About 1840, a canal was constructed across the meadows of the
Marsh Farm, connecting the newly-opened collieries of the Erewash
Valley. A high embankment travelled along the fields to carry the
canal, which passed close to the homestead, and, reaching the road,
went over in a heavy bridge.
So the Marsh was shut off from Ilkeston, and enclosed in the
small valley bed, which ended in a bushy hill and the village spire
The Brangwens received a fair sum of money from this trespass
across their land. Then, a short time afterwards, a colliery was
sunk on the other side of the canal, and in a while the Midland
Railway came down the valley at the foot of the Ilkeston hill, and
the invasion was complete. The town grew rapidly, the Brangwens
were kept busy producing supplies, they became richer, they were
Still the Marsh remained remote and original, on the old, quiet
side of the canal embankment, in the sunny valley where slow water
wound along in company of stiff alders, and the road went under
ash-trees past the Brangwens' garden gate.
But, looking from the garden gate down the road to the right,
there, through the dark archway of the canal's square aqueduct, was
a colliery spinning away in the near distance, and further, red,
crude houses plastered on the valley in masses, and beyond all, the
dim smoking hill of the town.
The homestead was just on the safe side of civilisation, outside
the gate. The house stood bare from the road, approached by a
straight garden path, along which at spring the daffodils were
thick in green and yellow. At the sides of the house were bushes of
lilac and guelder-rose and privet, entirely hiding the farm
At the back a confusion of sheds spread into the home-close from
out of two or three indistinct yards. The duck-pond lay beyond the
furthest wall, littering its white feathers on the padded earthen
banks, blowing its stray soiled feathers into the grass and the
gorse bushes below the canal embankment, which rose like a high
rampart near at hand, so that occasionally a man's figure passed in
silhouette, or a man and a towing horse traversed the sky.
At first the Brangwens were astonished by all this commotion
around them. The building of a canal across their land made them
strangers in their own place, this raw bank of earth shutting them
off disconcerted them. As they worked in the fields, from beyond
the now familiar embankment came the rhythmic run of the winding
engines, startling at first, but afterwards a narcotic to the
brain. Then the shrill whistle of the trains re-echoed through the
heart, with fearsome pleasure, announcing the far-off come near and
As they drove home from town, the farmers of the land met the
blackened colliers trooping from the pit-mouth. As they gathered
the harvest, the west wind brought a faint, sulphurous smell of
pit-refuse burning. As they pulled the turnips in November, the
sharp clink-clink-clink-clink-clink of empty trucks shunting on the
line, vibrated in their hearts with the fact of other activity
going on beyond them.
The Alfred Brangwen of this period had married a woman from
Heanor, a daughter of the "Black Horse". She was a slim, pretty,
dark woman, quaint in her speech, whimsical, so that the sharp
things she said did not hurt. She was oddly a thing to herself,
rather querulous in her manner, but intrinsically separate and
indifferent, so that her long lamentable complaints, when she
raised her voice against her husband in particular and against
everybody else after him, only made those who heard her wonder and
feel affectionately towards her, even while they were irritated and
impatient with her. She railed long and loud about her husband, but
always with a balanced, easy-flying voice and a quaint manner of
speech that warmed his belly with pride and male triumph while he
scowled with mortification at the things she said.
Consequently Brangwen himself had a humorous puckering at the
eyes, a sort of fat laugh, very quiet and full, and he was spoilt
like a lord of creation. He calmly did as he liked, laughed at
their railing, excused himself in a teasing tone that she loved,
followed his natural inclinations, and sometimes, pricked too near
the quick, frightened and broke her by a deep, tense fury which
seemed to fix on him and hold him for days, and which she would
give anything to placate in him. They were two very separate
beings, vitally connected, knowing nothing of each other, yet
living in their separate ways from one root.
There were four sons and two daughters. The eldest boy ran away
early to sea, and did not come back. After this the mother was more
the node and centre of attraction in the home. The second boy,
Alfred, whom the mother admired most, was the most reserved. He was
sent to school in Ilkeston and made some progress. But in spite of
his dogged, yearning effort, he could not get beyond the rudiments
of anything, save of drawing. At this, in which he had some power,
he worked, as if it were his hope. After much grumbling and savage
rebellion against everything, after much trying and shifting about,
when his father was incensed against him and his mother almost
despairing, he became a draughtsman in a lace-factory in
He remained heavy and somewhat uncouth, speaking with broad
Derbyshire accent, adhering with all his tenacity to his work and
to his town position, making good designs, and becoming fairly
well-off. But at drawing, his hand swung naturally in big, bold
lines, rather lax, so that it was cruel for him to pedgill away at
the lace designing, working from the tiny squares of his paper,
counting and plotting and niggling. He did it stubbornly, with
anguish, crushing the bowels within him, adhering to his chosen lot
whatever it should cost. And he came back into life set and rigid,
a rare-spoken, almost surly man.
He married the daughter of a chemist, who affected some social
superiority, and he became something of a snob, in his dogged
fashion, with a passion for outward refinement in the household,
mad when anything clumsy or gross occurred. Later, when his three
children were growing up, and he seemed a staid, almost middle-aged
man, he turned after strange women, and became a silent,
inscrutable follower of forbidden pleasure, neglecting his
indignant bourgeois wife without a qualm.
Frank, the third son, refused from the first to have anything to
do with learning. From the first he hung round the slaughter-house
which stood away in the third yard at the back of the farm. The
Brangwens had always killed their own meat, and supplied the
neighbourhood. Out of this grew a regular butcher's business in
connection with the farm.
As a child Frank had been drawn by the trickle of dark blood
that ran across the pavement from the slaughter-house to the
crew-yard, by the sight of the man carrying across to the meat-shed
a huge side of beef, with the kidneys showing, embedded in their
heavy laps of fat.
He was a handsome lad with soft brown hair and regular features
something like a later Roman youth. He was more easily excitable,
more readily carried away than the rest, weaker in character. At
eighteen he married a little factory girl, a pale, plump, quiet
thing with sly eyes and a wheedling voice, who insinuated herself
into him and bore him a child every year and made a fool of him.
When he had taken over the butchery business, already a growing
callousness to it, and a sort of contempt made him neglectful of
it. He drank, and was often to be found in his public house
blathering away as if he knew everything, when in reality he was a
Of the daughters, Alice, the elder, married a collier and lived
for a time stormily in Ilkeston, before moving away to Yorkshire
with her numerous young family. Effie, the younger, remained at
The last child, Tom, was considerably younger than his brothers,
so had belonged rather to the company of his sisters. He was his
mother's favourite. She roused herself to determination, and sent
him forcibly away to a grammar-school in Derby when he was twelve
years old. He did not want to go, and his father would have given
way, but Mrs. Brangwen had set her heart on it. Her slender,
pretty, tightly-covered body, with full skirts, was now the centre
of resolution in the house, and when she had once set upon
anything, which was not often, the family failed before her.
