第 58 页

open cupboard, in which Ursula could see piles of pink

blotting-paper, heaps of shiny new books, boxes of chalk, and

bottles of coloured inks. It looked a treasure store.

The schoolmaster was a short, sturdy man, with a fine head,

and a heavy jowl. Nevertheless he was good-looking, with his

shapely brows and nose, and his great, hanging moustache. He

seemed absorbed in his work, and took no notice of Ursula's

entry. There was something insulting in the way he could be so

actively unaware of another person, so occupied.

When he had a moment of absence, he looked up from the table

and said good-morning to Ursula. There was a pleasant light in

his brown eyes. He seemed very manly and incontrovertible, like

something she wanted to push over.

"You had a wet walk," he said to Ursula.

"Oh, I don't mind, I'm used to it," she replied, with a

nervous little laugh.

But already he was not listening. Her words sounded

ridiculous and babbling. He was taking no notice of her.

"You will sign your name here," he said to her, as if she

were some child--"and the time when you come and go."

Ursula signed her name in the time book and stood back. No

one took any further notice of her. She beat her brains for

something to say, but in vain.

"I'd let them in now," said Mr. Harby to the thin man, who

was very hastily arranging his papers.

The assistant teacher made no sign of acquiescence, and went

on with what he was doing. The atmosphere in the room grew

tense. At the last moment Mr. Brunt slipped into his coat.

"You will go to the girls' lobby," said the schoolmaster to

Ursula, with a fascinating, insulting geniality, purely official

and domineering.

She went out and found Miss Harby, and another girl teacher,

in the porch. On the asphalt yard the rain was falling. A

toneless bell tang-tang-tanged drearily overhead, monotonously,

insistently. It came to an end. Then Mr. Brunt was seen,

bare-headed, standing at the other gate of the school yard,

blowing shrill blasts on a whistle and looking down the rainy,

dreary street.

Boys in gangs and streams came trotting up, running past the

master and with a loud clatter of feet and voices, over the yard

to the boys' porch. Girls were running and walking through the

other entrance.

In the porch where Ursula stood there was a great noise of

girls, who were tearing off their coats and hats, and hanging

them on the racks bristling with pegs. There was a smell of wet

clothing, a tossing out of wet, draggled hair, a noise of voices

and feet.

The mass of girls grew greater, the rage around the pegs grew

steadier, the scholars tended to fall into little noisy gangs in

the porch. Then Violet Harby clapped her hands, clapped them

louder, with a shrill "Quiet, girls, quiet!"

There was a pause. The hubbub died down but did not

cease.

"What did I say?" cried Miss Harby, shrilly.

There was almost complete silence. Sometimes a girl, rather

late, whirled into the porch and flung off her things.

"Leaders--in place," commanded Miss Harby shrilly.

Pairs of girls in pinafores and long hair stood separate in

the porch.

"Standard Four, Five, and Six--fall in," cried Miss

Harby.

There was a hubbub, which gradually resolved itself into

three columns of girls, two and two, standing smirking in the

passage. In among the peg-racks, other teachers were putting the

lower classes into ranks.

Ursula stood by her own Standard Five. They were jerking

their shoulders, tossing their hair, nudging, writhing, staring,

grinning, whispering and twisting.

A sharp whistle was heard, and Standard Six, the biggest

girls, set off, led by Miss Harby. Ursula, with her Standard

Five, followed after. She stood beside a smirking, grinning row

of girls, waiting in a narrow passage. What she was herself she

did not know.

Suddenly the sound of a piano was heard, and Standard Six set

off hollowly down the big room. The boys had entered by another

door. The piano played on, a march tune, Standard Five followed

to the door of the big room. Mr. Harby was seen away beyond at

his desk. Mr. Brunt guarded the other door of the room. Ursula's

class pushed up. She stood near them. They glanced and smirked

and shoved.

"Go on," said Ursula.

They tittered.

"Go on," said Ursula, for the piano continued.

