The Rainbow-虹(英文版)-第71章

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mild　and　gentle；　neither　Lamb　nor　Dove。　He　was　the　lion　and　the
eagle。　Not　because　the　lion　and　the　eagle　had　power；　but　because
they　were　proud　and　strong；　they　were　themselves；　they　were　not
passive　subjects　of　some　shepherd；　or　pets　of　some　loving　woman；
or　sacrifices　of　some　priest。　She　was　weary　to　death　of　mild；
passive　lambs　and　monotonous　doves。　If　the　lamb　might　lie　down
with　the　lion；　it　would　be　a　great　honour　to　the　lamb；　but　the
lion's　powerful　heart　would　suffer　no　diminishing。　She　loved　the
dignity　and　selfpossession　of　lions。

She　did　not　see　how　lambs　could　love。　Lambs　could　only　be
loved。　They　could　only　be　afraid；　and　tremblingly　submit　to
fear；　and　bee　sacrificial；　or　they　could　submit　to　love；　and
bee　beloveds。　In　both　they　were　passive。　Raging；　destructive
lovers；　seeking　the　moment　when　fear　is　greatest；　and　triumph　is
greatest；　the　fear　not　greater　than　the　triumph；　the　triumph　not
greater　than　the　fear；　these　were　no　lambs　nor　doves。　She
stretched　her　own　limbs　like　a　lion　or　a　wild　horse；　her　heart
was　relentless　in　its　desires。　It　would　suffer　a　thousand
deaths；　but　it　would　still　be　a　lion's　heart　when　it　rose　from
death；　a　fiercer　lion　she　would　be；　a　surer；　knowing　herself
different　from　and　separate　from　the　great；　conflicting　universe
that　was　not　herself。

Winifred　Inger　was　also　interested　in　the　Women's
Movement。

〃The　men　will　do　no　more；they　have　lost　the　capacity
for　doing；〃　said　the　elder　girl。　〃They　fuss　and　talk；　but　they
are　really　inane。　They　make　everything　fit　into　an　old；　inert
idea。　Love　is　a　dead　idea　to　them。　They　don't　e　to　one　and
love　one；　they　e　to　an　idea；　and　they　say　'You　are　my　idea；'
so　they　embrace　themselves。　As　if　I　were　any　man's　idea！　As　if　I
exist　because　a　man　has　an　idea　of　me！　As　if　I　will　be　betrayed
by　him；　lend　him　my　body　as　an　instrument　for　his　idea；　to　be　a
mere　apparatus　of　his　dead　theory。　But　they　are　too　fussy　to　be
able　to　act；　they　are　all　impotent；　they　can't　take　a
woman。　They　e　to　their　own　idea　every　time；　and　take　that。
They　are　like　serpents　trying　to　swallow　themselves　because　they
are　hungry。〃

Ursula　was　introduced　by　her　friend　to　various　women　and　men；
educated；　unsatisfied　people；　who　still　moved　within　the　smug
provincial　society　as　if　they　were　nearly　as　tame　as　their
outward　behaviour　showed；　but　who　were　inwardly　raging　and
mad。

It　was　a　strange　world　the　girl　was　swept　into；　like　a　chaos；
like　the　end　of　the　world。　She　was　too　young　to　understand　it
all。　Yet　the　inoculation　passed　into　her；　through　her　love　for
her　mistress。

The　examination　came；　and　then　school　was　over。　It　was　the
long　vacation。　Winifred　Inger　went　away　to　London。　Ursula　was
left　alone　in　Cossethay。　A　terrible；　outcast；　almost　poisonous
despair　possessed　her。　It　was　no　use　doing　anything；　or　being
anything。　She　had　no　connection　with　other　people。　Her　lot　was
isolated　and　deadly。　There　was　nothing　for　her　anywhere；　but
this　black　disintegration。　Yet；　within　all　the　great　attack　of
disintegration　upon　her；　she　remained　herself。　It　was　the
terrible　core　of　all　her　suffering；　that　she　was　always　herself。
Never　could　she　escape　that：　she　could　not　put　off　being
herself。

