The Rainbow-虹(英文版)-第102章

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on　the　bough。　The　horses　were　loosening　their　knot；　stirring；
trying　to　realize。　She　was　working　her　way　round　to　the　other
side　of　the　tree。　As　they　started　to　canter　towards　her；　she
fell　in　a　heap　on　the　other　side　of　the　hedge。

For　some　moments　she　could　not　move。　Then　she　saw　through　the
rabbitcleared　bottom　of　the　hedge　the　great；　working　hoofs　of
the　horses　as　they　cantered　near。　She　could　not　bear　it。　She
rose　and　walked　swiftly；　diagonally　across　the　field。　The　horses
galloped　along　the　other　side　of　the　hedge　to　the　corner；　where
they　were　held　up。　She　could　feel　them　there　in　their　huddled
group　all　the　while　she　hastened　across　the　bare　field。　They
were　almost　pathetic；　now。　Her　will　alone　carried　her；　till；
trembling；　she　climbed　the　fence　under　a　leaning　thorn　tree　that
overhung　the　grass　by　the　highroad。　The　use　went　from　her；　she
sat　on　the　fence　leaning　back　against　the　trunk　of　the　thorn
tree；　motionless。

As　she　sat　there；　spent；　time　and　the　flux　of　change　passed
away　from　her；　she　lay　as　if　unconscious　upon　the　bed　of　the
stream；　like　a　stone；　unconscious；　unchanging；　unchangeable；
whilst　everything　rolled　by　in　transience；　leaving　her　there；　a
stone　at　rest　on　the　bed　of　the　stream；　inalterable　and　passive；
sunk　to　the　bottom　of　all　change。

She　lay　still　a　long　time；　with　her　back　against　the　thorn
tree　trunk；　in　her　final　isolation。　Some　colliers　passed；
tramping　heavily　up　the　wet　road；　their　voices　sounding　out；
their　shoulders　up　to　their　ears；　their　figures　blotched　and
spectral　in　the　rain。　Some　did　not　see　her。　She　opened　her　eyes
languidly　as　they　passed　by。　Then　one　man　going　alone　saw　her。
The　whites　of　his　eyes　showed　in　his　black　face　as　he　looked　in
wonderment　at　her。　He　hesitated　in　his　walk；　as　if　to　speak　to
her；　out　of　frightened　concern　for　her。　How　she　dreaded　his
speaking　to　her；　dreaded　his　questioning　her。

She　slipped　from　her　seat　and　went　vaguely　along　the
pathvaguely。　It　was　a　long　way　home。　She　had　an　idea　that
she　must　walk　for　the　rest　of　her　life；　wearily；　wearily。　Step
after　step；　step　after　step；　and　always　along　the　wet；　rainy
road　between　the　hedges。　Step　after　step；　step　after　step；　the
monotony　produced　a　deep；　cold　sense　of　nausea　in　her。　How
profound　was　her　cold　nausea；　how　profound！　That　too　plumbed　the
bottom。　She　seemed　destined　to　find　the　bottom　of　all　things
today：　the　bottom　of　all　things。　Well；　at　any　rate　she　was
walking　along　the　bottommost　bedshe　was　quite　safe：
quite　safe；　if　she　had　to　go　on　and　on　for　ever；　seeing　this　was
the　very　bottom；　and　there　was　nothing　deeper。　There　was　nothing
deeper；　you　see；　so　one　could　not　but　feel　certain；　passive。

She　arrived　home　at　last。　The　climb　up　the　hill　to　Beldover
had　been　very　trying。　Why　must　one　climb　the　hill？　Why　must　one
climb？　Why　not　stay　below？　Why　force　one's　way　up　the　slope？　Why
force　one's　way　up　and　up；　when　one　is　at　the　bottom？　Oh；　it　was
very　trying；　very　wearying；　very　burdensome。　Always　burdens；
always；　always　burdens。　Still；　she　must　get　to　the　top　and　go
home　to　bed。　She　must　go　to　bed。

She　got　in　and　went　upstairs　in　the　dusk　without　its　being
noticed　she　was　in　such　a　sodden　condition。　She　was　too　tired　to
go　downstairs　again。　She　got　into　bed　and　lay　shuddering　with
cold；　yet　too　apathetic　to　get　up　or　call　for　relief。　Then
gradually　she　became　more　ill。

