Rainbow (Version 2) — CHAPTER XV Part 1 - THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY

Chapter XV. THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY

A storm of industry raged on in the house.

Ursula did not go to college till October.

So, with a distinct feeling of responsibility, as if she must express herself in this house, she laboured arranging, re-arranging, selecting, contriving.

She could use her father’s ordinary tools, both for woodwork and metal-work, so she hammered and tinkered.

Her mother was quite content to have the thing done.

Brangwen was interested.

He had a ready belief in his daughter.

He himself was at work putting up his work-shed in the garden.

At last she had finished for the time being.

The drawing-room was big and empty.

It had the good Wilton carpet, of which the family was so proud, and the large couch and large chairs covered with shiny chintz, and the piano, a little sculpture in plaster that Brangwen had done, and not very much more.

It was too large and empty-feeling for the family to occupy very much.

Yet they liked to know it was there, large and empty.

The home was the dining-room.

There the hard rush floor-covering made the ground light, reflecting light upon the bottom of their hearts; in the window-bay was a broad, sunny seat, the table was so solid one could not jostle it, and the chairs so strong one could knock them over without hurting them.

The familiar organ that Brangwen had made stood on one side, looking peculiarly small, the sideboard was comfortably reduced to normal proportions.

This was the family living-room.

Ursula had a bedroom to herself.

It was really a servants’ bedroom, small and plain.

Its window looked over the back garden at other back gardens, some of them old and very nice, some of them littered with packing-cases, then at the backs of the houses whose fronts were the shops in High Street, or the genteel homes of the under-manager or the chief cashier, facing the chapel.

She had six weeks still before going to college.

In this time she nervously read over some Latin and some botany, and fitfully worked at some mathematics.

She was going into college as a teacher, for her training.

But, having already taken her matriculation examination, she was entered for a university course.

At the end of a year she would sit for the Intermediate Arts, then two years after for her B. A.

So her case was not that of the ordinary school-teacher.

She would be working among the private students who came only for pure education, not for mere professional training.

She would be of the elect.

For the next three years she would be more or less dependent on her parents again.

Her training was free.

All college fees were paid by the government, she had moreover a few pounds grant every year.

This would just pay for her train fares and her clothing.

Her parents would only have to feed her.

She did not want to cost them much.

They would not be well off.

Her father would earn only two hundred a year, and a good deal of her mother’s capital was spent in buying the house.

Still, there was enough to get along with.

Gudrun was attending the Art School at Nottingham.

She was working particularly at sculpture.

She had a gift for this.

She loved making little models in clay, of children or of animals.

Already some of these had appeared in the Students’ Exhibition in the Castle, and Gudrun was a distinguished person.

She was chafing at the Art School and wanted to go to London.

But there was not enough money.

Neither would her parents let her go so far.

Theresa had left the High School.

She was a great strapping, bold hussy, indifferent to all higher claims.

She would stay at home.

The others were at school, except the youngest.

When term started, they would all be transferred to the Grammar School at Willey Green.

Ursula was excited at making acquaintances in Beldover.

The excitement soon passed.

She had tea at the clergyman’s, at the chemist’s, at the other chemist’s, at the doctor’s, at the under-manager’s—then she knew practically everybody.

She could not take people very seriously, though at the time she wanted to.

She wandered the country, on foot and on her bicycle, finding it very beautiful in the forest direction, between Mansfield and Southwell and Worksop.

But she was here only skirmishing for amusement.

Her real exploration would begin in college.

Term began.

She went into town each day by train.

The cloistered quiet of the college began to close around her.

She was not at first disappointed.

The big college built of stone, standing in the quiet street, with a rim of grass and lime trees all so peaceful: she felt it remote, a magic land.

Its architecture was foolish, she knew from her father.

Still, it was different from that of all other buildings.

Its rather pretty, plaything, Gothic form was almost a style, in the dirty industrial town.

She liked the hall, with its big stone chimney-piece and its Gothic arches supporting the balcony above.

To be sure the arches were ugly, the chimney-piece of cardboard-like carved stone, with its armorial decoration, looked silly just opposite the bicycle stand and the radiator, whilst the great notice-board with its fluttering papers seemed to slam away all sense of retreat and mystery from the far wall.