So Tom went to school, an unwilling failure from the first. He
believed his mother was right in decreeing school for him, but he
knew she was only right because she would not acknowledge his
constitution. He knew, with a child's deep, instinctive
foreknowledge of what is going to happen to him, that he would cut
a sorry figure at school. But he took the infliction as inevitable,
as if he were guilty of his own nature, as if his being were wrong,
and his mother's conception right. If he could have been what he
liked, he would have been that which his mother fondly but
deludedly hoped he was. He would have been clever, and capable of
becoming a gentleman. It was her aspiration for him, therefore he
knew it as the true aspiration for any boy. But you can't make a
silk purse out of a sow's ear, as he told his mother very early,
with regard to himself; much to her mortification and chagrin.
When he got to school, he made a violent struggle against his
physical inability to study. He sat gripped, making himself pale
and ghastly in his effort to concentrate on the book, to take in
what he had to learn. But it was no good. If he beat down his first
repulsion, and got like a suicide to the stuff, he went very little
further. He could not learn deliberately. His mind simply did not
In feeling he was developed, sensitive to the atmosphere around
him, brutal perhaps, but at the same time delicate, very delicate.
So he had a low opinion of himself. He knew his own limitation. He
knew that his brain was a slow hopeless good-for-nothing. So he was
But at the same time his feelings were more discriminating than
those of most of the boys, and he was confused. He was more
sensuously developed, more refined in instinct than they. For their
mechanical stupidity he hated them, and suffered cruel contempt for
them. But when it came to mental things, then he was at a
disadvantage. He was at their mercy. He was a fool. He had not the
power to controvert even the most stupid argument, so that he was
forced to admit things he did not in the least believe. And having
admitted them, he did not know whether he believed them or not; he
rather thought he did.
But he loved anyone who could convey enlightenment to him
through feeling. He sat betrayed with emotion when the teacher of
literature read, in a moving fashion, Tennyson's "Ulysses", or
Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind". His lips parted, his eyes filled
with a strained, almost suffering light. And the teacher read on,
fired by his power over the boy. Tom Brangwen was moved by this
experience beyond all calculation, he almost dreaded it, it was so
deep. But when, almost secretly and shamefully, he came to take the
book himself, and began the words "Oh wild west wind, thou breath
of autumn's being," the very fact of the print caused a prickly
sensation of repulsion to go over his skin, the blood came to his
face, his heart filled with a bursting passion of rage and
incompetence. He threw the book down and walked over it and went
out to the cricket field. And he hated books as if they were his
enemies. He hated them worse than ever he hated any person.
He could not voluntarily control his attention. His mind had no
fixed habits to go by, he had nothing to get hold of, nowhere to
start from. For him there was nothing palpable, nothing known in
himself, that he could apply to learning. He did not know how to
begin. Therefore he was helpless when it came to deliberate
understanding or deliberate learning.
He had an instinct for mathematics, but if this failed him, he
was helpless as an idiot. So that he felt that the ground was never
sure under his feet, he was nowhere. His final downfall was his
complete inability to attend to a question put without suggestion.
If he had to write a formal composition on the Army, he did at last
learn to repeat the few facts he knew: "You can join the army at
eighteen. You have to be over five foot eight." But he had all the
time a living conviction that this was a dodge and that his
common-places were beneath contempt. Then he reddened furiously,
felt his bowels sink with shame, scratched out what he had written,
made an agonised effort to think of something in the real
composition style, failed, became sullen with rage and humiliation,
put the pen down and would have been torn to pieces rather than
attempt to write another word.
He soon got used to the Grammar School, and the Grammar School
got used to him, setting him down as a hopeless duffer at learning,
but respecting him for a generous, honest nature. Only one narrow,
domineering fellow, the Latin master, bullied him and made the blue
eyes mad with shame and rage. There was a horrid scene, when the
boy laid open the master's head with a slate, and then things went
on as before. The teacher got little sympathy. But Brangwen winced
and could not bear to think of the deed, not even long after, when
he was a grown man.
He was glad to leave school. It had not been unpleasant, he had
enjoyed the companionship of the other youths, or had thought he
enjoyed it, the time had passed very quickly, in endless activity.
But he knew all the time that he was in an ignominious position, in
this place of learning. He was aware of failure all the while, of
incapacity. But he was too healthy and sanguine to be wretched, he
was too much alive. Yet his soul was wretched almost to
He had loved one warm, clever boy who was frail in body, a
consumptive type. The two had had an almost classic friendship,
David and Jonathan, wherein Brangwen was the Jonathan, the server.
But he had never felt equal with his friend, because the other's
mind outpaced his, and left him ashamed, far in the rear. So the
two boys went at once apart on leaving school. But Brangwen always
remembered his friend that had been, kept him as a sort of light, a
fine experience to remember.
Tom Brangwen was glad to get back to the farm, where he was in
his own again. "I have got a turnip on my shoulders, let me stick
to th' fallow," he said to his exasperated mother. He had too low
an opinion of himself. But he went about at his work on the farm
gladly enough, glad of the active labour and the smell of the land
again, having youth and vigour and humour, and a comic wit, having
the will and the power to forget his own shortcomings, finding
himself violent with occasional rages, but usually on good terms
with everybody and everything.
When he was seventeen, his father fell from a stack and broke
his neck. Then the mother and son and daughter lived on at the
farm, interrupted by occasional loud-mouthed lamenting,
jealous-spirited visitations from the butcher Frank, who had a
grievance against the world, which he felt was always giving him
less than his dues. Frank was particularly against the young Tom,
whom he called a mardy baby, and Tom returned the hatred violently,
his face growing red and his blue eyes staring. Effie sided with
Tom against Frank. But when Alfred came, from Nottingham, heavy
jowled and lowering, speaking very little, but treating those at
home with some contempt, Effie and the mother sided with him and
put Tom into the shade. It irritated the youth that his elder
brother should be made something of a hero by the women, just
because he didn't live at home and was a lace-designer and almost a
gentleman. But Alfred was something of a Prometheus Bound, so the
women loved him. Tom came later to understand his brother
As youngest son, Tom felt some importance when the care of the
farm devolved on to him. He was only eighteen, but he was quite
capable of doing everything his father had done. And of course, his
mother remained as centre to the house.
The young man grew up very fresh and alert, with zest for every
moment of life. He worked and rode and drove to market, he went out
with companions and got tipsy occasionally and played skittles and
went to the little travelling theatres. Once, when he was drunk at
a public house, he went upstairs with a prostitute who seduced him.
He was then nineteen.