She　still　adhered　to　Winifred　Inger。　But　a　sort　of　nausea　was
ing　over　her。　She　loved　her　mistress。　But　a　heavy；　clogged
sense　of　deadness　began　to　gather　upon　her；　from　the　other
woman's　contact。　And　sometimes　she　thought　Winifred　was　ugly；
clayey。　Her　female　hips　seemed　big　and　earthy；　her　ankles　and
her　arms　were　too　thick。　She　wanted　some　fine　intensity；　instead
of　this　heavy　cleaving　of　moist　clay；　that　cleaves　because　it
has　no　life　of　its　own。

Winifred　still　loved　Ursula。　She　had　a　passion　for　the　fine
flame　of　the　girl；　she　served　her　endlessly；　would　have　done
anything　for　her。

〃e　with　me　to　London；〃　she　pleaded　to　the　girl。　〃I　will
make　it　nice　for　you；you　shall　do　lots　of　things　you　will
enjoy。〃

〃No；〃　said　Ursula；　stubbornly　and　dully。　〃No；　I　don't　want　to
go　to　London；　I　want　to　be　by　myself。〃

Winifred　knew　what　this　meant。　She　knew　that　Ursula　was
beginning　to　reject　her。　The　fine；　unquenchable　flame　of　the
younger　girl　would　consent　no　more　to　mingle　with　the　perverted
life　of　the　elder　woman。　Winifred　knew　it　would　e。　But　she
too　was　proud。　At　the　bottom　of　her　was　a　black　pit　of　despair。
She　knew　perfectly　well　that　Ursula　would　cast　her　off。

And　that　seemed　like　the　end　of　her　life。　But　she　was　too
hopeless　to　rage。　Wisely；　economizing　what　was　left　of　Ursula's
love；　she　went　away　to　London；　leaving　the　beloved　girl
alone。

And　after　a　fortnight；　Ursula's　letters　became　tender　again；
loving。　Her　Uncle　Tom　had　invited　her　to　go　and　stay　with　him。
He　was　managing　a　big；　new　colliery　in　Yorkshire。　Would　Winifred
e　too？

For　now　Ursula　was　imagining　marriage　for　Winifred。　She
wanted　her　to　marry　her　Uncle　Tom。　Winifred　knew　this。　She　said
she　would　e　to　Wiggiston。　She　would　now　let　fate　do　as　it
liked　with　her；　since　there　was　nothing　remaining　to　be　done。
Tom　Brangwen　also　saw　Ursula's　intention。　He　too　was　at　the　end
of　his　desires。　He　had　done　the　things　he　had　wanted　to。　They
had　all　ended　in　a　disintegrated　lifelessness　of　soul；　which　he
hid　under　an　utterly　tolerant　goodhumour。　He　no　longer　cared
about　anything　on　earth；　neither　man　nor　woman；　nor　God　nor
humanity。　He　had　e　to　a　stability　of　nullification。　He　did
not　care　any　more；　neither　about　his　body　nor　about　his　soul。
Only　he　would　preserve　intact　his　own　life。　Only　the　simple；
superficial　fact　of　living　persisted。　He　was　still　healthy。　He
lived。　Therefore　he　would　fill　each　moment。　That　had　always　been
his　creed。　It　was　not　instinctive　easiness：　it　was　the
inevitable　oute　of　his　nature。　When　he　was　in　the　absolute
privacy　of　his　own　life；　he　did　as　he　pleased；　unscrupulous；
without　any　ulterior　thought。　He　believed　neither　in　good　nor
evil。　Each　moment　was　like　a　separate　little　island；　isolated
from　time；　and　blank；　unconditioned　by　time。

He　lived　in　a　large　new　house　of　red　brick；　standing　outside
a　mass　of　homogeneous　redbrick　dwellings；　called　Wiggiston。
Wiggiston　was　only　seven　years　old。　It　had　been　a　hamlet　of
eleven　houses　on　the　edge　of　healthy；　halfagricultural　country。
Then　the　great　seam　of　coal　had　been　opened。　In　a　year　Wiggiston
appeared；　a　great　mass　of　pinkish　rows　of　thin；　unreal　dwellings
of　five　rooms　each。　The　streets　were　like　visions　of　pure
ugliness；　a　greyblack　macadamized　road；　asphalt　causeways；　held
in　between　a　flat　succession　of　wall；　window；　and　door；　a
newbrick　channel　that　began　nowhere；　and　ended　nowhere。
Everything　was　amorphous；　yet　everything　repeated　itself
endlessly。　Only　now　and　then；　in　one　of　the　housewindows
vegetables　or　small　groceries　were　displayed　for　sale。

