第 20 页

hair was threaded with grey, her face was beautiful in its

gathering age. She was just fifty. How poignantly he saw her!

And he wanted to cut out some of his own heart, which was

incontinent, and demanded still to share the rapid life of

youth. How he hated himself.

His wife was so poignant and timely. She was still young and

naive, with some girl's freshness. But she did not want any more

the fight, the battle, the control, as he, in his incontinence,

still did. She was so natural, and he was ugly, unnatural, in

his inability to yield place. How hideous, this greedy

middle-age, which must stand in the way of life, like a large

demon.

What was missing in his life, that, in his ravening soul, he

was not satisfied? He had had that friend at school, his mother,

his wife, and Anna? What had he done? He had failed with his

friend, he had been a poor son; but he had known satisfaction

with his wife, let it be enough; he loathed himself for the

state he was in over Anna. Yet he was not satisfied. It was

agony to know it.

Was his life nothing? Had he nothing to show, no work? He did

not count his work, anybody could have done it. What had he

known, but the long, marital embrace with his wife! Curious,

that this was what his life amounted to! At any rate, it was

something, it was eternal. He would say so to anybody, and be

proud of it. He lay with his wife in his arms, and she was still

his fulfilment, just the same as ever. And that was the be-all

and the end-all. Yes, and he was proud of it.

But the bitterness, underneath, that there still remained an

unsatisfied Tom Brangwen, who suffered agony because a girl

cared nothing for him. He loved his sons--he had them also.

But it was the further, the creative life with the girl, he

wanted as well. Oh, and he was ashamed. He trampled himself to

extinguish himself.

What weariness! There was no peace, however old one grew! One

was never right, never decent, never master of oneself. It was

as if his hope had been in the girl.

Anna quickly lapsed again into her love for the youth. Will

Brangwen had fixed his marriage for the Saturday before

Christmas. And he waited for her, in his bright, unquestioning

fashion, until then. He wanted her, she was his, he suspended

his being till the day should come. The wedding day, December

the twenty-third, had come into being for him as an absolute

thing. He lived in it.

He did not count the days. But like a man who journeys in a

ship, he was suspended till the coming to port.

He worked at his carving, he worked in his office, he came to

see her; all was but a form of waiting, without thought or

question.

She was much more alive. She wanted to enjoy courtship. He

seemed to come and go like the wind, without asking why or

whither. But she wanted to enjoy his presence. For her, he was

the kernel of life, to touch him alone was bliss. But for him,

she was the essence of life. She existed as much when he was at

his carving in his lodging in Ilkeston, as when she sat looking

at him in the Marsh kitchen. In himself, he knew her. But his

outward faculties seemed suspended. He did not see her with his

eyes, nor hear her with his voice.

And yet he trembled, sometimes into a kind of swoon, holding

her in his arms. They would stand sometimes folded together in

the barn, in silence. Then to her, as she felt his young, tense

figure with her hands, the bliss was intolerable, intolerable

the sense that she possessed him. For his body was so keen and

wonderful, it was the only reality in her world. In her world,

there was this one tense, vivid body of a man, and then many

other shadowy men, all unreal. In him, she touched the centre of

reality. And they were together, he and she, at the heart of the

secret. How she clutched him to her, his body the central body

of all life. Out of the rock of his form the very fountain of

life flowed.

But to him, she was a flame that consumed him. The flame

flowed up his limbs, flowed through him, till he was consumed,

till he existed only as an unconscious, dark transit of flame,

deriving from her.

Sometimes, in the darkness, a cow coughed. There was, in the

darkness, a slow sound of cud chewing. And it all seemed to flow

round them and upon them as the hot blood flows through the

womb, laving the unborn young.

Sometimes, when it was cold, they stood to be lovers in the

stables, where the air was warm and sharp with ammonia. And

during these dark vigils, he learned to know her, her body

against his, they drew nearer and nearer together, the kisses

came more subtly close and fitting. So when in the thick

darkness a horse suddenly scrambled to its feet, with a dull,

thunderous sound, they listened as one person listening, they

knew as one person, they were conscious of the horse.

