The Rainbow-虹(英文版)-第8章

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love；　the　mother　sat　very　still。　There　was　a　vagueness；　like　a
soft　mist　over　all　of　them；　and　a　silence　as　if　their　wills　were
suspended。　Only　he　saw　her　hands；　ungloved；　folded　in　her　lap；
and　he　noticed　the　weddingring　on　her　finger。　It　excluded　him：
it　was　a　closed　circle。　It　bound　her　life；　the　weddingring；　it
stood　for　her　life　in　which　he　could　have　no　part。　Nevertheless；
beyond　all　this；　there　was　herself　and　himself　which　should
meet。

As　he　helped　her　down　from　the　trap；　almost　lifting　her；　he
felt　he　had　some　right　to　take　her　thus　between　his　hands。　She
belonged　as　yet　to　that　other；　to　that　which　was　behind。　But　he
must　care　for　her　also。　She　was　too　living　to　be　neglected。

Sometimes　her　vagueness；　in　which　he　was　lost；　made　him
angry；　made　him　rage。　But　he　held　himself　still　as　yet。　She　had
no　response；　no　being　towards　him。　It　puzzled　and　enraged　him；
but　he　submitted　for　a　long　time。　Then；　from　the　accumulated
troubling　of　her　ignoring　him；　gradually　a　fury　broke　out；
destructive；　and　he　wanted　to　go　away；　to　escape　her。

It　happened　she　came　down　to　the　Marsh　with　the　child　whilst
he　was　in　this　state。　Then　he　stood　over　against　her；　strong　and
heavy　in　his　revolt；　and　though　he　said　nothing；　still　she　felt
his　anger　and　heavy　impatience　grip　hold　of　her；　she　was　shaken
again　as　out　of　a　torpor。　Again　her　heart　stirred　with　a　quick；
outrunning　impulse；　she　looked　at　him；　at　the　stranger　who　was
not　a　gentleman　yet　who　insisted　on　ing　into　her　life；　and
the　pain　of　a　new　birth　in　herself　strung　all　her　veins　to　a　new
form。　She　would　have　to　begin　again；　to　find　a　new　being；　a　new
form；　to　respond　to　that　blind；　insistent　figure　standing　over
against　her。

A　shiver；　a　sickness　of　new　birth　passed　over　her；　the　flame
leaped　up　him；　under　his　skin。　She　wanted　it；　this　new　life　from
him；　with　him；　yet　she　must　defend　herself　against　it；　for　it
was　a　destruction。

As　he　worked　alone　on　the　land；　or　sat　up　with　his　ewes　at
lambing　time；　the　facts　and　material　of　his　daily　life　fell
away；　leaving　the　kernel　of　his　purpose　clean。　And　then　it　came
upon　him　that　he　would　marry　her　and　she　would　be　his　life。

Gradually；　even　without　seeing　her；　he　came　to　know　her。　He
would　have　liked　to　think　of　her　as　of　something　given　into　his
protection；　like　a　child　without　parents。　But　it　was　forbidden
him。　He　had　to　e　down　from　this　pleasant　view　of　the　case。
She　might　refuse　him。　And　besides；　he　was　afraid　of　her。

But　during　the　long　February　nights　with　the　ewes　in　labour；
looking　out　from　the　shelter　into　the　flashing　stars；　he　knew　he
did　not　belong　to　himself。　He　must　admit　that　he　was　only
fragmentary；　something　inplete　and　subject。　There　were　the
stars　in　the　dark　heaven　travelling；　the　whole　host　passing　by
on　some　eternal　voyage。　So　he　sat　small　and　submissive　to　the
greater　ordering。

Unless　she　would　e　to　him；　he　must　remain　as　a
nothingness。　It　was　a　hard　experience。　But；　after　her　repeated
obliviousness　to　him；　after　he　had　seen　so　often　that　he　did　not
exist　for　her；　after　he　had　raged　and　tried　to　escape；　and　said
he　was　good　enough　by　himself；　he　was　a　man；　and　could　stand
alone；　he　must；　in　the　starry　multiplicity　of　the　night　humble
himself；　and　admit　and　know　that　without　her　he　was　nothing。