The thing was something of a shock to him. In the close intimacy
of the farm kitchen, the woman occupied the supreme position. The
men deferred to her in the house, on all household points, on all
points of morality and behaviour. The woman was the symbol for that
further life which comprised religion and love and morality. The
men placed in her hands their own conscience, they said to her "Be
my conscience-keeper, be the angel at the doorway guarding my
outgoing and my incoming." And the woman fulfilled her trust, the
men rested implicitly in her, receiving her praise or her blame
with pleasure or with anger, rebelling and storming, but never for
a moment really escaping in their own souls from her prerogative.
They depended on her for their stability. Without her, they would
have felt like straws in the wind, to be blown hither and thither
at random. She was the anchor and the security, she was the
restraining hand of God, at times highly to be execrated.
Now when Tom Brangwen, at nineteen, a youth fresh like a plant,
rooted in his mother and his sister, found that he had lain with a
prostitute woman in a common public house, he was very much
startled. For him there was until that time only one kind of
woman-his mother and sister.
But now? He did not know what to feel. There was a slight
wonder, a pang of anger, of disappointment, a first taste of ash
and of cold fear lest this was all that would happen, lest his
relations with woman were going to be no more than this
nothingness; there was a slight sense of shame before the
prostitute, fear that she would despise him for his inefficiency;
there was a cold distaste for her, and a fear of her; there was a
moment of paralysed horror when he felt he might have taken a
disease from her; and upon all this startled tumult of emotion, was
laid the steadying hand of common sense, which said it did not
matter very much, so long as he had no disease. He soon recovered
balance, and really it did not matter so very much.
But it had shocked him, and put a mistrust into his heart, and
emphasised his fear of what was within himself. He was, however, in
a few days going about again in his own careless, happy-go-lucky
fashion, his blue eyes just as clear and honest as ever, his face
just as fresh, his appetite just as keen.
Or apparently so. He had, in fact, lost some of his buoyant
confidence, and doubt hindered his outgoing.
For some time after this, he was quieter, more conscious when he
drank, more backward from companionship. The disillusion of his
first carnal contact with woman, strengthened by his innate desire
to find in a woman the embodiment of all his inarticulate, powerful
religious impulses, put a bit in his mouth. He had something to
lose which he was afraid of losing, which he was not sure even of
possessing. This first affair did not matter much: but the business
of love was, at the bottom of his soul, the most serious and
terrifying of all to him.
He was tormented now with sex desire, his imagination reverted
always to lustful scenes. But what really prevented his returning
to a loose woman, over and above the natural squeamishness, was the
recollection of the paucity of the last experience. It had been so
nothing, so dribbling and functional, that he was ashamed to expose
himself to the risk of a repetition of it.
He made a strong, instinctive fight to retain his native
cheerfulness unimpaired. He had naturally a plentiful stream of
life and humour, a sense of sufficiency and exuberance, giving
ease. But now it tended to cause tension. A strained light came
into his eyes, he had a slight knitting of the brows. His
boisterous humour gave place to lowering silences, and days passed
by in a sort of suspense.
He did not know there was any difference in him, exactly; for
the most part he was filled with slow anger and resentment. But he
knew he was always thinking of women, or a woman, day in, day out,
and that infuriated him. He could not get free: and he was ashamed.
He had one or two sweethearts, starting with them in the hope of
speedy development. But when he had a nice girl, he found that he
was incapable of pushing the desired development. The very presence
of the girl beside him made it impossible. He could not think of
her like that, he could not think of her actual nakedness. She was
a girl and he liked her, and dreaded violently even the thought of
uncovering her. He knew that, in these last issues of nakedness, he
did not exist to her nor she to him. Again, if he had a loose girl,
and things began to develop, she offended him so deeply all the
time, that he never knew whether he was going to get away from her
as quickly as possible, or whether he were going to take her out of
inflamed necessity. Again he learnt his lesson: if he took her it
was a paucity which he was forced to despise. He did not despise
himself nor the girl. But he despised the net result in him of the
experience-he despised it deeply and bitterly.
Then, when he was twenty-three, his mother died, and he was left
at home with Effie. His mother's death was another blow out of the
dark. He could not understand it, he knew it was no good his
trying. One had to submit to these unforeseen blows that come
unawares and leave a bruise that remains and hurts whenever it is
touched. He began to be afraid of all that which was up against
him. He had loved his mother.
After this, Effie and he quarrelled fiercely. They meant a very
great deal to each other, but they were both under a strange,
unnatural tension. He stayed out of the house as much as possible.
He got a special corner for himself at the "Red Lion" at Cossethay,
and became a usual figure by the fire, a fresh, fair young fellow
with heavy limbs and head held back, mostly silent, though alert
and attentive, very hearty in his greeting of everybody he knew,
shy of strangers. He teased all the women, who liked him extremely,
and he was very attentive to the talk of the men, very
To drink made him quickly flush very red in the face, and
brought out the look of self-consciousness and unsureness, almost
bewilderment, in his blue eyes. When he came home in this state of
tipsy confusion his sister hated him and abused him, and he went
off his head, like a mad bull with rage.
He had still another turn with a light-o'-love. One Whitsuntide
he went a jaunt with two other young fellows, on horseback, to
Matlock and thence to Bakewell. Matlock was at that time just
becoming a famous beauty-spot, visited from Manchester and from the
Staffordshire towns. In the hotel where the young men took lunch,
were two girls, and the parties struck up a friendship.
The Miss who made up to Tom Brangwen, then twenty-four years
old, was a handsome, reckless girl neglected for an afternoon by
the man who had brought her out. She saw Brangwen and liked him, as
all women did, for his warmth and his generous nature, and for the
innate delicacy in him. But she saw he was one who would have to be
brought to the scratch. However, she was roused and unsatisfied and
made mischievous, so she dared anything. It would be an easy
interlude, restoring her pride.
She was a handsome girl with a bosom, and dark hair and blue
eyes, a girl full of easy laughter, flushed from the sun, inclined
to wipe her laughing face in a very natural and taking manner.
Brangwen was in a state of wonder. He treated her with his
chaffing deference, roused, but very unsure of himself, afraid to
death of being too forward, ashamed lest he might be thought
backward, mad with desire yet restrained by instinctive regard for
women from making any definite approach, feeling all the while that
his attitude was ridiculous, and flushing deep with confusion. She,
however, became hard and daring as he became confused, it amused
her to see him come on.
"When must you get back?" she asked.
"I'm not particular," he said.
There the conversation again broke down.
Brangwen's companions were ready to go on.
"Art commin', Tom," they called, "or art for stoppin'?"
"Ay, I'm commin'," he replied, rising reluctantly, an angry
sense of futility and disappointment spreading over him.