Tom Brangwen had taken them a cottage at Cossethay, on a

twenty-one years' lease. Will Brangwen's eyes lit up as he saw

it. It was the cottage next the church, with dark yew-trees,

very black old trees, along the side of the house and the grassy

front garden; a red, squarish cottage with a low slate roof, and

low windows. It had a long dairy-scullery, a big flagged

kitchen, and a low parlour, that went up one step from the

kitchen. There were whitewashed beams across the ceilings, and

odd corners with cupboards. Looking out through the windows,

there was the grassy garden, the procession of black yew trees

down one side, and along the other sides, a red wall with ivy

separating the place from the high-road and the churchyard. The

old, little church, with its small spire on a square tower,

seemed to be looking back at the cottage windows.

"There'll be no need to have a clock," said Will Brangwen,

peeping out at the white clock-face on the tower, his

neighbour.

At the back of the house was a garden adjoining the paddock,

a cowshed with standing for two cows, pig-cotes and fowl-houses.

Will Brangwen was very happy. Anna was glad to think of being

mistress of her own place.

Tom Brangwen was now the fairy godfather. He was never happy

unless he was buying something. Will Brangwen, with his interest

in all wood-work, was getting the furniture. He was left to buy

tables and round-staved chairs and the dressers, quite ordinary

stuff, but such as was identified with his cottage.

Tom Brangwen, with more particular thought, spied out what he

called handy little things for her. He appeared with a set of

new-fangled cooking-pans, with a special sort of hanging lamp,

though the rooms were so low, with canny little machines for

grinding meat or mashing potatoes or whisking eggs.

Anna took a sharp interest in what he bought, though she was

not always pleased. Some of the little contrivances, which he

thought so canny, left her doubtful. Nevertheless she was always

expectant, on market days there was always a long thrill of

anticipation. He arrived with the first darkness, the copper

lamps of his cart glowing. And she ran to the gate, as he, a

dark, burly figure up in the cart, was bending over his

parcels.

"It's cupboard love as brings you out so sharp," he said, his

voice resounding in the cold darkness. Nevertheless he was

excited. And she, taking one of the cart lamps, poked and peered

among the jumble of things he had brought, pushing aside the oil

or implements he had got for himself.

She dragged out a pair of small, strong bellows, registered

them in her mind, and then pulled uncertainly at something else.

It had a long handle, and a piece of brown paper round the

middle of it, like a waistcoat.

"What's this?" she said, poking.

He stopped to look at her. She went to the lamp-light by the

horse, and stood there bent over the new thing, while her hair

was like bronze, her apron white and cheerful. Her fingers

plucked busily at the paper. She dragged forth a little wringer,

with clean indiarubber rollers. She examined it critically, not

knowing quite how it worked.

She looked up at him. He stood a shadowy presence beyond the

light.

"How does it go?" she asked.

"Why, it's for pulpin' turnips," he replied.

She looked at him. His voice disturbed her.

"Don't be silly. It's a little mangle," she said. "How do you

stand it, though?"

"You screw it on th' side o' your wash-tub." He came and held

it out to her.

"Oh, yes!" she cried, with one of her little skipping

movements, which still came when she was suddenly glad.

And without another thought she ran off into the house,

leaving him to untackle the horse. And when he came into the

scullery, he found her there, with the little wringer fixed on

the dolly-tub, turning blissfully at the handle, and Tilly

beside her, exclaiming:

"My word, that's a natty little thing! That'll save you

luggin' your inside out. That's the latest contraption, that

is."

And Anna turned away at the handle, with great gusto of

possession. Then she let Tilly have a turn.

"It fair runs by itself," said Tilly, turning on and on.

"Your clothes'll nip out on to th' line."