Nevertheless, amorphous as it might be, there was in it a reminiscence of the wondrous, cloistral origin of education.

Her soul flew straight back to the mediæval times, when the monks of God held the learning of men and imparted it within the shadow of religion.

In this spirit she entered college.

The harshness and vulgarity of the lobbies and cloak-rooms hurt her at first.

Why was it not all beautiful?

But she could not openly admit her criticism.

She was on holy ground.

She wanted all the students to have a high, pure spirit, she wanted them to say only the real, genuine things, she wanted their faces to be still and luminous as the nuns’ and the monks’ faces.

Alas, the girls chattered and giggled and were nervous, they were dressed up and frizzed, the men looked mean and clownish.

Still, it was lovely to pass along the corridor with one’s books in one’s hands, to push the swinging, glass-panelled door, and enter the big room where the first lecture would be given.

The windows were large and lofty, the myriad brown students’ desks stood waiting, the great blackboard was smooth behind the rostrum.

Ursula sat beside her window, rather far back.

Looking down, she saw the lime trees turning yellow, the tradesman’s boy passing silent down the still, autumn-sunny street.

There was the world, remote, remote.

Here, within the great, whispering sea-shell, that whispered all the while with reminiscence of all the centuries, time faded away, and the echo of knowledge filled the timeless silence.

She listened, she scribbled her notes with joy, almost with ecstasy, never for a moment criticizing what she heard.

The lecturer was a mouth-piece, a priest.

As he stood, black-gowned, on the rostrum, some strands of the whispering confusion of knowledge that filled the whole place seemed to be singled out and woven together by him, till they became a lecture.

At first, she preserved herself from criticism.

She would not consider the professors as men, ordinary men who ate bacon, and pulled on their boots before coming to college.

They were the black-gowned priests of knowledge, serving for ever in a remote, hushed temple.

They were the initiated, and the beginning and the end of the mystery was in their keeping.

Curious joy she had of the lectures.

It was a joy to hear the theory of education, there was such freedom and pleasure in ranging over the very stuff of knowledge, and seeing how it moved and lived and had its being.

How happy Racine made her!

She did not know why.

But as the big lines of the drama unfolded themselves, so steady, so measured, she felt a thrill as of being in the realm of the reality.

Of Latin, she was doing Livy and Horace.

The curious, intimate, gossiping tone of the Latin class suited Horace.

Yet she never cared for him, nor even Livy.

There was an entire lack of sternness in the gossipy class-room.

She tried hard to keep her old grasp of the Roman spirit.

But gradually the Latin became mere gossip-stuff and artificiality to her, a question of manners and verbosities.

Her terror was the mathematics class.

The lecturer went so fast, her heart beat excitedly, she seemed to be straining every nerve.

And she struggled hard, during private study, to get the stuff into control.

Then came the lovely, peaceful afternoons in the botany laboratory.

There were few students.

How she loved to sit on her high stool before the bench, with her pith and her razor and her material, carefully mounting her slides, carefully bringing her microscope into focus, then turning with joy to record her observation, drawing joyfully in her book, if the slide were good.

She soon made a college friend, a girl who had lived in Florence, a girl who wore a wonderful purple or figured scarf draped over a plain, dark dress.

She was Dorothy Russell, daughter of a south-country advocate.

Dorothy lived with a maiden aunt in Nottingham, and spent her spare moments slaving for the Women’s Social and Political Union.

She was quiet and intense, with an ivory face and dark hair looped plain over her ears.

Ursula was very fond of her, but afraid of her.

She seemed so old and so relentless towards herself.

Yet she was only twenty-two.

Ursula always felt her to be a creature of fate, like Cassandra.

The two girls had a close, stern friendship.

Dorothy worked at all things with the same passion, never sparing herself.

She came closest to Ursula during the botany hours.

For she could not draw.

Ursula made beautiful and wonderful drawings of the sections under the microscope, and Dorothy always came to learn the manner of the drawing.

So the first year went by, in magnificent seclusion and activity of learning.

It was strenuous as a battle, her college life, yet remote as peace.

She came to Nottingham in the morning with Gudrun.

The two sisters were distinguished wherever they went, slim, strong girls, eager and extremely sensitive.

Gudrun was the more beautiful of the two, with her sleepy, half-languid girlishness that looked so soft, and yet was balanced and inalterable underneath.

