第 43 页

Over this Ursula was stirred as by a call from far off. In

those days, would not the Sons of God have found her fair, would

she not have been taken to wife by one of the Sons of God? It

was a dream that frightened her, for she could not understand

it.

Who were the sons of God? Was not Jesus the only begotten

Son? Was not Adam the only man created from God? Yet there were

men not begotten by Adam. Who were these, and whence did they

come? They too must derive from God. Had God many offspring,

besides Adam and besides Jesus, children whose origin the

children of Adam cannot recognize? And perhaps these children,

these sons of God, had known no expulsion, no ignominy of the

fall.

These came on free feet to the daughters of men, and saw they

were fair, and took them to wife, so that the women conceived

and brought forth men of renown. This was a genuine fate. She

moved about in the essential days, when the sons of God came in

unto the daughters of men.

Nor would any comparison of myths destroy her passion in the

knowledge. Jove had become a bull, or a man, in order to love a

mortal woman. He had begotten in her a giant, a hero.

Very good, so he had, in Greece. For herself, she was no

Grecian woman. Not Jove nor Pan nor any of those gods, not even

Bacchus nor Apollo, could come to her. But the Sons of God who

took to wife the daughters of men, these were such as should

take her to wife.

She clung to the secret hope, the aspiration. She lived a

dual life, one where the facts of daily life encompassed

everything, being legion, and the other wherein the facts of

daily life were superseded by the eternal truth. So utterly did

she desire the Sons of God should come to the daughters of men;

and she believed more in her desire and its fulfilment than in

the obvious facts of life. The fact that a man was a man, did

not state his descent from Adam, did not exclude that he was

also one of the unhistoried, unaccountable Sons of God. As yet,

she was confused, but not denied.

Again she heard the Voice:

"It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle,

than for a rich man to enter into heaven."

But it was explained, the needle's eye was a little gateway

for foot passengers, through which the great, humped camel with

his load could not possibly squeeze himself: or perhaps at a

great risk, if he were a little camel, he might get through. For

one could not absolutely exclude the rich man from heaven, said

the Sunday school teachers.

It pleased her also to know, that in the East one must use

hyperbole, or else remain unheard; because the Eastern man must

see a thing swelling to fill all heaven, or dwindled to a mere

nothing, before he is suitably impressed. She immediately

sympathized with this Eastern mind.

Yet the words continued to have a meaning that was untouched

either by the knowledge of gateways or hyperboles. The

historical, or local, or psychological interest in the words was

another thing. There remained unaltered the inexplicable value

of the saying. What was this relation between a needle's eye, a

rich man, and heaven? What sort of a needle's eye, what sort of

a rich man, what sort of heaven? Who knows? It means the

Absolute World, and can never be more than half interpreted in

terms of the relative world.

But must one apply the speech literally? Was her father a

rich man? Couldn't he get to heaven? Or was he only a half-rich

man? Or was he merely a poor man? At any rate, unless he gave

everything away to the poor, he would find it much harder to get

to heaven. The needle's eye would be too tight for him. She

almost wished he were penniless poor. If one were coming to the

base of it, any man was rich who was not as poor as the

poorest.

She had her qualms, when in imagination she saw her father

giving away their piano and the two cows, and the capital at the

bank, to the labourers of the district, so that they, the

Brangwens, should be as poor as the Wherrys. And she did not

want it. She was impatient.

"Very well," she thought, "we'll forego that heaven, that's

all--at any rate the needle's eye sort." And she dismissed

the problem. She was not going to be as poor as the Wherrys, not

for all the sayings on earth--the miserable squalid

Wherrys.