She　was　very　ill　for　a　fortnight；　delirious；　shaken　and
racked。　But　always；　amid　the　ache　of　delirium；　she　had　a　dull
firmness　of　being；　a　sense　of　permanency。　She　was　in　some　way
like　the　stone　at　the　bottom　of　the　river；　inviolable　and
unalterable；　no　matter　what　storm　raged　in　her　body。　Her　soul
lay　still　and　permanent；　full　of　pain；　but　itself　for　ever。
Under　all　her　illness；　persisted　a　deep；　inalterable
knowledge。

She　knew；　and　she　cared　no　more。　Throughout　her　illness；
distorted　into　vague　forms；　persisted　the　question　of　herself
and　Skrebensky；　like　a　gnawing　ache　that　was　still　superficial；
and　did　not　touch　her　isolated；　impregnable　core　of　reality。　But
the　corrosion　of　him　burned　in　her　till　it　burned　itself
out。

Must　she　belong　to　him；　must　she　adhere　to　him？　Something
pelled　her；　and　yet　it　was　not　real。　Always　the　ache；　the
ache　of　unreality；　of　her　belonging　to　Skrebensky。　What　bound
her　to　him　when　she　was　not　bound　to　him？　Why　did　the　falsity
persist？　Why　did　the　falsity　gnaw；　gnaw；　gnaw　at　her；　why　could
she　not　wake　up　to　clarity；　to　reality。　If　she　could　but　wake
up；　if　she　could　but　wake　up；　the　falsity　of　the　dream；　of　her
connection　with　Skrebensky；　would　be　gone。　But　the　sleep；　the
delirium　pinned　her　down。　Even　when　she　was　calm　and　sober　she
was　in　its　spell。

Yet　she　was　never　in　its　spell。　What　extraneous　thing　bound
her　to　him？　There　was　some　bond　put　upon　her。　Why　could　she　not
break　it　through？　What　was　it？　What　was　it？

In　her　delirium　she　beat　and　beat　at　the　question。　And　at
last　her　weariness　gave　her　the　answerit　was　the　child。
The　child　bound　her　to　him。　The　child　was　like　a　bond　round　her
brain；　tightened　on　her　brain。　It　bound　her　to　Skrebensky。

But　why；　why　did　it　bind　her　to　Skrebensky？　Could　she　not
have　a　child　of　herself？　Was　not　the　child　her　own　affair？　all
her　own　affair？　What　had　it　to　do　with　him？　Why　must　she　be
bound；　aching　and　cramped　with　the　bondage；　to　Skrebensky　and
Skrebensky's　world？　Anton's　world：　it　became　in　her　feverish
brain　a　pression　which　enclosed　her。　If　she　could　not　get　out
of　the　pression　she　would　go　mad。　The　pression　was　Anton
and　Anton's　world；　not　the　Anton　she　possessed；　but　the　Anton
she　did　not　possess；　that　which　was　owned　by　some　other
influence；　by　the　world。

She　fought　and　fought　and　fought　all　through　her　illness　to
be　free　of　him　and　his　world；　to　put　it　aside；　to　put　it　aside；
into　its　place。　Yet　ever　anew　it　gained　ascendency　over　her；　it
laid　new　hold　on　her。　Oh；　the　unutterable　weariness　of　her
flesh；　which　she　could　not　cast　off；　nor　yet　extricate。　If　she
could　but　extricate　herself；　if　she　could　but　disengage　herself
from　feeling；　from　her　body；　from　all　the　vast　encumbrances　of
the　world　that　was　in　contact　with　her；　from　her　father；　and　her
mother；　and　her　lover；　and　all　her　acquaintance。

Repeatedly；　in　an　ache　of　utter　weariness　she　repeated：　〃I
have　no　father　nor　mother　nor　lover；　I　have　no　allocated　place
in　the　world　of　things；　I　do　not　belong　to　Beldover　nor　to
Nottingham　nor　to　England　nor　to　this　world；　they　none　of　them
exist；　I　am　trammelled　and　entangled　in　them；　but　they　are　all
unreal。　I　must　break　out　of　it；　like　a　nut　from　its　shell　which
is　an　unreality。〃