He met the full, almost taunting look of the girl, and he
trembled with unusedness.
"Shall you come an' have a look at my mare," he said to her,
with his hearty kindliness that was now shaken with
"Oh, I should like to," she said, rising.
And she followed him, his rather sloping shoulders and his cloth
riding-gaiters, out of the room. The young men got their own horses
out of the stable.
"Can you ride?" Brangwen asked her.
"I should like to if I could-I have never tried," she said.
"Come then, an' have a try," he said.
And he lifted her, he blushing, she laughing, into the
"I s'll slip off-it's not a lady's saddle," she cried.
"Hold yer tight," he said, and he led her out of the hotel
The girl sat very insecurely, clinging fast. He put a hand on
her waist, to support her. And he held her closely, he clasped her
as in an embrace, he was weak with desire as he strode beside
The horse walked by the river.
"You want to sit straddle-leg," he said to her.
"I know I do," she said.
It was the time of very full skirts. She managed to get astride
the horse, quite decently, showing an intent concern for covering
her pretty leg.
"It's a lot's better this road," she said, looking down at
"Ay, it is," he said, feeling the marrow melt in his bones from
the look in her eyes. "I dunno why they have that side-saddle
business, twistin' a woman in two."
"Should us leave you then-you seem to be fixed up there?" called
Brangwen's companions from the road.
He went red with anger.
"Ay-don't worry," he called back.
"How long are yer stoppin'?" they asked.
"Not after Christmas," he said.
And the girl gave a tinkling peal of laughter.
"All right-by-bye!" called his friends.
And they cantered off, leaving him very flushed, trying to be
quite normal with the girl. But presently he had gone back to the
hotel and given his horse into the charge of an ostler and had gone
off with the girl into the woods, not quite knowing where he was or
what he was doing. His heart thumped and he thought it the most
glorious adventure, and was mad with desire for the girl.
Afterwards he glowed with pleasure. By Jove, but that was
something like! He stayed the afternoon with the girl, and wanted
to stay the night. She, however, told him this was impossible: her
own man would be back by dark, and she must be with him. He,
Brangwen, must not let on that there had been anything between
She gave him an intimate smile, which made him feel confused and
He could not tear himself away, though he had promised not to
interfere with the girl. He stayed on at the hotel over night. He
saw the other fellow at the evening meal: a small, middle-aged man
with iron-grey hair and a curious face, like a monkey's, but
interesting, in its way almost beautiful. Brangwen guessed that he
was a foreigner. He was in company with another, an Englishman, dry
and hard. The four sat at table, two men and two women. Brangwen
watched with all his eyes.
He saw how the foreigner treated the women with courteous
contempt, as if they were pleasing animals. Brangwen's girl had put
on a ladylike manner, but her voice betrayed her. She wanted to win
back her man. When dessert came on, however, the little foreigner
turned round from his table and calmly surveyed the room, like one
unoccupied. Brangwen marvelled over the cold, animal intelligence
of the face. The brown eyes were round, showing all the brown
pupil, like a monkey's, and just calmly looking, perceiving the
other person without referring to him at all. They rested on
Brangwen. The latter marvelled at the old face turned round on him,
looking at him without considering it necessary to know him at all.
The eyebrows of the round, perceiving, but unconcerned eyes were
rather high up, with slight wrinkles above them, just as a monkey's
had. It was an old, ageless face.
The man was most amazingly a gentleman all the time, an
aristocrat. Brangwen stared fascinated. The girl was pushing her
crumbs about on the cloth, uneasily, flushed and angry.
As Brangwen sat motionless in the hall afterwards, too much
moved and lost to know what to do, the little stranger came up to
him with a beautiful smile and manner, offering a cigarette and
"Will you smoke?"
Brangwen never smoked cigarettes, yet he took the one offered,
fumbling painfully with thick fingers, blushing to the roots of his
hair. Then he looked with his warm blue eyes at the almost
sardonic, lidded eyes of the foreigner. The latter sat down beside
him, and they began to talk, chiefly of horses.
Brangwen loved the other man for his exquisite graciousness, for
his tact and reserve, and for his ageless, monkey-like self-surety.
They talked of horses, and of Derbyshire, and of farming. The
stranger warmed to the young fellow with real warmth, and Brangwen
was excited. He was transported at meeting this odd, middle-aged,
dry-skinned man, personally. The talk was pleasant, but that did
not matter so much. It was the gracious manner, the fine contact
that was all.
They talked a long while together, Brangwen flushing like a girl
when the other did not understand his idiom. Then they said good
night, and shook hands. Again the foreigner bowed and repeated his
"Good night, and bon voyage."
Then he turned to the stairs.
Brangwen went up to his room and lay staring out at the stars of
the summer night, his whole being in a whirl. What was it all?
There was a life so different from what he knew it. What was there
outside his knowledge, how much? What was this that he had touched?
What was he in this new influence? What did everything mean? Where
was life, in that which he knew or all outside him?
He fell asleep, and in the morning had ridden away before any
other visitors were awake. He shrank from seeing any of them again,
in the morning.
His mind was one big excitement. The girl and the foreigner: he
knew neither of their names. Yet they had set fire to the homestead
of his nature, and he would be burned out of cover. Of the two
experiences, perhaps the meeting with the foreigner was the more
significant. But the girl-he had not settled about the girl.
He did not know. He had to leave it there, as it was. He could
not sum up his experiences.
The result of these encounters was, that he dreamed day and
night, absorbedly, of a voluptuous woman and of the meeting with a
small, withered foreigner of ancient breeding. No sooner was his
mind free, no sooner had he left his own companions, than he began
to imagine an intimacy with fine-textured, subtle-mannered people
such as the foreigner at Matlock, and amidst this subtle intimacy
was always the satisfaction of a voluptuous woman.
He went about absorbed in the interest and the actuality of this
dream. His eyes glowed, he walked with his head up, full of the
exquisite pleasure of aristocratic subtlety and grace, tormented
with the desire for the girl.
Then gradually the glow began to fade, and the cold material of
his customary life to show through. He resented it. Was he cheated
in his illusion? He balked the mean enclosure of reality, stood
stubbornly like a bull at a gate, refusing to re-enter the
well-known round of his own life.
He drank more than usual to keep up the glow. But it faded more
and more for all that. He set his teeth at the commonplace, to
which he would not submit. It resolved itself starkly before him,
for all that.
He wanted to marry, to get settled somehow, to get out of the
quandary he found himself in. But how? He felt unable to move his
limbs. He had seen a little creature caught in bird-lime, and the
sight was a nightmare to him. He began to feel mad with the rage of
He wanted something to get hold of, to pull himself out. But
there was nothing. Steadfastly he looked at the young women, to
find a one he could marry. But not one of them did he want. And he
knew that the idea of a life among such people as the foreigner was
Yet he dreamed of it, and stuck to his dreams, and would not
have the reality of Cossethay and Ilkeston. There he sat stubbornly
in his corner at the "Red Lion", smoking and musing and
occasionally lifting his beer-pot, and saying nothing, for all the
world like a gorping farm-labourer, as he said himself.