She wore soft, easy clothing, and hats which fell by themselves into a careless grace.

Ursula was much more carefully dressed, but she was self-conscious, always falling into depths of admiration of somebody else, and modelling herself upon this other, and so producing a hopeless incongruity.

When she dressed for practical purposes she always looked well.

In winter, wearing a tweed coat-and-skirt and a small hat of black fur pulled over her eager, palpitant face, she seemed to move down the street in a drifting motion of suspense and exceeding sensitive receptivity.

At the end of the first year Ursula got through her Intermediate Arts examination, and there came a lull in her eager activities.

She slackened off, she relaxed altogether.

Worn nervous and inflammable by the excitement of the preparation for the examination, and by the sort of exaltation which carried her through the crisis itself, she now fell into a quivering passivity, her will all loosened.

The family went to Scarborough for a month.

Gudrun and the father were busy at the handicraft holiday school there, Ursula was left a good deal with the children.

But when she could, she went off by herself.

She stood and looked out over the shining sea.

It was very beautiful to her.

The tears rose hot in her heart.

Out of the far, far space there drifted slowly in to her a passionate, unborn yearning.

“There are so many dawns that have not yet risen.

” It seemed as if, from over the edge of the sea, all the unrisen dawns were appealing to her, all her unborn soul was crying for the unrisen dawns.

As she sat looking out at the tender sea, with its lovely, swift glimmer, the sob rose in her breast, till she caught her lip suddenly under her teeth, and the tears were forcing themselves from her.

And in her very sob, she laughed.

Why did she cry?

She did not want to cry.

It was so beautiful that she laughed.

It was so beautiful that she cried.

She glanced apprehensively round, hoping no one would see her in this state.

Then came a time when the sea was rough.

She watched the water travelling in to the coast, she watched a big wave running unnoticed, to burst in a shock of foam against a rock, enveloping all in a great white beauty, to pour away again, leaving the rock emerged black and teeming.

Oh, and if, when the wave burst into whiteness, it were only set free!

Sometimes she loitered along the harbour, looking at the sea-browned sailors, who, in their close blue jerseys, lounged on the harbour-wall, and laughed at her with impudent, communicative eyes.

There was established a little relation between her and them.

She never would speak to them or know any more of them.

Yet as she walked by and they leaned on the sea-wall, there was something between her and them, something keen and delightful and painful.

She liked best the young one whose fair, salty hair tumbled over his blue eyes.

He was so new and fresh and salt and not of this world.

From Scarborough she went to her Uncle Tom’s. Winifred had a small baby, born at the end of the summer.

She had become strange and alien to Ursula.

There was an unmentionable reserve between the two women.

Tom Brangwen was an attentive father, a very domestic husband.

But there was something spurious about his domesticity, Ursula did not like him any more.

Something ugly, blatant in his nature had come out now, making him shift everything over to a sentimental basis.

A

materialistic unbeliever, he carried it all off by becoming full of human feeling, a warm, attentive host, a generous husband, a model citizen.

And he was clever enough to rouse admiration everywhere, and to take in his wife sufficiently.

She did not love him.

She was glad to live in a state of complacent self-deception with him, she worked according to him.

Ursula was relieved to go home.

She had still two peaceful years before her.

Her future was settled for two years.

She returned to college to prepare for her final examination.

But during this year the glamour began to depart from college.

The professors were not priests initiated into the deep mysteries of life and knowledge.

After all, they were only middle-men handling wares they had become so accustomed to that they were oblivious of them.

What was Latin?

—So much dry goods of knowledge.

What was the Latin class altogether but a sort of second-hand curio shop, where one bought curios and learned the market-value of curios; dull curios too, on the whole.

She was as bored by the Latin curiosities as she was by Chinese and Japanese curiosities in the antique shops.

“Antiques”—the very word made her soul fall flat and dead.

The life went out of her studies, why, she did not know.

But the whole thing seemed sham, spurious; spurious Gothic arches, spurious peace, spurious Latinity, spurious dignity of France, spurious naïveté of Chaucer.

It was a second-hand dealer’s shop, and one bought an equipment for an examination.

This was only a little side-show to the factories of the town.

Gradually the perception stole into her.

