The Rainbow-虹(英文版)-第82章

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without　vision。　He　saw　the　puerility　of　his　young　conceptions；
he　saw　the　unreal　world　in　which　they　had　been　conceived。　He　now
had　a　new　strength　in　his　sense　of　reality。　He　felt　as　if　he
were　real；　as　if　he　handled　real　things。　He　had　worked　for　many
years　at　Cossethay；　building　the　organ　for　the　church；　restoring
the　woodwork；　gradually　ing　to　a　knowledge　of　beauty　in　the
plain　labours。　Now　he　wanted　again　to　carve　things　that　were
utterances　of　himself。

But　he　could　not　quite　hitch　on……always　he　was　too　busy；
too　uncertain；　confused。　Wavering；　he　began　to　study　modelling。
To　his　surprise　he　found　he　could　do　it。　Modelling　in　clay；　in
plaster；　he　produced　beautiful　reproductions；　really　beautiful。
Then　he　set…to　to　make　a　head　of　Ursula；　in　high　relief；　in　the
Donatello　manner。　In　his　first　passion；　he　got　a　beautiful
suggestion　of　his　desire。　But　the　pitch　of　concentration　would
not　e。　With　a　little　ash　in　his　mouth　he　gave　up。　He
continued　to　copy；　or　to　make　designs　by　selecting　motives　from
classic　stuff。　He　loved　the　Della　Robbia　and　Donatello　as　he　had
loved　Fra　Angelico　when　he　was　a　young　man。　His　work　had　some　of
the　freshness；　the　naive　alertness　of　the　early　Italians。　But　it
was　only　reproduction。

Having　reached　his　limit　in　modelling；　he　turned　to　painting。
But　he　tried　water…colour　painting　after　the　manner　of　any　other
amateur。　He　got　his　results　but　was　not　much　interested。　After
one　or　two　drawings　of　his　beloved　church；　which　had　the　same
alertness　as　his　modelling；　he　seemed　to　be　incongruous　with　the
modern　atmospheric　way　of　painting；　so　that　his　church　tower
stood　up；　really　stood　and　asserted　its　standing；　but　was
ashamed　of　its　own　lack　of　meaning；　he　turned　away　again。

He　took　up　jewellery；　read　Benvenuto　Cellini；　pored　over
reproductions　of　ornament；　and　began　to　make　pendants　in　silver
and　pearl　and　matrix。　The　first　things　he　did；　in　his　start　of
discovery；　were　really　beautiful。　Those　later　were　more
imitative。　But；　starting　with　his　wife；　he　made　a　pendant　each
for　all　his　womenfolk。　Then　he　made　rings　and　bracelets。

Then　he　took　up　beaten　and　chiselled　metal　work。　When　Ursula
left　school；　he　was　making　a　silver　bowl　of　lovely　shape。　How　he
delighted　in　it；　almost　lusted　after　it。

All　this　time　his　only　connection　with　the　real　outer　world
was　through　his　winter　evening　classes；　which　brought　him　into
contact　with　state　education。　About　all　the　rest；　he　was
oblivious；　and　entirely　indifferent……even　about　the　war。
The　nation　did　not　exist　to　him。　He　was　in　a　private　retreat　of
his　own；　that　had　neither　nationality；　nor　any　great
adherent。

Ursula　watched　the　newspapers；　vaguely；　concerning　the　war　in
South　Africa。　They　made　her　miserable；　and　she　tried　to　have　as
little　to　do　with　them　as　possible。　But　Skrebensky　was　out
there。　He　sent　her　an　occasional　post…card。　But　it　was　as　if　she
were　a　blank　wall　in　his　direction；　without　windows　or　outgoing。
She　adhered　to　the　Skrebensky　of　her　memory。

Her　love　for　Winifred　Inger　wrenched　her　life　as　it　seemed
from　the　roots　and　native　soil　where　Skrebensky　had　belonged　to
it；　and　she　was　aridly　transplanted。　He　was　really　only　a
memory。　She　revived　his　memory　with　strange　passion；　after　the
departure　of　Winifred。　He　was　to　her　almost　the　symbol　of　her
real　life。　It　was　as　if；　through　him；　in　him；　she　might　return
to　her　own　self；　which　she　was　before　she　had　loved　Winifred；
before　this　deadness　had　e　upon　her；　this　pitiless
transplanting。　But　even　her　memories　were　the　work　of　her
imagination。

She　dreamed　of　him　and　her　as　they　had　been　together。　She
could　not　dream　of　him　progressively；　of　what　he　was　doing　now；
of　what　relation　he　would　have　to　her　now。　Only　sometimes　she
wept　to　think　how　cruelly　she　had　suffered　when　he　left
her……ah；　how　she　had　suffered！　She　remembered　what
she　had　written　in　her　diary：

〃If　I　were　the　moon；　I　know　where　I　would　fall　down。〃

Ah；　it　was　a　dull　agony　to　her　to　remember　what　she　had　been
then。　For　it　was　remembering　a　dead　self。　All　that　was　dead
after　Winifred。　She　knew　the　corpse　of　her　young；　loving　self；
she　knew　its　grave。　And　the　young　living　self　she　mourned　for
had　scarcely　existed；　it　was　the　creature　of　her
imagination。