Then a fever of restless anger came upon him. He wanted to go
away-right away. He dreamed of foreign parts. But somehow he had no
contact with them. And it was a very strong root which held him to
the Marsh, to his own house and land.
Then Effie got married, and he was left in the house with only
Tilly, the cross-eyed woman-servant who had been with them for
fifteen years. He felt things coming to a close. All the time, he
had held himself stubbornly resistant to the action of the
commonplace unreality which wanted to absorb him. But now he had to
He was by nature temperate. Being sensitive and emotional, his
nausea prevented him from drinking too much.
But, in futile anger, with the greatest of determination and
apparent good humour, he began to drink in order to get drunk.
"Damn it," he said to himself, "you must have it one road or
another-you can't hitch your horse to the shadow of a gate-post-if
you've got legs you've got to rise off your backside some time or
So he rose and went down to Ilkeston, rather awkwardly took his
place among a gang of young bloods, stood drinks to the company,
and discovered he could carry it off quite well. He had an idea
that everybody in the room was a man after his own heart, that
everything was glorious, everything was perfect. When somebody in
alarm told him his coat pocket was on fire, he could only beam from
a red, blissful face and say "Iss-all-ri-ight-iss-al'-ri-ight-it's
a' right-let it be, let it be-" and he laughed with pleasure, and
was rather indignant that the others should think it unnatural for
his coat pocket to burn:-it was the happiest and most natural thing
in the world-what?
He went home talking to himself and to the moon, that was very
high and small, stumbling at the flashes of moonlight from the
puddles at his feet, wondering What the Hanover! then laughing
confidently to the moon, assuring her this was first class, this
In the morning he woke up and thought about it, and for the
first time in his life, knew what it was to feel really acutely
irritable, in a misery of real bad temper. After bawling and
snarling at Tilly, he took himself off for very shame, to be alone.
And looking at the ashen fields and the putty roads, he wondered
what in the name of Hell he could do to get out of this prickly
sense of disgust and physical repulsion. And he knew that this was
the result of his glorious evening.
And his stomach did not want any more brandy. He went doggedly
across the fields with his terrier, and looked at everything with a
The next evening found him back again in his place at the "Red
Lion", moderate and decent. There he sat and stubbornly waited for
what would happen next.
Did he, or did he not believe that he belonged to this world of
Cossethay and Ilkeston? There was nothing in it he wanted. Yet
could he ever get out of it? Was there anything in himself that
would carry him out of it? Or was he a dunderheaded baby, not man
enough to be like the other young fellows who drank a good deal and
wenched a little without any question, and were satisfied.
He went on stubbornly for a time. Then the strain became too
great for him. A hot, accumulated consciousness was always awake in
his chest, his wrists felt swelled and quivering, his mind became
full of lustful images, his eyes seemed blood-flushed. He fought
with himself furiously, to remain normal. He did not seek any
woman. He just went on as if he were normal. Till he must either
take some action or beat his head against the wall.
Then he went deliberately to Ilkeston, in silence, intent and
beaten. He drank to get drunk. He gulped down the brandy, and more
brandy, till his face became pale, his eyes burning. And still he
could not get free. He went to sleep in drunken unconsciousness,
woke up at four o'clock in the morning and continued drinking. He
would get free. Gradually the tension in him began to relax. He
began to feel happy. His riveted silence was unfastened, he began
to talk and babble. He was happy and at one with all the world, he
was united with all flesh in a hot blood-relationship. So, after
three days of incessant brandy-drinking, he had burned out the
youth from his blood, he had achieved this kindled state of oneness
with all the world, which is the end of youth's most passionate
desire. But he had achieved his satisfaction by obliterating his
own individuality, that which it depended on his manhood to
preserve and develop.
So he became a bout-drinker, having at intervals these bouts of
three or four days of brandy-drinking, when he was drunk for the
whole time. He did not think about it. A deep resentment burned in
him. He kept aloof from any women, antagonistic.
When he was twenty-eight, a thick-limbed, stiff, fair man with
fresh complexion, and blue eyes staring very straight ahead, he was
coming one day down from Cossethay with a load of seed out of
Nottingham. It was a time when he was getting ready for another
bout of drinking, so he stared fixedly before him, watchful yet
absorbed, seeing everything and aware of nothing, coiled in
himself. It was early in the year.
He walked steadily beside the horse, the load clanked behind as
the hill descended steeper. The road curved down-hill before him,
under banks and hedges, seen only for a few yards ahead.
Slowly turning the curve at the steepest part of the slope, his
horse britching between the shafts, he saw a woman approaching. But
he was thinking for the moment of the horse.
Then he turned to look at her. She was dressed in black, was
apparently rather small and slight, beneath her long black cloak,
and she wore a black bonnet. She walked hastily, as if unseeing,
her head rather forward. It was her curious, absorbed, flitting
motion, as if she were passing unseen by everybody, that first
She had heard the cart, and looked up. Her face was pale and
clear, she had thick dark eyebrows and a wide mouth, curiously
held. He saw her face clearly, as if by a light in the air. He saw
her face so distinctly, that he ceased to coil on himself, and was
"That's her," he said involuntarily. As the cart passed by,
splashing through the thin mud, she stood back against the bank.
Then, as he walked still beside his britching horse, his eyes met
hers. He looked quickly away, pressing back his head, a pain of joy
running through him. He could not bear to think of anything.
He turned round at the last moment. He saw her bonnet, her shape
in the black cloak, the movement as she walked. Then she was gone
round the bend.
She had passed by. He felt as if he were walking again in a far
world, not Cossethay, a far world, the fragile reality. He went on,
quiet, suspended, rarefied. He could not bear to think or to speak,
nor make any sound or sign, nor change his fixed motion. He could
scarcely bear to think of her face. He moved within the knowledge
of her, in the world that was beyond reality.
The feeling that they had exchanged recognition possessed him
like a madness, like a torment. How could he be sure, what
confirmation had he? The doubt was like a sense of infinite space,
a nothingness, annihilating. He kept within his breast the will to
surety. They had exchanged recognition.
He walked about in this state for the next few days. And then
again like a mist it began to break to let through the common,
barren world. He was very gentle with man and beast, but he dreaded
the starkness of disillusion cropping through again.
As he was standing with his back to the fire after dinner a few
days later, he saw the woman passing. He wanted to know that she
knew him, that she was aware. He wanted it said that there was
something between them. So he stood anxiously watching, looking at
her as she went down the road. He called to Tilly.