The girls broke loosely into the room. Mr. Harby, who had

seemed immersed in some occupation, away at his desk, lifted his

head and thundered:

"Halt!"

There was a halt, the piano stopped. The boys who were just

starting through the other door, pushed back. The harsh, subdued

voice of Mr. Brunt was heard, then the booming shout of Mr.

Harby, from far down the room:

"Who told Standard Five girls to come in like that?"

Ursula crimsoned. Her girls were glancing up at her, smirking

their accusation.

"I sent them in, Mr. Harby," she said, in a clear, struggling

voice. There was a moment of silence. Then Mr. Harby roared from

the distance.

"Go back to your places, Standard Five girls."

The girls glanced up at Ursula, accusing, rather jeering,

fugitive. They pushed back. Ursula's heart hardened with

ignominious pain.

"Forward--march," came Mr. Brunt's voice, and the girls

set off, keeping time with the ranks of boys.

Ursula faced her class, some fifty-five boys and girls, who

stood filling the ranks of the desks. She felt utterly

nonexistent. She had no place nor being there. She faced the

block of children.

Down the room she heard the rapid firing of questions. She

stood before her class not knowing what to do. She waited

painfully. Her block of children, fifty unknown faces, watched

her, hostile, ready to jeer. She felt as if she were in torture

over a fire of faces. And on every side she was naked to them.

Of unutterable length and torture the seconds went by.

Then she gathered courage. She heard Mr. Brunt asking

questions in mental arithmetic. She stood near to her class, so

that her voice need not be raised too much, and faltering,

uncertain, she said:

"Seven hats at twopence ha'penny each?"

A grin went over the faces of the class, seeing her commence.

She was red and suffering. Then some hands shot up like blades,

and she asked for the answer.

The day passed incredibly slowly. She never knew what to do,

there came horrible gaps, when she was merely exposed to the

children; and when, relying on some pert little girl for

information, she had started a lesson, she did not know how to

go on with it properly. The children were her masters. She

deferred to them. She could always hear Mr. Brunt. Like a

machine, always in the same hard, high, inhuman voice he went on

with his teaching, oblivious of everything. And before this

inhuman number of children she was always at bay. She could not

get away from it. There it was, this class of fifty collective

children, depending on her for command, for command it hated and

resented. It made her feel she could not breathe: she must

suffocate, it was so inhuman. They were so many, that they were

not children. They were a squadron. She could not speak as she

would to a child, because they were not individual children,

they were a collective, inhuman thing.

Dinner-time came, and stunned, bewildered, solitary, she went

into the teachers' room for dinner. Never had she felt such a

stranger to life before. It seemed to her she had just

disembarked from some strange horrible state where everything

was as in hell, a condition of hard, malevolent system. And she

was not really free. The afternoon drew at her like some

bondage.

The first week passed in a blind confusion. She did not know

how to teach, and she felt she never would know. Mr. Harby came

down every now and then to her class, to see what she was doing.

She felt so incompetent as he stood by, bullying and

threatening, so unreal, that she wavered, became neutral and

non-existent. But he stood there watching with the

listening-genial smile of the eyes, that was really threatening;

he said nothing, he made her go on teaching, she felt she had no

soul in her body. Then he went away, and his going was like a

derision. The class was his class. She was a wavering

substitute. He thrashed and bullied, he was hated. But he was

master. Though she was gentle and always considerate of her

class, yet they belonged to Mr. Harby, and they did not belong

to her. Like some invincible source of the mechanism he kept all

power to himself. And the class owned his power. And in school

it was power, and power alone that mattered.

Soon Ursula came to dread him, and at the bottom of her dread

was a seed of hate, for she despised him, yet he was master of

her. Then she began to get on. All the other teachers hated him,

and fanned their hatred among themselves. For he was master of

them and the children, he stood like a wheel to make absolute

his authority over the herd. That seemed to be his one reason in

life, to hold blind authority over the school. His teachers were

his subjects as much as the scholars. Only, because they had

some authority, his instinct was to detest them.

