The Rainbow-虹(英文版)-第94章

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strong；　cruel　move　towards　freeing　herself。　But　having　more
freedom　she　only　became　more　profoundly　aware　of　the　big　want。
She　wanted　so　many　things。　She　wanted　to　read　great；　beautiful
books；　and　be　rich　with　them；　she　wanted　to　see　beautiful
things；　and　have　the　joy　of　them　for　ever；　she　wanted　to　know
big；　free　people；　and　there　remained　always　the　want　she　could
put　no　name　to。

It　was　so　difficult。　There　were　so　many　things；　so　much　to
meet　and　surpass。　And　one　never　knew　where　one　was　going。　It　was
a　blind　fight。　She　had　suffered　bitterly　in　this　school　of　St。
Philip's。　She　was　like　a　young　filly　that　has　been　broken　in　to
the　shafts；　and　has　lost　its　freedom。　And　now　she　was　suffering
bitterly　from　the　agony　of　the　shafts。　The　agony；　the　galling；
the　ignominy　of　her　breaking　in。　This　wore　into　her　soul。　But
she　would　never　submit。　To　shafts　like　these　she　would　never
submit　for　long。　But　she　would　know　them。　She　would　serve　them
that　she　might　destroy　them。

She　and　Maggie　went　to　all　kinds　of　places　together；　to　big
suffrage　meetings　in　Nottingham；　to　concerts；　to　theatres；　to
exhibitions　of　pictures。　Ursula　saved　her　money　and　bought　a
bicycle；　and　the　two　girls　rode　to　Lincoln；　to　Southwell；　and
into　Derbyshire。　They　had　an　endless　wealth　of　things　to　talk
about。　And　it　was　a　great　joy；　finding；　discovering。

But　Ursula　never　told　about　Winifred　Inger。　That　was　a　sort
of　secret　side…show　to　her　life；　never　to　be　opened。　She　did　not
even　think　of　it。　It　was　the　closed　door　she　had　not　the
strength　to　open。

Once　she　was　broken　in　to　her　teaching；　Ursula　began
gradually　to　have　a　new　life　of　her　own　again。　She　was　going　to
college　in　eighteen　months'　time。　Then　she　would　take　her
degree；　and　she　would……ah；　she　would　perhaps　be　a　big
woman；　and　lead　a　movement。　Who　knows？……At　any　rate　she
would　go　to　college　in　eighteen　months'　time。　All　that　mattered
now　was　work；　work。

And　till　college；　she　must　go　on　with　this　teaching　in　St。
Philip's　School；　which　was　always　destroying　her；　but　which　she
could　now　manage；　without　spoiling　all　her　life。　She　would
submit　to　it　for　a　time；　since　the　time　had　a　definite
limit。

The　class…teaching　itself　at　last　became　almost　mechanical。
It　was　a　strain　on　her；　an　exhausting　wearying　strain；　always
unnatural。　But　there　was　a　certain　amount　of　pleasure　in　the
sheer　oblivion　of　teaching；　so　much　work　to　do；　so　many　children
to　see　after；　so　much　to　be　done；　that　one's　self　was　forgotten。
When　the　work　had　bee　like　habit　to　her；　and　her　individual
soul　was　left　out；　had　its　growth　elsewhere；　then　she　could　be
almost　happy。

Her　real；　individual　self　drew　together　and　became　more
coherent　during　these　two　years　of　teaching；　during　the　struggle
against　the　odds　of　class　teaching。　It　was　always　a　prison　to
her；　the　school。　But　it　was　a　prison　where　her　wild；　chaotic
soul　became　hard　and　independent。　When　she　was　well　enough　and
not　tired；　then　she　did　not　hate　the　teaching。　She　enjoyed
getting　into　the　swing　of　work　of　a　morning；　putting　forth　all
her　strength；　making　the　thing　go。　It　was　for　her　a　strenuous
form　of　exercise。　And　her　soul　was　left　to　rest；　it　had　the　time
of　torpor　in　which　to　gather　itself　together　in　strength　again。
But　the　teaching　hours　were　too　long；　the　tasks　too　heavy；　and
the　disciplinary　condition　of　the　school　too　unnatural　for　her。
She　was　worn　very　thin　and　quivering。

She　came　to　school　in　the　morning　seeing　the　hawthorn　flowers
wet；　the　little；　rosy　grains　swimming　in　a　bowl　of　dew。　The
larks　quivered　their　song　up　into　the　new　sunshine；　and　the
country　was　so　glad。　It　was　a　violation　to　plunge　into　the　dust
and　greyness　of　the　town。

So　that　she　stood　before　her　class　unwilling　to　give　herself
up　to　the　activity　of　teaching；　to　turn　her　energy；　that　longed
for　the　country　and　for　joy　of　early　summer；　into　the　dominating
of　fifty　children　and　the　transferring　to　them　some　morsels　of
arithmetic。　There　was　a　little　absentness　about　her。　She　could
not　force　herself　into　forgetfulness。　A　jar　of　buttercups　and
fool's…parsley　in　the　window…bottom　kept　her　away　in　the
meadows；　where　in　the　lush　grass　the　moon…daisies　were
half…submerged；　and　a　spray　of　pink　ragged　robin。　Yet　before　her
were　faces　of　fifty　children。　They　were　almost　like　big　daisies
in　a　dimness　of　the　grass。

A　brightness　was　on　her　face；　a　little　unreality　in　her
teaching。　She　could　not　quite　see　her　children。　She　was
struggling　between　two　worlds；　her　own　world　of　young　summer　and
flowers；　and　this　other　world　of　work。　And　the　glimmer　of　her
own　sunlight　was　between　her　and　her　class。