"Who might that be?" he asked.
Tilly, the cross-eyed woman of forty, who adored him, ran gladly
to the window to look. She was glad when he asked her for anything.
She craned her head over the short curtain, the little tight knob
of her black hair sticking out pathetically as she bobbed
"Oh why"-she lifted her head and peered with her twisted, keen
brown eyes-"why, you know who it is-it's her from th' vicarage-you
"How do I know, you hen-bird," he shouted.
Tilly blushed and drew her neck in and looked at him with her
squinting, sharp, almost reproachful look.
"Why you do-it's the new housekeeper."
"Ay-an' what by that?"
"Well, an' what by that?" rejoined the indignant Tilly.
"She's a woman, isn't she, housekeeper or no housekeeper? She's
got more to her than that! Who is she-she's got a name?"
"Well, if she has, I don't know," retorted Tilly, not to be
badgered by this lad who had grown up into a man.
"What's her name?" he asked, more gently.
"I'm sure I couldn't tell you," replied Tilly, on her
"An' is that all as you've gathered, as she's housekeeping at
"I've 'eered mention of 'er name, but I couldn't remember it for
"Why, yer riddle-skulled woman o' nonsense, what have you got a
"For what other folks 'as got theirs for," retorted Tilly, who
loved nothing more than these tilts when he would call her
There was a lull.
"I don't believe as anybody could keep it in their head," the
woman-servant continued, tentatively.
"What?" he asked.
"Why, 'er name."
"She's fra some foreign parts or other."
"Who told you that?"
"That's all I do know, as she is."
"An' wheer do you reckon she's from, then?"
"I don't know. They do say as she hails fra th' Pole. I don't
know," Tilly hastened to add, knowing he would attack her.
"Fra th' Pole, why do you hail fra th' Pole? Who set up that
"That's what they say-I don't know-"
"Mrs. Bentley says as she's fra th' Pole-else she is a Pole, or
Tilly was only afraid she was landing herself deeper now.
"Who says she's a Pole?"
"They all say so."
"Then what's brought her to these parts?"
"I couldn't tell you. She's got a little girl with her."
"Got a little girl with her?"
"Of three or four, with a head like a fuzz-ball."
"White-fair as can be, an' all of a fuzz."
"Is there a father, then?"
"Not to my knowledge. I don't know."
"What brought her here?"
"I couldn't say, without th' vicar axed her."
"Is the child her child?"
"I s'd think so-they say so."
"Who told you about her?"
"Why, Lizzie-a-Monday-we seed her goin' past."
"You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went
Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to
the "Red Lion", half with the intention of hearing more.
She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband
had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but
you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl
named Anna. Lensky was the woman's name, Mrs. Lensky.
Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last.
He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined
to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a
A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new
creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had
all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they
were actualities that he could handle.
He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all
the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her.
But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by
thinking of her.
One day he met her walking along the road with her little girl.
It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom, and
glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in straight,
wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child clung jealously
to her mother's side when he looked at her, staring with resentful
black eyes. But the mother glanced at him again, almost vacantly.
And the very vacancy of her look inflamed him. She had wide
grey-brown eyes with very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine
flame running under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire
on the surface. And he went on walking without knowledge.
It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submitting to
its transformation. He made no move: it would come, what would
When his sister Effie came to the Marsh for a week, he went with
her for once to church. In the tiny place, with its mere dozen
pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There was a fineness about
her, a poignancy about the way she sat and held her head lifted.
She was strange, from far off, yet so intimate. She was from far
away, a presence, so close to his soul. She was not really there,
sitting in Cossethay church beside her little girl. She was not
living the apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere
else. He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a
pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cossethay,
hurt him, and gave him misgiving.
Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose, she
had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted to another
world of life: not to heaven or death: but to some place where she
still lived, in spite of her body's absence.
The child beside her watched everything with wide, black eyes.
She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth was
pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding something, to be
always on the alert for defence. She met Brangwen's near, vacant,
intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility, almost like a flame of
pain, came into the wide, over-conscious dark eyes.
The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as usual. And
there was the foreign woman with a foreign air about her,
inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign, jealously guarding
When the service was over, he walked in the way of another
existence out of the church. As he went down the churchpath with
his sister, behind the woman and child, the little girl suddenly
broke from her mother's hand, and slipped back with quick, almost
invisible movement, and was picking at something almost under
Brangwen's feet. Her tiny fingers were fine and quick, but they
missed the red button.
"Have you found something?" said Brangwen to her.
And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she
stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes
flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having
silenced him, she turned with a swift "Mother-," and was gone down
The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the
child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at
him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign
He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the
wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond
"Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's proud,
silvery tones. "Mother"-she seemed always to be calling her mother
to remember her-"mother"-and she had nothing to continue now her
mother had replied "Yes, my child." But, with ready invention, the
child stumbled and ran on, "What are those people's names?"
Brangwen heard the abstract:
"I don't know, dear."
He went on down the road as if he were not living inside
himself, but somewhere outside.
"Who was that person?" his sister Effie asked.
"I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing.
"She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in condemnation.
"That child's like one bewitched."
"Bewitched-how bewitched?" he repeated.
"You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must say-but
the child is like a changeling. She'd be about thirty-five."
But he took no notice. His sister talked on.
"There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd better marry
her." But still he took no notice. Things were as they were.
Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a
knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one
ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the
bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the
strange woman stood on the threshold.
"Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious
detached way of one speaking a foreign language.
He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him
questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her
very standing motionless, which affected him?
He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the
door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the
custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He
went into the kitchen and she followed.
His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big
fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She
stood motionless just inside the kitchen.
"Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?"
The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak.
"Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance.
He shouted his question again.
"We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice
out of the dairy.
Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on
a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and
"Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted.
"Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking
inquisitively through the other door.
She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but
"Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as
if he could command some by his question.
"I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient
that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a
There was a moment's silence.
The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner
of one who must think her speech first.
"Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to
She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was
slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation
quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion.
Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her
"Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking
at the butter on the table.
And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter
where it was touched.
His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign
woman and angered Tilly.
"Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the
insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow
mornin' first thing."
"Yes"-the long-drawn foreign yes-"yes," said the Polish woman,
"I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more."
Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the
etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners
whatever coming to a place cool as you like and knocking at the
front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people
were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter
isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none.
Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's.
The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar,
and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited.
"Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had
resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner
"I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger,
looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was
usual to do.
He felt confused.
"How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only
"Do you—?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her
ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him
all the while, because she could not speak the language.
They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to
him. He bent down to it.
"And how's your little girl?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of
polite speech in a foreign language merely.
"Sit you down," he said.