This was no religious retreat, no perception of pure learning.

It was a little apprentice-shop where one was further equipped for making money.

The college itself was a little, slovenly laboratory for the factory.

A harsh and ugly disillusion came over her again, the same darkness and bitter gloom from which she was never safe now, the realization of the permanent substratum of ugliness under everything.

As she came to the college in the afternoon, the lawns were frothed with daisies, the lime trees hung tender and sunlit and green; and oh, the deep, white froth of the daisies was anguish to see.

For inside, inside the college, she knew she must enter the sham workshop.

All the while, it was a sham store, a sham warehouse, with a single motive of material gain, and no productivity.

It pretended to exist by the religious virtue of knowledge.

But the religious virtue of knowledge was become a flunkey to the god of material success.

A sort of inertia came over her.

Mechanically, from habit, she went on with her studies.

But it was almost hopeless.

She could scarcely attend to anything.

At the Anglo-Saxon lecture in the afternoon, she sat looking down, out of the window, hearing no word, of Beowulf or of anything else.

Down below, in the street, the sunny grey pavement went beside the palisade.

A woman in a pink frock, with a scarlet sunshade, crossed the road, a little white dog running like a fleck of light about her.

The woman with the scarlet sunshade came over the road, a lilt in her walk, a little shadow attending her.

Ursula watched spell-bound.

The woman with the scarlet sunshade and the flickering terrier was gone—and whither?

Whither?

In what world of reality was the woman in the pink dress walking?

To what warehouse of dead unreality was she herself confined?

What good was this place, this college?

What good was Anglo-Saxon, when one only learned it in order to answer examination questions, in order that one should have a higher commercial value later on?

She was sick with this long service at the inner commercial shrine.

Yet what else was there?

Was life all this, and this only?

Everywhere, everything was debased to the same service.

Everything went to produce vulgar things, to encumber material life.

Suddenly she threw over French.

She would take honours in botany.

This was the one study that lived for her.

She had entered into the lives of the plants.

She was fascinated by the strange laws of the vegetable world.

She had here a glimpse of something working entirely apart from the purpose of the human world.

College was barren, cheap, a temple converted to the most vulgar, petty commerce.

Had she not gone to hear the echo of learning pulsing back to the source of the mystery?

—The source of mystery!

And barrenly, the professors in their gowns offered commercial commodity that could be turned to good account in the examination room; ready-made stuff too, and not really worth the money it was intended to fetch; which they all knew.

All the time in the college now, save when she was labouring in her botany laboratory, for there the mystery still glimmered, she felt she was degrading herself in a kind of trade of sham jewjaws.

Angry and stiff, she went through her last term.

She would rather be out again earning her own living.

Even Brinsley Street and Mr. Harby seemed real in comparison.

Her violent hatred of the Ilkeston School was nothing compared with the sterile degradation of college.

But she was not going back to Brinsley Street either.

She would take her B. A.

, and become a mistress in some Grammar School for a time.

The last year of her college career was wheeling slowly round.

She could see ahead her examination and her departure.

She had the ash of disillusion gritting under her teeth.

Would the next move turn out the same?

Always the shining doorway ahead; and then, upon approach, always the shining doorway was a gate into another ugly yard, dirty and active and dead.

Always the crest of the hill gleaming ahead under heaven: and then, from the top of the hill only another sordid valley full of amorphous, squalid activity.

No matter!

Every hill-top was a little different, every valley was somehow new.

Cossethay and her childhood with her father; the Marsh and the little Church school near the Marsh, and her grandmother and her uncles; the High School at Nottingham and Anton Skrebensky; Anton Skrebensky and the dance in the moonlight between the fires; then the time she could not think of without being blasted, Winifred Inger, and the months before becoming a school-teacher; then the horrors of Brinsley Street, lapsing into comparative peacefulness, Maggie, and Maggie’s brother, whose influence she could still feel in her veins, when she conjured him up; then college, and Dorothy Russell, who was now in France, then the next move into the world again!

Already it was a history.

In every phase she was so different.

Yet she was always Ursula Brangwen.

But what did it mean, Ursula Brangwen?

She did not know what she was.

Only she was full of rejection, of refusal.

Always, always she was spitting out of her mouth the ash and grit of disillusion, of falsity.