Deep　within　her　a　cold　despair　remained　unchanging　and
unchanged。　No　one　would　ever　love　her　now……she　would　love
no　one。　The　body　of　love　was　killed　in　her　after　Winifred；　there
was　something　of　the　corpse　in　her。　She　would　live；　she　would　go
on；　but　she　would　have　no　lovers；　no　lover　would　want　her　any
more。　She　herself　would　want　no　lover。　The　vividest　little　flame
of　desire　was　extinct　in　her　for　ever。　The　tiny；　vivid　germ　that
contained　the　bud　of　her　real　self；　her　real　love；　was　killed；
she　would　go　on　growing　as　a　plant；　she　would　do　her　best　to
produce　her　minor　flowers；　but　her　leading　flower　was　dead
before　it　was　born；　all　her　growth　was　the　conveying　of　a　corpse
of　hope。

The　miserable　weeks　went　on；　in　the　poky　house　crammed　with
children。　What　was　her　life……a　sordid；　formless；
disintegrated　nothing；　Ursula　Brangwen　a　person　without　worth　or
importance；　living　in　the　mean　village　of　Cossethay；　within　the
sordid　scope　of　Ilkeston。　Ursula　Brangwen；　at　seventeen；
worthless　and　unvalued；　neither　wanted　nor　needed　by　anybody；
and　conscious　herself　of　her　own　dead　value。　It　would　not　bear
thinking　of。

But　still　her　dogged　pride　held　its　own。　She　might　be
defiled；　she　might　be　a　corpse　that　should　never　be　loved；　she
might　be　a　core…rotten　stalk　living　upon　the　food　that　others
provided；　yet　she　would　give　in　to　nobody。

Gradually　she　became　conscious　that　she　could　not　go　on
living　at　home　as　she　was　doing；　without　place　or　meaning　or
worth。　The　very　children　that　went　to　school　held　her
uselessness　in　contempt。　She　must　do　something。

Her　father　said　she　had　plenty　to　do　to　help　her　mother。　From
her　parents　she　would　never　get　more　than　a　hit　in　the　face。　She
was　not　a　practical　person。　She　thought　of　wild　things；　of
running　away　and　being　a　domestic　servant；　of　asking　some　man
to　take　her。

She　wrote　to　the　mistress　of　the　High　School　for　advice。

〃I　cannot　see　very　clearly　what　you　should　do；　Ursula；〃　came
the　reply；　〃unless　you　are　willing　to　bee　an　elementary
school　teacher。　You　have　matriculated；　and　that　qualifies　you　to
take　a　post　as　uncertificated　teacher　in　any　school；　at　a　salary
of　about　fifty　pounds　a　year。

〃I　cannot　tell　you　how　deeply　I　sympathize　with　you　in　your
desire　to　do　something。　You　will　learn　that　mankind　is　a　great
body　of　which　you　are　one　useful　member；　you　will　take　your　own
place　at　the　great　task　which　humanity　is　trying　to　fulfil。　That
will　give　you　a　satisfaction　and　a　self…respect　which　nothing
else　could　give。〃

Ursula's　heart　sank。　It　was　a　cold；　dreary　satisfaction　to
think　of。　Yet　her　cold　will　acquiesced。　This　was　what　she
wanted。

〃You　have　an　emotional　nature；〃　the　letter　went　on；　〃a　quick
natural　response。　If　only　you　could　learn　patience　and
self…discipline；　I　do　not　see　why　you　should　not　make　a　good
teacher。　The　least　you　could　do　is　to　try。　You　need　only　serve　a
year；　or　perhaps　two　years；　as　uncertificated　teacher。　Then　you
would　go　to　one　of　the　training　colleges；　where　I　hope　you　would
take　your　degree。　I　most　strongly　urge　and　advise　you　to　keep　up
your　studies　always　with　the　intention　of　taking　a　degree。　That
will　give　you　a　qualification　and　a　position　in　the　world；　and
will　give　you　more　scope　to　choose　your　own　way。

〃I　shall　be　proud　to　see　one　of　my　girls　win　her　own
economical　independence；　which　means　so　much　more　than　it　seems。
I　shall　be　glad　indeed　to　know　that　one　more　of　my　girls　has
provided　for　herself　the　means　of　freedom　to　choose　for
herself。〃

It　all　sounded　grim　and　desperate。　Ursula　rather　hated　it。
But　her　mother's　contempt　and　her　father's　harshness　had　made
her　raw　at　the　quick；　she　knew　the　ignominy　of　being　a
hanger…on；　she　felt　the　festering　thorn　of　her　mother's　animal
estimation。

At　length　she　had　to　speak。　Hard　and　shut　down　and　silent
within　herself；　she　slipped　out　one　evening　to　the　workshed。　She
heard　the　tap…tap…tap　of　the　hammer　upon　the　metal。　Her　father
lifted　his　head　as　the　door　opened。　His　face　was　ruddy　and
bright　with　instinct；　as　when　he　was　a　youth；　his　black
moustache　was　cut　close　over　his　wide　mouth；　his　black　hair　was
fine　and　close　as　ever。　But　there　was　about　him　an　abstraction；
a　sort　of　instrumental　detachment　from　human　things。　He　was　a
worker。　He　watched　his　daughter's　hard；　expressionless　face。　A
hot　anger　came　over　his　breast　and　belly。

〃What　now？〃　he　said。

〃Can't　I；〃　she　answered；　looking　aside；　not　looking　at　him；
〃can't　I　go　out　to　work？〃

〃Go　out　to　work；　what　for？〃

His　voice　was　so　strong；　and　ready；　and　vibrant。　It　irritated
her。

〃I　want　some　other　life　than　this。〃

A　flash　of　strong　rage　arrested　all　his　blood　for　a
moment。

〃Some　other　life？〃　he　repeated。　〃Why；　what　other　life　do　you
want？〃

She　hesitated。

〃Something　else　besides　housework　and　hanging　about。　And　I
want　to　earn　something。〃

Her　curious；　brutal　hardness　of　speech；　and　the　fierce
invincibility　of　her　youth；　w