And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits
of her cloak, resting on her lap.
"You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the
hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious
directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and
inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost
brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation.
Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought
of the meaning of his speech.
"No," she said, understanding. "No-it is strange."
"You find it middlin' rough?" he said.
Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again.
"Our ways are rough to you," he repeated.
"Yes-yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But
I was in Yorkshire—"
"Oh, well then," he said, "it's no worse here than what they are
She did not quite understand. His protective manner, and his
sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did he mean? If he
was her equal, why did he behave so without formality?
"No—" she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him.
She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely beyond
relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with his fair hair
and blue eyes full of energy, and with his healthy body that seemed
to take equality with her. She watched him steadily. He was
difficult for her to understand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he
was, sure on his feet as if he did not know what it was to be
unsure. What then was it that gave him this curious stability?
She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the room he
lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated and almost
frightened her. The furniture was old and familiar as old people,
the whole place seemed so kin to him, as if it partook of his
being, that she was uneasy.
"It is already a long time that you have lived in this
house-yes?" she asked.
"I've always lived here," he said.
"Yes-but your people-your family?"
"We've been here above two hundred years," he said. Her eyes
were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to grasp him. He
felt that he was there for her.
"It is your own place, the house, the farm—?"
"Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her look. It
disturbed her. She did not know him. He was a foreigner, they had
nothing to do with each other. Yet his look disturbed her to
knowledge of him. He was so strangely confident and direct.
"You live quite alone?"
"Yes-if you call it alone?"
She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her. What was the
meaning of it?
And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time,
inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over her
consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who was this
strange man who was at once so near to her? What was happening to
her? Something in his young, warm-twinkling eyes seemed to assume a
right to her, to speak to her, to extend her his protection. But
how? Why did he speak to her? Why were his eyes so certain, so full
of light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal?
Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent. At
once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serving-woman
had come back.
"How old is your little girl?" he asked.
"Four years," she replied.
"Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked.
"She was one year when he died."
"Yes, three years that he is dead-yes."
Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these
questions. She looked at him again, with some maidenhood opening in
her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither towards her nor away
from her. Something about her presence hurt him, till he was almost
rigid before her. He saw the girl's wondering look rise in her
Tilly handed her the butter and she rose.
"Thank you very much," she said. "How much is it?"
"We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll do for
me goin' to church."
"It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took th'
money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her claim to
"You'd have to put in, shouldn't you?" he said.
"How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly. Brangwen
stood by and let be.
"Then, thank you very much," she said.
"Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th' fowls and
horses," he said,-"if she'd like it."
"Yes, she would like it," said the stranger.
And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure. He could
not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily, wanting to be
reassured. He could not think of anything. He felt that he had made
some invisible connection with the strange woman.
A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of
consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in his
body, there had started another activity. It was as if a strong
light were burning there, and he was blind within it, unable to
know anything, except that this transfiguration burned between him
and her, connecting them, like a secret power.
Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze,
scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent, in
a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which was happening
to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss of himself, dormant
always on the brink of ecstasy, like a creature evolving to a new
She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was this
lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a torpor upon
them, so that there was no active change took place. He was almost
unaware of the child, yet by his native good humour he gained her
confidence, even her affection, setting her on a horse to ride,
giving her corn for the fowls.
Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking them
up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if for 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
wedding-ring on her finger. It excluded him: it was a closed
circle. It bound her life, the wedding-ring, 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, out-running
impulse, she looked at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman
yet who insisted on coming 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
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 come 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 incomplete 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
Unless she would come 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 sheep-shelter, through the
fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs, she would bring him
completeness and perfection. And if it should be so, that she
should come to him! It should be so-it 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
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 come 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
"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
combed 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 common sense carried him a little further.
"Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing, having
heard him speak. She stood watching him comb 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 fine-curled 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
"What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the
"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 comfortable 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,
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 rocking-chair
with the child, already in its nightdress, sitting on her knee. The
fair head with its wild, fierce hair was drooping towards the
fire-warmth, which reflected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of
the child, who seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up 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
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, complaining, yet imperative
"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 curled-up 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
the place where he stood, and looked round at the night. He wished
it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in these few
moments of release. Along with the child, he felt a curious strain
on him, a suffering, like a fate.
The mother came down again, and began folding the child's
clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit at bay,
like a foreigner, uneasy.
"Good evening," he said. "I'll just come in a minute."
A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared. She
looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window,
holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his black clothes
she again did not know him. She was almost afraid.
But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and closing the
door behind him. She turned into the kitchen, startled out of
herself by this invasion from the night. He took off his hat, and
came towards her. Then he stood in the light, in his black clothes
and his black stock, hat in one hand and yellow flowers in the
other. She stood away, at his mercy, snatched out of herself. She
did not know him, only she knew he was a man come for her. She
could only see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her,
and the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and the
He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware underneath
of her presence.
"I come to have a word with you," he said, striding forward to
the table, laying down his hat and the flowers, which tumbled apart
and lay in a loose heap. She had flinched from his advance. She had
no will, no being. The wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited.
He had disembarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists.
He was aware of her standing there unknown, dread, yet related
"I came up," he said, speaking curiously matter-of-fact and
level, "to ask if you'd marry me. You are free, aren't you?"
There was a long silence, whilst his blue eyes, strangely
impersonal, looked into her eyes to seek an answer to the truth. He
was looking for the truth out of her. And she, as if hypnotised,
must answer at length.
"Yes, I am free to marry."
The expression of his eyes changed, became less impersonal, as
if he were looking almost at her, for the truth of her. Steady and
intent and eternal they were, as if they would never change. They
seemed to fix and to resolve her. She quivered, feeling herself
created, will-less, lapsing into him, into a common will with
"You want me?" she said.
A pallor came over his face.
"Yes," he said.
Still there was no response and silence.
"No," she said, not of herself. "No, I don't know."
He felt the tension breaking up in him, his fists slackened, he
was unable to move. He stood there looking at her, helpless in his
vague collapse. For the moment she had become unreal to him. Then
he saw her come to him, curiously direct and as if without
movement, in a sudden flow. She put her hand to his coat.
"Yes I want to," she said, impersonally, looking at him with
wide, candid, newly-opened eyes, opened now with supreme truth. He
went very white as he stood, and did not move, only his eyes were
held by hers, and he suffered. She seemed to see him with her
newly-opened, wide eyes, almost of a child, and with a strange
movement, that was agony to him, she reached slowly forward her
dark face and her breast to him, with a slow insinuation of a kiss
that made something break in his brain, and it was darkness over
him for a few moments.
He had her in his arms, and, obliterated, was kissing her. And
it was sheer, bleached agony to him, to break away from himself.