He　was　nothing。　But　with　her；　he　would　be　real。　If　she　were
now　walking　across　the　frosty　grass　near　the　sheepshelter；
through　the　fretful　bleating　of　the　ewes　and　lambs；　she　would
bring　him　pleteness　and　perfection。　And　if　it　should　be　so；
that　she　should　e　to　him！　It　should　be　soit　was
ordained　so。

He　was　a　long　time　resolving　definitely　to　ask　her　to　marry
him。　And　he　knew；　if　he　asked　her；　she　must　really　acquiesce。
She　must；　it　could　not　be　otherwise。

He　had　learned　a　little　of　her。　She　was　poor；　quite　alone；
and　had　had　a　hard　time　in　London；　both　before　and　after　her
husband　died。　But　in　Poland　she　was　a　lady　well　born；　a
landowner's　daughter。

All　these　things　were　only　words　to　him；　the　fact　of　her
superior　birth；　the　fact　that　her　husband　had　been　a　brilliant
doctor；　the　fact　that　he　himself　was　her　inferior　in　almost
every　way　of　distinction。　There　was　an　inner　reality；　a　logic　of
the　soul；　which　connected　her　with　him。

One　evening　in　March；　when　the　wind　was　roaring　outside；　came
the　moment　to　ask　her。　He　had　sat　with　his　hands　before　him；
leaning　to　the　fire。　And　as　he　watched　the　fire；　he　knew　almost
without　thinking　that　he　was　going　this　evening。

〃Have　you　got　a　clean　shirt？〃　he　asked　Tilly。

〃You　know　you've　got　clean　shirts；〃　she　said。

〃Ay；bring　me　a　white　one。〃

Tilly　brought　down　one　of　the　linen　shirts　he　had　inherited
from　his　father；　putting　it　before　him　to　air　at　the　fire。　She
loved　him　with　a　dumb；　aching　love　as　he　sat　leaning　with　his
arms　on　his　knees；　still　and　absorbed；　unaware　of　her。　Lately；　a
quivering　inclination　to　cry　had　e　over　her；　when　she　did
anything　for　him　in　his　presence。　Now　her　hands　trembled　as　she
spread　the　shirt。　He　was　never　shouting　and　teasing　now。　The
deep　stillness　there　was　in　the　house　made　her　tremble。

He　went　to　wash　himself。　Queer　little　breaks　of　consciousness
seemed　to　rise　and　burst　like　bubbles　out　of　the　depths　of　his
stillness。

〃It's　got　to　be　done；〃　he　said　as　he　stooped　to　take　the
shirt　out　of　the　fender；　〃it's　got　to　be　done；　so　why　balk　it？〃
And　as　he　bed　his　hair　before　the　mirror　on　the　wall；　he
retorted　to　himself；　superficially：　〃The　woman's　not　speechless
dumb。　She's　not　clutterin'　at　the　nipple。　She's　got　the　right　to
please　herself；　and　displease　whosoever　she　likes。〃

This　streak　of　mon　sense　carried　him　a　little　further。

〃Did　you　want　anythink？〃　asked　Tilly；　suddenly　appearing；
having　heard　him　speak。　She　stood　watching　him　b　his　fair
beard。　His　eyes　were　calm　and　uninterrupted。

〃Ay；〃　he　said；　〃where　have　you　put　the　scissors？〃

She　brought　them　to　him；　and　stood　watching　as；　chin　forward；
he　trimmed　his　beard。

〃Don't　go　an'　crop　yourself　as　if　you　was　at　a　shearin'
contest；〃　she　said；　anxiously。　He　blew　the　finecurled　hair
quickly　off　his　lips。

He　put　on　all　clean　clothes；　folded　his　stock　carefully；　and
donned　his　best　coat。　Then；　being　ready；　as　grey　twilight　was
falling；　he　went　across　to　the　orchard　to　gather　the　daffodils。
The　wind　was　roaring　in　the　apple　trees；　the　yellow　flowers
swayed　violently　up　and　down；　he　heard　even　the　fine　whisper　of
their　spears　as　he　stooped　to　break　the　flattened；　brittle　stems
of　the　flowers。

〃What's　todo？〃　shouted　a　friend　who　met　him　as　he　left　the
garden　gate。

〃Bit　of　courtin'；　like；〃　said　Brangwen。

And　Tilly；　in　a　great　state　of　trepidation　and　excitement；
let　the　wind　whisk　her　over　the　field　to　the　big　gate；　whence
she　could　watch　him　go。

