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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212
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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213
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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214
wanness
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| n.虚弱 | |
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215
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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216
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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217
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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218
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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219
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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221
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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222
begetting
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| v.为…之生父( beget的现在分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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