In　the　middle　of　the　town　was　a　large；　open；　shapeless　space；
or　marketplace；　of　black　trodden　earth；　surrounded　by　the　same
flat　material　of　dwellings；　new　redbrick　being　grimy；　small
oblong　windows；　and　oblong　doors；　repeated　endlessly；　with　just；
at　one　corner；　a　great　and　gaudy　public　house；　and　somewhere
lost　on　one　of　the　sides　of　the　square；　a　large　window　opaque
and　darkish　green；　which　was　the　post　office。

The　place　had　the　strange　desolation　of　a　ruin。　Colliers
hanging　about　in　gangs　and　groups；　or　passing　along　the　asphalt
pavements　heavily　to　work；　seemed　not　like　living　people；　but
like　spectres。　The　rigidity　of　the　blank　streets；　the
homogeneous　amorphous　sterility　of　the　whole　suggested　death
rather　than　life。　There　was　no　meeting　place；　no　centre；　no
artery；　no　anic　formation。　There　it　lay；　like　the　new
foundations　of　a　redbrick　confusion　rapidly　spreading；　like　a
skindisease。

Just　outside　of　this；　on　a　little　hill；　was　Tom　Brangwen's
big；　redbrick　house。　It　looked　from　the　front　upon　the　edge　of
the　place；　a　meaningless　squalor　of　ashpits　and　closets　and
irregular　rows　of　the　backs　of　houses；　each　with　its　small
activity　made　sordid　by　barren　cohesion　with　the　rest　of　the
small　activities。　Farther　off　was　the　great　colliery　that　went
night　and　day。　And　all　around　was　the　country；　green　with　two
winding　streams；　ragged　with　gorse；　and　heath；　the　darker　woods
in　the　distance。

The　whole　place　was　just　unreal；　just　unreal。　Even　now；　when
he　had　been　there　for　two　years；　Tom　Brangwen　did　not　believe　in
the　actuality　of　the　place。　It　was　like　some　gruesome　dream；
some　ugly；　dead；　amorphous　mood　bee　concrete。

Ursula　and　Winifred　were　met　by　the　motorcar　at　the　raw
little　station；　and　drove　through　what　seemed　to　them　like　the
horrible　raw　beginnings　of　something。　The　place　was　a　moment　of
chaos　perpetuated；　persisting；　chaos　fixed　and　rigid。　Ursula　was
fascinated　by　the　many　men　who　were　theregroups　of　men
standing　in　the　streets；　four　or　five　men　walking　in　a　gang
together；　their　dogs　running　behind　or　before。　They　were　all
decently　dressed；　and　most　of　them　rather　gaunt。　The　terrible
gaunt　repose　of　their　bearing　fascinated　her。　Like　creatures
with　no　more　hope；　but　which　still　live　and　have　passionate
being；　within　some　utterly　unliving　shell；　they　passed
meaninglessly　along；　with　strange；　isolated　dignity。　It　was　as
if　a　hard；　horny　shell　enclosed　them　all。

Shocked　and　startled；　Ursula　was　carried　to　her　Uncle　Tom's
house。　He　was　not　yet　at　home。　His　house　was　simply；　but　well
furnished。　He　had　taken　out　a　dividing　wall；　and　made　the　whole
front　of　the　house　into　a　large　library；　with　one　end　devoted　to
his　science。　It　was　a　handsome　room；　appointed　as　a　laboratory
and　reading　room；　but　giving　the　same　sense　of　hard；　mechanical
activity；　activity　mechanical　yet　inchoate；　and　looking　out　on
the　hideous　abstraction　of　the　town；　and　at　the　green　meadows
and　rough　country　beyond；　and　at　the　great；　mathematical
colliery　on　the　other　side。

They　saw　Tom　Brangwen　walking　up　the　curved　drive。　He　was
getting　stouter；　but　with　his　bowler　hat　worn　well　set　down　on
his　brows；　he　looked　manly；　handsome；　curiously　like　any　other
man　of　action。　His　colour　was　as　fresh；　his　health　as　perfect　as
ever；　he　walked　like　a　man　rather　absorbed。

Winifred　Inger　was　startled　when　he　entered　the　library；　his
coat　fastened　and　correct；　his　he