He　went　up　the　hill　and　on　towards　the　vicarage；　the　wind
roaring　through　the　hedges；　whilst　he　tried　to　shelter　his　bunch
of　daffodils　by　his　side。　He　did　not　think　of　anything；　only
knew　that　the　wind　was　blowing。

Night　was　falling；　the　bare　trees　drummed　and　whistled。　The
vicar；　he　knew；　would　be　in　his　study；　the　Polish　woman　in　the
kitchen；　a　fortable　room；　with　her　child。　In　the　darkest　of
twilight；　he　went　through　the　gate　and　down　the　path　where　a　few
daffodils　stooped　in　the　wind；　and　shattered　crocuses　made　a
pale；　colourless　ravel。

There　was　a　light　streaming　on　to　the　bushes　at　the　back　from
the　kitchen　window。　He　began　to　hesitate。　How　could　he　do　this？
Looking　through　the　window；　he　saw　her　seated　in　the
rockingchair　with　the　child；　already　in　its　nightdress；　sitting
on　her　knee。　The　fair　head　with　its　wild；　fierce　hair　was
drooping　towards　the　firewarmth；　which　reflected　on　the　bright
cheeks　and　clear　skin　of　the　child；　who　seemed　to　be　musing；
almost　like　a　grownup　person。　The　mother's　face　was　dark　and
still；　and　he　saw；　with　a　pang；　that　she　was　away　back　in　the
life　that　had　been。　The　child's　hair　gleamed　like　spun　glass；
her　face　was　illuminated　till　it　seemed　like　wax　lit　up　from　the
inside。　The　wind　boomed　strongly。　Mother　and　child　sat
motionless；　silent；　the　child　staring　with　vacant　dark　eyes　into
the　fire；　the　mother　looking　into　space。　The　little　girl　was
almost　asleep。　It　was　her　will　which　kept　her　eyes　so　wide。

Suddenly　she　looked　round；　troubled；　as　the　wind　shook　the
house；　and　Brangwen　saw　the　small　lips　move。　The　mother　began　to
rock；　he　heard　the　slight　crunch　of　the　rockers　of　the　chair。
Then　he　heard　the　low；　monotonous　murmur　of　a　song　in　a　foreign
language。　Then　a　great　burst　of　wind；　the　mother　seemed　to　have
drifted　away；　the　child's　eyes　were　black　and　dilated。　Brangwen
looked　up　at　the　clouds　which　packed　in　great；　alarming　haste
across　the　dark　sky。

Then　there　came　the　child's　high；　plaining；　yet　imperative
voice：

〃Don't　sing　that　stuff；　mother；　I　don't　want　to　hear　it。〃

The　singing　died　away。

〃You　will　go　to　bed；〃　said　the　mother。

He　saw　the　clinging　protest　of　the　child；　the　unmoved
farawayness　of　the　mother；　the　clinging；　grasping　effort　of　the
child。　Then　suddenly　the　clear　childish　challenge：

〃I　want　you　to　tell　me　a　story。〃

The　wind　blew；　the　story　began；　the　child　nestled　against　the
mother；　Brangwen　waited　outside；　suspended；　looking　at　the　wild
waving　of　the　trees　in　the　wind　and　the　gathering　darkness。　He
had　his　fate　to　follow；　he　lingered　there　at　the　threshold。

The　child　crouched　distinct　and　motionless；　curled　in　against
her　mother；　the　eyes　dark　and　unblinking　among　the　keen　wisps　of
hair；　like　a　curledup　animal　asleep　but　for　the　eyes。　The
mother　sat　as　if　in　shadow；　the　story　went　on　as　if　by　itself。
Brangwen　stood　outside　seeing　the　night　fall。　He　did　not　notice
the　passage　of　time。　The　hand　that　held　the　daffodils　was　fixed
and　cold。

The　story　came　to　an　end；　the　mother　rose　at　last；　with　the
child　clinging　round　her　neck。　She　must　be　strong；　to　carry　so
large　a　child　so　easily。　The　little　Anna　clung　round　her
mother's　neck。　The　fair；　strange　face　of　the　child　looked　over
the　shoulder　of　the　mother；　all　asleep　but　the　eyes；　and　these；
wide　and　dark；　kept　up　the　resistance　and　the　fight　with
something　unseen。

When　they　were　gone；　Brangwen　stirred　for　the　first　time　from
th