So she reverted to the non-literal application of the

scriptures. Her father very rarely read, but he had collected

many books of reproductions, and he would sit and look at these,

curiously intent, like a child, yet with a passion that was not

childish. He loved the early Italian painters, but particularly

Giotto and Fra Angelico and Filippo Lippi. The great

compositions cast a spell over him. How many times had he turned

to Raphael's "Dispute of the Sacrament" or Fra Angelico's "Last

Judgment" or the beautiful, complicated renderings of the

Adoration of the Magi, and always, each time, he received the

same gradual fulfilment of delight. It had to do with the

establishment of a whole mystical, architectural conception

which used the human figure as a unit. Sometimes he had to hurry

home, and go to the Fra Angelico "Last Judgment". The pathway of

open graves, the huddled earth on either side, the seemly heaven

arranged above, the singing process to paradise on the one hand,

the stuttering descent to hell on the other, completed and

satisfied him. He did not care whether or not he believed in

devils or angels. The whole conception gave him the deepest

satisfaction, and he wanted nothing more.

Ursula, accustomed to these pictures from her childhood,

hunted out their detail. She adored Fra Angelico's flowers and

light and angels, she liked the demons and enjoyed the hell. But

the representation of the encircled God, surrounded by all the

angels on high, suddenly bored her. The figure of the Most High

bored her, and roused her resentment. Was this the culmination

and the meaning of it all, this draped, null figure? The angels

were so lovely, and the light so beautiful. And only for this,

to surround such a banality for God!

She was dissatisfied, but not fit as yet to criticize. There

was yet so much to wonder over. Winter came, pine branches were

torn down in the snow, the green pine needles looked rich upon

the ground. There was the wonderful, starry, straight track of a

pheasant's footsteps across the snow imprinted so clear; there

was the lobbing mark of the rabbit, two holes abreast, two holes

following behind; the hare shoved deeper shafts, slanting, and

his two hind feet came down together and made one large pit; the

cat podded little holes, and birds made a lacy pattern.

Gradually there gathered the feeling of expectation.

Christmas was coming. In the shed, at nights, a secret candle

was burning, a sound of veiled voices was heard. The boys were

learning the old mystery play of St. George and Beelzebub. Twice

a week, by lamplight, there was choir practice in the church,

for the learning of old carols Brangwen wanted to hear. The

girls went to these practices. Everywhere was a sense of mystery

and rousedness. Everybody was preparing for something.

The time came near, the girls were decorating the church,

with cold fingers binding holly and fir and yew about the

pillars, till a new spirit was in the church, the stone broke

out into dark, rich leaf, the arches put forth their buds, and

cold flowers rose to blossom in the dim, mystic atmosphere.

Ursula must weave mistletoe over the door, and over the screen,

and hang a silver dove from a sprig of yew, till dusk came down,

and the church was like a grove.

In the cow-shed the boys were blacking their faces for a

dress-rehearsal; the turkey hung dead, with opened, speckled

wings, in the dairy. The time was come to make pies, in

readiness.

The expectation grew more tense. The star was risen into the

sky, the songs, the carols were ready to hail it. The star was

the sign in the sky. Earth too should give a sign. As evening

drew on, hearts beat fast with anticipation, hands were full of

ready gifts. There were the tremulously expectant words of the

church service, the night was past and the morning was come, the

gifts were given and received, joy and peace made a flapping of

wings in each heart, there was a great burst of carols, the

Peace of the World had dawned, strife had passed away, every

hand was linked in hand, every heart was singing.

It was bitter, though, that Christmas Day, as it drew on to

evening, and night, became a sort of bank holiday, flat and

stale. The morning was so wonderful, but in the afternoon and

evening the ecstasy perished like a nipped thing, like a bud in

a false spring. Alas, that Christmas was only a domestic feast,

a feast of sweetmeats and toys! Why did not the grown-ups also

change their everyday hearts, and give way to ecstasy? Where was

the ecstasy?

How passionately the Brangwens craved for it, the ecstasy.

The father was troubled, dark-faced and disconsolate, on

Christmas night, because the passion was not there, because the

day was become as every day, and hearts were not aflame. Upon

the mother was a kind of absentness, as ever, as if she were

exiled for all her life. Where was the fiery heart of joy, now

the coming was fulfilled; where was the star, the Magi's

transport, the thrill of new being that shook the earth?