And　again；　to　her　feverish　brain；　came　the　vivid　reality　of
acorns　in　February　lying　on　the　floor　of　a　wood　with　their
shells　burst　and　discarded　and　the　kernel　issued　naked　to　put
itself　forth。　She　was　the　naked；　clear　kernel　thrusting　forth
the　clear；　powerful　shoot；　and　the　world　was　a　bygone　winter；
discarded；　her　mother　and　father　and　Anton；　and　college　and　all
her　friends；　all　cast　off　like　a　year　that　has　gone　by；　whilst
the　kernel　was　free　and　naked　and　striving　to　take　new　root；　to
create　a　new　knowledge　of　Eternity　in　the　flux　of　Time。　And　the
kernel　was　the　only　reality；　the　rest　was　cast　off　into
oblivion。

This　grew　and　grew　upon　her。　When　she　opened　her　eyes　in　the
afternoon　and　saw　the　window　of　her　room　and　the　faint；　smoky
landscape　beyond；　this　was　all　husk　and　shell　lying　by；　all　husk
and　shell；　she　could　see　nothing　else；　she　was　enclosed　still；
but　loosely　enclosed。　There　was　a　space　between　her　and　the
shell。　It　was　burst；　there　was　a　rift　in　it。　Soon　she　would　have
her　root　fixed　in　a　new　Day；　her　nakedness　would　take　itself　the
bed　of　a　new　sky　and　a　new　air；　this　old；　decaying；　fibrous　husk
would　be　gone。

Gradually　she　began　really　to　sleep。　She　slept　in　the
confidence　of　her　new　reality。　She　slept　breathing　with　her　soul
the　new　air　of　a　new　world。　The　peace　was　very　deep　and
enrichening。　She　had　her　root　in　new　ground；　she　was　gradually
absorbed　into　growth。

When　she　woke　at　last　it　seemed　as　if　a　new　day　had　e　on
the　earth。　How　long；　how　long　had　she　fought　through　the　dust
and　obscurity；　for　this　new　dawn？　How　frail　and　fine　and　clear
she　felt；　like　the　most　fragile　flower　that　opens　in　the　end　of
winter。　But　the　pole　of　night　was　turned　and　the　dawn　was　ing
in。

Very　far　off　was　her　old　experienceSkrebensky；　her
parting　with　himvery　far　off。　Some　things　were　real；
those　first　glamorous　weeks。　Before；　these　had　seemed　like
hallucination。　Now　they　seemed　like　mon　reality。　The　rest　was
unreal。　She　knew　that　Skrebensky　had　never　bee　finally　real。
In　the　weeks　of　passionate　ecstasy　he　had　been　with　her　in　her
desire；　she　had　created　him　for　the　time　being。　But　in　the　end
he　had　failed　and　broken　down。

Strange；　what　a　void　separated　him　and　her。　She　liked　him
now；　as　she　liked　a　memory；　some　bygone　self。　He　was　something
of　the　past；　finite。　He　was　that　which　is　known。　She　felt　a
poignant　affection　for　him；　as　for　that　which　is　past。　But；　when
she　looked　with　her　face　forward；　he　was　not。　Nay；　when　she
looked　ahead；　into　the　undiscovered　land　before　her；　what　was
there　she　could　recognize　but　a　fresh　glow　of　light　and
inscrutable　trees　going　up　from　the　earth　like　smoke。　It　was　the
unknown；　the　unexplored；　the　undiscovered　upon　whose　shore　she
had　landed；　alone；　after　crossing　the　void；　the　darkness　which
washed　the　New　World　and　the　Old。

There　would　be　no　child：　she　was　glad。　If　there　had　been　a
child；　it　would　have　made　little　difference；　however。　She　would
have　kept　the　child　and　herself；　she　would　not　have　gone　to
Skrebensky。　Anton　belonged　to　the　past。

There　came　the　cablegram　from　Skrebensky：　〃I　am　married。〃　An
old　pain　and　anger　and　contempt　stirred　in　her。　Did　he　belong　so
utterly　to　the　castoff　past？　She　repudiated　him。　He　was　as　he
was。　It　was　good　that　he　was　as　he　was。　Who　was　she　to　have　a
man　according　to　her　own　desire？　It　was　not　for　her　to　create；
but　to　recognize　a　man　created　by　God。　The　man　should　e　from
the　Infinite　and　she　should　hail　him。　She　was　glad　she　could　not
create　her　man。　She　was　glad　she　had　nothing　to　do　with　his
creation。　She　was