Then　the　morning　passed　with　a　strange　far…awayness　and
quietness。　Dinner…time　came；　when　she　and　Maggie　ate　joyously；
with　all　the　windows　open。　And　then　they　went　out　into　St。
Philip's　churchyard；　where　was　a　shadowy　corner　under　red
hawthorn　trees。　And　there　they　talked　and　read　Shelley　or
Browning　or　some　work　about　〃Woman　and　Labour〃。

And　when　she　went　back　to　school；　Ursula　lived　still　in　the
shadowy　corner　of　the　graveyard；　where　pink…red　petals　lay
scattered　from　the　hawthorn　tree；　like　myriad　tiny　shells　on　a
beach；　and　a　church　bell　sometimes　rang　sonorously；　and
sometimes　a　bird　called　out；　whilst　Maggie's　voice　went　on　low
and　sweet。

These　days　she　was　happy　in　her　soul：　oh；　she　was　so　happy；
that　she　wished　she　could　take　her　joy　and　scatter　it　in　armfuls
broadcast。　She　made　her　children　happy；　too；　with　a　little
tingling　of　delight。　But　to　her；　the　children　were　not　a　school
class　this　afternoon。　They　were　flowers；　birds；　little　bright
animals；　children；　anything。　They　only　were　not　Standard　Five。
She　felt　no　responsibility　for　them。　It　was　for　once　a　game；
this　teaching。　And　if　they　got　their　sums　wrong；　what　matter？
And　she　would　take　a　pleasant　bit　of　reading。　And　instead　of
history　with　dates；　she　would　tell　a　lovely　tale。　And　for
grammar；　they　could　have　a　bit　of　written　analysis　that　was　not
difficult；　because　they　had　done　it　before：

　　〃She　shall　be　sportive　as　a　fawn
　　　That　wild　with　glee　across　the　lawn
　　　Or　up　the　mountain　springs。〃

She　wrote　that　from　memory；　because　it　pleased　her。

So　the　golden　afternoon　passed　away　and　she　went　home　happy。
She　had　finished　her　day　of　school；　and　was　free　to　plunge　into
the　glowing　evening　of　Cossethay。　And　she　loved　walking　home。
But　it　had　not　been　school。　It　had　been　playing　at　school
beneath　red　hawthorn　blossom。

She　could　not　go　on　like　this。　The　quarterly　examination　was
ing；　and　her　class　was　not　ready。　It　irritated　her　that　she
must　drag　herself　away　from　her　happy　self；　and　exert　herself
with　all　her　strength　to　force；　to　pel　this　heavy　class　of
children　to　work　hard　at　arithmetic。　They　did　not　want　to　work；
she　did　not　want　to　pel　them。　And　yet；　some　second　conscience
gnawed　at　her；　telling　her　the　work　was　not　properly　done。　It
irritated　her　almost　to　madness；　and　she　let　loose　all　the
irritation　in　the　class。　Then　followed　a　day　of　battle　and　hate
and　violence；　when　she　went　home　raw；　feeling　the　golden　evening
taken　away　from　her；　herself　incarcerated　in　some　dark；　heavy
place；　and　chained　there　with　a　consciousness　of　having　done
badly　at　work。

What　good　was　it　that　it　was　summer；　that　right　till　evening；
when　the　corncrakes　called；　the　larks　would　mount　up　into　the
light；　to　sing　once　more　before　nightfall。　What　good　was　it　all；
when　she　was　out　of　tune；　when　she　must　only　remember　the　burden
and　shame　of　school　that　day。

And　still；　she　hated　school。　Still　she　cried；　she　did　not
believe　in　it。　Why　should　the　children　learn；　and　why　should　she
teach　them？　It　was　all　so　much　milling　the　wind。　What　folly　was
it　that　made　life　into　this；　the　fulfilling　of　some　stupid；
factitious　duty？　It　was　all　so　made　up；　so　unnatural。　The
school；　the　sums；　the　grammar；　the　quarterly　examinations；　the
registers……it　was　all　a　barren　nothing！

Why　should　she　give　her　allegiance　to　this　world；　and　let　it
so　dominate　her；　that　her　own　world　of　warm　sun　and　growing；
sap…filled　life　was　turned　into　nothing？　She　was　not　going　to　do
it。　She　was　not　going　to　be　a　prisoner　in　the　dry；　tyrannical
man…world。　She　was　not　going　to　care　about　it。　What　did　it
matter　if　her　class　did　ever　so　badly　in　the　quarterly
examination。　Let　it……what　did　it　matter？

Nevertheless；　when　the　time　came；　and　the　report　on　her　class
was　bad；　she　was　miserable；　and　the　joy　of　the　summer　was　taken
away　from　her；　she　was　shut　up　in　gloom。　She　could　not　really
escape　from　this　world　of　system　and　work；　out　into　her　fields
where　she　was　happy。　She　must　have　her　place　in　the　working
world；　be　a　recognized　member　with　full　rights　there。　It　was
more　important　to　her　than　fields　and　sun　and　poetry；　at　this
time。　But　she　was　only　the　more　its　enemy。

It　was　a　very　difficult　thing；　she　thought；　during　the　long
hours　of　intermission　in　the　summer　holidays；　to　be　herself；　her
happy　self　that　enjoyed　so　much　to　lie　in　the　sun；　to　play　and
swim　and　be　content；　and　also　to　be　a　school…teacher　getting
results　out　of　a　class　of　children。　She　dreamed　fondly　of　the
time　when　she　need　not　be　a　teacher　any　more。　But　vaguely；　she
knew　that　re