Ursula could not make herself a favourite with him. From the

first moment she set hard against him. She set against Violet

Harby also. Mr. Harby was, however, too much for her, he was

something she could not come to grips with, something too strong

for her. She tried to approach him as a young, bright girl

usually approaches a man, expecting a little chivalrous

courtesy. But the fact that she was a girl, a woman, was ignored

or used as a matter for contempt against her. She did not know

what she was, nor what she must be. She wanted to remain her own

responsive, personal self.

So she taught on. She made friends with the Standard Three

teacher, Maggie Schofield. Miss Schofield was about twenty years

old, a subdued girl who held aloof from the other teachers. She

was rather beautiful, meditative, and seemed to live in another,

lovelier world.

Ursula took her dinner to school, and during the second week

ate it in Miss Schofield's room. Standard Three classroom stood

by itself and had windows on two sides, looking on to the

playground. It was a passionate relief to find such a retreat in

the jarring school. For there were pots of chrysanthemums and

coloured leaves, and a big jar of berries: there were pretty

little pictures on the wall, photogravure reproductions from

Greuze, and Reynolds's "Age of Innocence", giving an air of

intimacy; so that the room, with its window space, its smaller,

tidier desks, its touch of pictures and flowers, made Ursula at

once glad. Here at last was a little personal touch, to which

she could respond.

It was Monday. She had been at school a week and was getting

used to the surroundings, though she was still an entire

foreigner in herself. She looked forward to having dinner with

Maggie. That was the bright spot in the day. Maggie was so

strong and remote, walking with slow, sure steps down a hard

road, carrying the dream within her. Ursula went through the

class teaching as through a meaningless daze.

Her class tumbled out at midday in haphazard fashion. She did

not realize what host she was gathering against herself by her

superior tolerance, her kindness and her laisseraller. They were

gone, and she was rid of them, and that was all. She hurried

away to the teachers' room.

Mr. Brunt was crouching at the small stove, putting a little

rice pudding into the oven. He rose then, and attentively poked

in a small saucepan on the hob with a fork. Then he replaced the

saucepan lid.

"Aren't they done?" asked Ursula gaily, breaking in on his

tense absorption.

She always kept a bright, blithe manner, and was pleasant to

all the teachers. For she felt like the swan among the geese, of

superior heritage and belonging. And her pride at being the swan

in this ugly school was not yet abated.

"Not yet," replied Mr. Brunt, laconic.

"I wonder if my dish is hot," she said, bending down at the

oven. She half expected him to look for her, but he took no

notice. She was hungry and she poked her finger eagerly in the

pot to see if her brussels sprouts and potatoes and meat were

ready. They were not.

"Don't you think it's rather jolly bringing dinner?" she said

to Mr. Brunt.

"I don't know as I do," he said, spreading a serviette on a

corner of the table, and not looking at her.

"I suppose it is too far for you to go home?"

"Yes," he said. Then he rose and looked at her. He had the

bluest, fiercest, most pointed eyes that she had ever met. He

stared at her with growing fierceness.

"If I were you, Miss Brangwen," he said, menacingly, "I

should get a bit tighter hand over my class."

Ursula shrank.

"Would you?" she asked, sweetly, yet in terror. "Aren't I

strict enough?"

"Because," he repeated, taking no notice of her, "they'll get

you down if you don't tackle 'em pretty quick. They'll pull you

down, and worry you, till Harby gets you shifted--that's

how it'll be. You won't be here another six weeks"--and he

filled his mouth with food--"if you don't tackle 'em and

tackle 'em quick."

"Oh, but----" Ursula said, resentfully, ruefully.

The terror was deep in her.

"Harby'll not help you. This is what he'll do--he'll let

you go on, getting worse and worse, till either you clear out or

he clears you out. It doesn't matter to me, except that you'll

leave a class behind you as I hope I shan't have to cope

with."

She heard the accusation in the man's voice, and felt

condemned. But still, school had not yet become a definite