CHAPTER V

WEDDING AT THE MARSH

It was a beautiful sunny day for the wedding, a muddy earth

but a bright sky. They had three cabs and two big closed-in

vehicles. Everybody crowded in the parlour in excitement. Anna

was still upstairs. Her father kept taking a nip of brandy. He

was handsome in his black coat and grey trousers. His voice was

hearty but troubled. His wife came down in dark grey silk with

lace, and a touch of peacock-blue in her bonnet. Her little body

was very sure and definite. Brangwen was thankful she was there,

to sustain him among all these people.

The carriages! The Nottingham Mrs. Brangwen, in silk brocade,

stands in the doorway saying who must go with whom. There is a

great bustle. The front door is opened, and the wedding guests

are walking down the garden path, whilst those still waiting

peer through the window, and the little crowd at the gate gorps

and stretches. How funny such dressed-up people look in the

winter sunshine!

They are gone--another lot! There begins to be more

room. Anna comes down blushing and very shy, to be viewed in her

white silk and her veil. Her mother-in-law surveys her

objectively, twitches the white train, arranges the folds of the

veil and asserts herself.

Loud exclamations from the window that the bridegroom's

carriage has just passed.

"Where's your hat, father, and your gloves?" cries the bride,

stamping her white slipper, her eyes flashing through her veil.

He hunts round--his hair is ruffled. Everybody has gone but

the bride and her father. He is ready--his face very red

and daunted. Tilly dithers in the little porch, waiting to open

the door. A waiting woman walks round Anna, who asks:

"Am I all right?"

She is ready. She bridles herself and looks queenly. She

waves her hand sharply to her father:

"Come here!"

He goes. She puts her hand very lightly on his arm, and

holding her bouquet like a shower, stepping, oh, very

graciously, just a little impatient with her father for being so

red in the face, she sweeps slowly past the fluttering Tilly,

and down the path. There are hoarse shouts at the gate, and all

her floating foamy whiteness passes slowly into the cab.

Her father notices her slim ankle and foot as she steps up: a

child's foot. His heart is hard with tenderness. But she is in

ecstasies with herself for making such a lovely spectacle. All

the way she sat flamboyant with bliss because it was all so

lovely. She looked down solicitously at her bouquet: white roses

and lilies-of-the-valley and tube-roses and maidenhair

fern--very rich and cascade-like.

Her father sat bewildered with all this strangeness, his

heart was so full it felt hard, and he couldn't think of

anything.

The church was decorated for Christmas, dark with evergreens,

cold and snowy with white flowers. He went vaguely down to the

altar. How long was it since he had gone to be married himself?

He was not sure whether he was going to be married now, or what

he had come for. He had a troubled notion that he had to do

something or other. He saw his wife's bonnet, and wondered why

she wasn't there with him.

They stood before the altar. He was staring up at the east

window, that glowed intensely, a sort of blue purple: it was

deep blue glowing, and some crimson, and little yellow flowers

held fast in veins of shadow, in a heavy web of darkness. How it

burned alive in radiance among its black web.

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" He felt

somebody touch him. He started. The words still re-echoed in his

memory, but were drawing off.

"Me," he said hastily.

Ann bent her head and smiled in her veil. How absurd he

was.

Brangwen was staring away at the burning blue window at the

back of the altar, and wondering vaguely, with pain, if he ever

should get old, if he ever should feel arrived and established.

He was here at Anna's wedding. Well, what right had he to feel

responsible, like a father? He was still as unsure and unfixed

as when he had married himself. His wife and he! With a pang of

anguish he realized what uncertainties they both were. He was a

man of forty-five. Forty-five! In five more years fifty. Then

sixty--then seventy--then it was finished. My

God--and one still was so unestablished!

How did one grow old-how could one become confident? He

wished he felt older. Why, what difference was there, as far as

he felt matured or completed, between him now and him at his own

wedding? He might be getting married over again--he and his

wife. He felt himself tiny, a little, upright figure on a plain

circled round with the immense, roaring sky: he and his wife,

two little, upright figures walking across this plain, whilst

the heavens shimmered and roared about them. When did one come