She was there so small and light and accepting in his arms, like a
child, and yet with such an insinuation of embrace, of infinite
embrace, that he could not bear it, he could not stand.
He turned and looked for a chair, and keeping her still in his
arms, sat down with her close to him, to his breast. Then, for a
few seconds, he went utterly to sleep, asleep and sealed in the
darkest sleep, utter, extreme oblivion.
From which he came to gradually, always holding her warm and
close upon him, and she as utterly silent as he, involved in the
same oblivion, the fecund darkness.
He returned gradually, but newly created, as after a gestation,
a new birth, in the womb of darkness. Aerial and light everything
was, new as a morning, fresh and newly-begun. Like a dawn the
newness and the bliss filled in. And she sat utterly still with
him, as if in the same.
Then she looked up at him, the wide, young eyes blazing with
light. And he bent down and kissed her on the lips. And the dawn
blazed in them, their new life came to pass, it was beyond all
conceiving good, it was so good, that it was almost like a
passing-away, a trespass. He drew her suddenly closer to him.
For soon the light began to fade in her, gradually, and as she
was in his arms, her head sank, she leaned it against him, and lay
still, with sunk head, a little tired, effaced because she was
tired. And in her tiredness was a certain negation of him.
"There is the child," she said, out of the long silence.
He did not understand. It was a long time since he had heard a
voice. Now also he heard the wind roaring, as if it had just begun
"Yes," he said, not understanding. There was a slight
contraction of pain at his heart, a slight tension on his brows.
Something he wanted to grasp and could not.
"You will love her?" she said.
The quick contraction, like pain, went over him again.
"I love her now," he said.
She lay still against him, taking his physical warmth without
heed. It was great confirmation for him to feel her there,
absorbing the warmth from him, giving him back her weight and her
strange confidence. But where was she, that she seemed so absent?
His mind was open with wonder. He did not know her.
"But I am much older than you," she said.
"How old?" he asked.
"I am thirty-four," she said.
"I am twenty-eight," he said.
She was oddly concerned, even as if it pleased her a little. He
sat and listened and wondered. It was rather splendid, to be so
ignored by her, whilst she lay against him, and he lifted her with
his breathing, and felt her weight upon his living, so he had a
completeness and an inviolable power. He did not interfere with
her. He did not even know her. It was so strange that she lay there
with her weight abandoned upon him. He was silent with delight. He
felt strong, physically, carrying her on his breathing. The
strange, inviolable completeness of the two of them made him feel
as sure and as stable as God. Amused, he wondered what the vicar
would say if he knew.
"You needn't stop here much longer, housekeeping," he said.
"I like it also, here," she said. "When one has been in many
places, it is very nice here."
He was silent again at this. So close on him she lay, and yet
she answered him from so far away. But he did not mind.
"What was your own home like, when you were little?" he
"My father was a landowner," she replied. "It was near a
This did not convey much to him. All was as vague as before. But
he did not care, whilst she was so close.
"I am a landowner-a little one," he said.
"Yes," she said.
He had not dared to move. He sat there with his arms round her,
her lying motionless on his breathing, and for a long time he did
not stir. Then softly, timidly, his hand settled on the roundness
of her arm, on the unknown. She seemed to lie a little closer. A
hot flame licked up from his belly to his chest.
But it was too soon. She rose, and went across the room to a
drawer, taking out a little tray-cloth. There was something quiet
and professional about her. She had been a nurse beside her
husband, both in Warsaw and in the rebellion afterwards. She
proceeded to set a tray. It was as if she ignored Brangwen. He sat
up, unable to bear a contradiction in her. She moved about
Then, as he sat there, all mused and wondering, she came near to
him, looking at him with wide, grey eyes that almost smiled with a
low light. But her ugly-beautiful mouth was still unmoved and sad.
He was afraid.
His eyes, strained and roused with unusedness, quailed a little
before her, he felt himself quailing and yet he rose, as if
obedient to her, he bent and kissed her heavy, sad, wide mouth,
that was kissed, and did not alter. Fear was too strong in him.
Again he had not got her.
She turned away. The vicarage kitchen was untidy, and yet to him
beautiful with the untidiness of her and her child. Such a
wonderful remoteness there was about her, and then something in
touch with him, that made his heart knock in his chest. He stood
there and waited, suspended.
Again she came to him, as he stood in his black clothes, with
blue eyes very bright and puzzled for her, his face tensely alive,
his hair dishevelled. She came close up to him, to his intent,
black-clothed body, and laid her hand on his arm. He remained
unmoved. Her eyes, with a blackness of memory struggling with
passion, primitive and electric away at the back of them, rejected
him and absorbed him at once. But he remained himself. He breathed
with difficulty, and sweat came out at the roots of his hair, on
"Do you want to marry me?" she asked slowly, always
He was afraid lest he could not speak. He drew breath hard,
Then again, what was agony to him, with one hand lightly resting
on his arm, she leaned forward a little, and with a strange,
primeval suggestion of embrace, held him her mouth. It was
ugly-beautiful, and he could not bear it. He put his mouth on hers,
and slowly, slowly the response came, gathering force and passion,
till it seemed to him she was thundering at him till he could bear
no more. He drew away, white, unbreathing. Only, in his blue eyes,
was something of himself concentrated. And in her eyes was a little
smile upon a black void.
She was drifting away from him again. And he wanted to go away.
It was intolerable. He could bear no more. He must go. Yet he was
irresolute. But she turned away from him.
With a little pang of anguish, of denial, it was decided.
"I'll come an' speak to the vicar to-morrow," he said, taking
She looked at him, her eyes expressionless and full of darkness.
He could see no answer.
"That'll do, won't it?" he said.
"Yes," she answered, mere echo without body or meaning.
"Good night," he said.
He left her standing there, expressionless and void as she was.
Then she went on laying the tray for the vicar. Needing the table,
she put the daffodils aside on the dresser without noticing them.
Only their coolness, touching her hand, remained echoing there a
They were such strangers, they must for ever be such strangers,
that his passion was a clanging torment to him. Such intimacy of
embrace, and such utter foreignness of contact! It was unbearable.
He could not bear to be near her, and know the utter foreignness
between them, know how entirely they were strangers to each other.
He went out into the wind. Big holes were blown into the sky, the
moonlight blew about. Sometimes a high moon, liquid-brilliant,
scudded across a hollow space and took cover under electric,
brown-iridescent cloud-edges. Then there was a blot of cloud, and
shadow. Then somewhere in the night a radiance again, like a
vapour. And all the sky was teeming and tearing along, a vast
disorder of flying shapes and darkness and ragged fumes of light
and a great brown circling halo, then the terror of a moon running
liquid-brilliant into the open for a moment, hurting the eyes
before she plunged under cover of cloud again.