Still it was there, even if it were faint and inadequate. The

cycle of creation still wheeled in the Church year. After

Christmas, the ecstasy slowly sank and changed. Sunday followed

Sunday, trailing a fine movement, a finely developed

transformation over the heart of the family. The heart that was

big with joy, that had seen the star and had followed to the

inner walls of the Nativity, that there had swooned in the great

light, must now feel the light slowly withdrawing, a shadow

falling, darkening. The chill crept in, silence came over the

earth, and then all was darkness. The veil of the temple was

rent, each heart gave up the ghost, and sank dead.

They moved quietly, a little wanness on the lips of the

children, at Good Friday, feeling the shadow upon their hearts.

Then, pale with a deathly scent, came the lilies of

resurrection, that shone coldly till the Comforter was

given.

But why the memory of the wounds and the death? Surely Christ

rose with healed hands and feet, sound and strong and glad?

Surely the passage of the cross and the tomb was forgotten? But

no--always the memory of the wounds, always the smell of

grave-clothes? A small thing was Resurrection, compared with the

Cross and the death, in this cycle.

So the children lived the year of christianity, the epic of

the soul of mankind. Year by year the inner, unknown drama went

on in them, their hearts were born and came to fulness, suffered

on the cross, gave up the ghost, and rose again to unnumbered

days, untired, having at least this rhythm of eternity in a

ragged, inconsequential life.

But it was becoming a mechanical action now, this drama:

birth at Christmas for death at Good Friday. On Easter Sunday

the life-drama was as good as finished. For the Resurrection was

shadowy and overcome by the shadow of death, the Ascension was

scarce noticed, a mere confirmation of death.

What was the hope and the fulfilment? Nay, was it all only a

useless after-death, a wan, bodiless after-death? Alas, and alas

for the passion of the human heart, that must die so long before

the body was dead.

For from the grave, after the passion and the trial of

anguish, the body rose torn and chill and colourless. Did not

Christ say, "Mary!" and when she turned with outstretched hands

to him, did he not hasten to add, "Touch me not; for I am not

yet ascended to my father."

Then how could the hands rejoice, or the heart be glad,

seeing themselves repulsed. Alas, for the resurrection of the

dead body! Alas, for the wavering, glimmering appearance of the

risen Christ. Alas, for the Ascension into heaven, which is a

shadow within death, a complete passing away.

Alas, that so soon the drama is over; that life is ended at

thirty-three; that the half of the year of the soul is cold and

historiless! Alas, that a risen Christ has no place with us!

Alas, that the memory of the passion of Sorrow and Death and the

Grave holds triumph over the pale fact of Resurrection!

But why? Why shall I not rise with my body whole and perfect,

shining with strong life? Why, when Mary says: Rabboni, shall I

not take her in my arms and kiss her and hold her to my breast?

Why is the risen body deadly, and abhorrent with wounds?

The Resurrection is to life, not to death. Shall I not see

those who have risen again walk here among men perfect in body

and spirit, whole and glad in the flesh, living in the flesh,

loving in the flesh, begetting children in the flesh, arrived at

last to wholeness, perfect without scar or blemish, healthy

without fear of ill health? Is this not the period of manhood

and of joy and fulfilment, after the Resurrection? Who shall be

shadowed by Death and the Cross, being risen, and who shall fear

the mystic, perfect flesh that belongs to heaven?

Can I not, then, walk this earth in gladness, being risen

from sorrow? Can I not eat with my brother happily, and with joy

kiss my beloved, after my resurrection, celebrate my marriage in

the flesh with feastings, go about my business eagerly, in the

joy of my fellows? Is heaven impatient for me, and bitter

against this earth, that I should hurry off, or that I should

linger pale and untouched? Is the flesh which was crucified

become as poison to the crowds in the street, or is it as a

strong gladness and hope to them, as the first flower blossoming

out of the earth's humus?

CHAPTER XII

FIRST LOVE

As Ursula passed from girlhood towards womanhood, gradually

the cloud of self-responsibility gathered upon her. She became

aware of herself, that she was a separate entity in the midst of

an unseparated obscurity, that she must go somewhere, she must