She could only stiffen in rejection, in rejection.

She seemed always negative in her action.

That which she was, positively, was dark and unrevealed, it could not come forth.

It was like a seed buried in dry ash.

This world in which she lived was like a circle lighted by a lamp.

This lighted area, lit up by man’s completest consciousness, she thought was all the world: that here all was disclosed for ever.

Yet all the time, within the darkness she had been aware of points of light, like the eyes of wild beasts, gleaming, penetrating, vanishing.

And her soul had acknowledged in a great heave of terror only the outer darkness.

This inner circle of light in which she lived and moved, wherein the trains rushed and the factories ground out their machine-produce and the plants and the animals worked by the light of science and knowledge, suddenly it seemed like the area under an arc-lamp, wherein the moths and children played in the security of blinding light, not even knowing there was any darkness, because they stayed in the light.

But she could see the glimmer of dark movement just out of range, she saw the eyes of the wild beast gleaming from the darkness, watching the vanity of the camp fire and the sleepers; she felt the strange, foolish vanity of the camp, which said “Beyond our light and our order there is nothing,” turning their faces always inward towards the sinking fire of illuminating consciousness, which comprised sun and stars, and the Creator, and the System of Righteousness, ignoring always the vast darkness that wheeled round about, with half-revealed shapes lurking on the edge.

Yea, and no man dared even throw a firebrand into the darkness.

For if he did he was jeered to death by the others, who cried “Fool, anti-social knave, why would you disturb us with bogeys?

There _is_ no darkness.

We move and live and have our being within the light, and unto us is given the eternal light of knowledge, we comprise and comprehend the innermost core and issue of knowledge.

Fool and knave, how dare you belittle us with the darkness?

” Nevertheless the darkness wheeled round about, with grey shadow-shapes of wild beasts, and also with dark shadow-shapes of the angels, whom the light fenced out, as it fenced out the more familiar beasts of darkness.

And some, having for a moment seen the darkness, saw it bristling with the tufts of the hyena and the wolf; and some having given up their vanity of the light, having died in their own conceit, saw the gleam in the eyes of the wolf and the hyena, that it was the flash of the sword of angels, flashing at the door to come in, that the angels in the darkness were lordly and terrible and not to be denied, like the flash of fangs.

It was a little while before Easter, in her last year of college, when Ursula was twenty-two years old, that she heard again from Skrebensky.

He had written to her once or twice from South Africa, during the first months of his service out there in the war, and since had sent her a post-card every now and then, at ever longer intervals.

He had become a first lieutenant, and had stayed out in Africa.

She had not heard of him now for more than two years.

Often her thoughts returned to him.

He seemed like the gleaming dawn, yellow, radiant, of a long, grey, ashy day.

The memory of him was like the thought of the first radiant hours of morning.

And here was the blank grey ashiness of later daytime.

Ah, if he had only remained true to her, she might have known the sunshine, without all this toil and hurt and degradation of a spoiled day.

He would have been her angel.

He held the keys of the sunshine.

Still he held them.

He could open to her the gates of succeeding freedom and delight.

Nay, if he had remained true to her, he would have been the doorway to her, into the boundless sky of happiness and plunging, inexhaustible freedom which was the paradise of her soul.

Ah, the great range he would have opened to her, the illimitable endless space for self-realization and delight for ever.

The one thing she believed in was in the love she had held for him.

It remained shining and complete, a thing to hark back to.

And she said to herself, when present things seemed a failure: “Ah, I _was_ fond of him,” as if with him the leading flower of her life had died.

Now she heard from him again.

The chief effect was pain.

The pleasure, the spontaneous joy was not there any longer.

But her _will_ rejoiced.

Her will had fixed itself to him.

And the old excitement of her dreams stirred and woke up.

He was come, the man with the wondrous lips that could send the kiss wavering to the very end of all space.

Was he come back to her?

She did not believe.

My dear Ursula, I am back in England again for a few months before going out again, this time to India.

I wonder if you still keep the memory of our times together.

I have still got the little photograph of you.

You must be changed since then, for it is about six years ago.

I am fully six years older,—I have lived through another life since I knew you at Cossethay.

I wonder if you would care to see me.

I shall come up to Derby next week, and I would call in Nottingham, and we might have tea together.

Will you let me know?