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One night Winifred came all burning into Ursula's bed； and
put her arms round the girl； holding her to herself in spite of
unwillingness； and said；
〃Dear； my dearshall I marry Mr。 Brangwenshall
I？〃
The clinging； heavy； muddy question weighed on Ursula
intolerably。
〃Has he asked you？〃 she said； using all her might of hard
resistance。
〃He's asked me；〃 said Winifred。 〃Do you want me to marry him；
Ursula？〃
〃Yes；〃 said Ursula。
The arms tightened more on her。
〃I knew you did； my sweetand I will marry him。 You're
fond of him； aren't you？〃
〃I've been awfully fond of himever since I was
a child。〃
〃I knowI know。 I can see what you like in him。 He is a
man by himself； he has something apart from the rest。〃
〃Yes；〃 said Ursula。
〃But he's not like you； my dearha； he's not as good as
you。 There's something even objectionable in himhis thick
thighs〃
Ursula was silent。
〃But I'll marry him； my dearit will be best。 Now say
you love me。〃
A sort of profession was extorted out of the girl。
Nevertheless her mistress went away sighing； to weep in her own
chamber。
In two days' time Ursula left Wiggiston。 Miss Inger went to
Nottingham。 There was an engagement between her and Tom
Brangwen； which the uncle seemed to vaunt as if it were an
assurance of his validity。
Brangwen and Winifred Inger continued engaged for another
term。 Then they married。 Brangwen had reached the age when he
wanted children。 He wanted children。 Neither marriage nor the
domestic establishment meant anything to him。 He wanted to
propagate himself。 He knew what he was doing。 He had the
instinct of a growing inertia； of a thing that chooses its place
of rest in which to lapse into apathy； plete； profound
indifference。 He would let the machinery carry him； husband；
father； pitmanager； warm clay lifted through the recurrent
action of day after day by the great machine from which it
derived its motion。 As for Winifred； she was an educated woman；
and of the same sort as himself。 She would make a good
panion。 She was his mate。
CHAPTER XIII
THE MAN'S WORLD
Ursula came back to Cossethay to fight with her mother。 Her
schooldays were over。 She had passed the matriculation
examination。 Now she came home to face that empty period between
school and possible marriage。
At first she thought it would be just like holidays all the
time； she would feel just free。 Her soul was in chaos； blinded
suffering； maimed。 She had no will left to think about herself。
For a time she must just lapse。
But very shortly she found herself up against her mother。 Her
mother had； at this time； the power to irritate and madden the
girl continuously。 There were already seven children； yet Mrs。
Brangwen was again with child； the ninth she had borne。 One had
died of diphtheria in infancy。
Even this fact of her mother's pregnancy enraged the eldest
girl。 Mrs。 Brangwen was so placent； so utterly fulfilled in
her breeding。 She would not have the existence at all of
anything but the immediate； physical； mon things。 Ursula
inflamed in soul； was suffering all the anguish of youth's
reaching for some unknown ordeal； that it can't grasp； can't
even distinguish or conceive。 Maddened； she was fighting all the
darkness she was up against。 And part of this darkness was her
mother。 To limit； as her mother did； everything to the ring of
physical considerations； and placently to reject the reality
of anything else； was horrible。 Not a thing did Mrs。 Brangwen
care about； but the children； the house； and a little local
gossip。 And she would not be touched； she would let
nothing else live near her。 She went about； big with child；
slovenly； easy； having a certain lax dignity； taking her own
time； pleasing herself； always； always doing things for the
children； and feeling that she thereby fulfilled the whole of
womanhood。
This long trance of placent childbearing had kept her
young and undeveloped。 She was scarcely a day older than when
Gudrun was born。 All these years nothing had happened save the
ing of the children； nothing had mattered but the bodies of
her babies。 As her children came into consciousness； as they
began to suffer their own fulfilment； she cast them off。 But she
remained dominant in the house。 Brangwen continued in a kind of
rich drowse of physical heat； in connection with his wife。 They
were neither of them quite personal； quite defined as
individuals； so much were they pervaded by the physical heat of
breeding and rearing their young。
How Ursula resented it； how she fought against the close；
physical； limited life of herded domesticity！ Calm； placid；
unshakeable as ever； Mrs。 Brangwen went about in her dominance
of physical maternity。
There were battles。 Ursula would fight for things that
mattered to her。 She would have the children less rude and
tyrannical； she would have a place in the house。 But her
mother pulled her down； pulled her down。 With all the cunning
instinct of a breeding animal； Mrs。 Brangwen ridiculed and held
cheap Ursula's passions； her ideas； her pronunciations。 Ursula
would try to insist； in her own home； on the right of women to
take equal place with men in the field of action and work。
〃Ay；〃 said the mother； 〃there's a good crop of stockings
lying ripe for mending。 Let that be your field of action。〃
Ursula disliked mending stockings； and this retort maddened
her。 She hated her mother bitterly。 After a few weeks of
enforced domestic life； she had had enough of her home。 The
monness； the triviality； the immediate meaninglessness of it
all drove her to frenzy。 She talked and stormed ideas； she
corrected and nagged at the children； she turned her back in
silent contempt on her breeding mother； who treated her with
supercilious indifference； as if she were a pretentious child
not to be taken seriously。
Brangwen was sometimes dragged into the trouble。 He loved
Ursula； therefore he always had a sense of shame； almost of
betrayal； when he turned on her。 So he turned fiercely and
scathingly； and with a wholesale brutality that made Ursula go
white； mute； and numb。 Her feelings seemed to be being
deadened in her； her temper hard and cold。
Brangwen himself was in one of his states or flux。 After all
these years； he began to see a loophole of freedom。 For twenty
years he had gone on at this office as a draughtsman； doing work
in which he had no interest； because it seemed his allotted
work。 The growing up of his daughters； their developing
rejection of old forms set him also free。
He was a man of ceaseless activity。 Blindly； like a mole； he
pushed his way out of the earth that covered him； working always
away from the physical element in which his life was captured。
Slowly； blindly； gropingly； with what initiative was left to
him； he made his way towards individual expression and
individual form。
At last； after twenty years； he came back to his woodcarving；
almost to the point where he had left off his Adam and Eve
panel； when he was courting。 But now he had knowledge and skill
without vision。 He saw the puerility of his young conceptions；
he saw the unreal world in which they had been conceived。 He now
had a new strength in his sense of reality。 He felt as if he
were real； as if he handled real things。 He had worked for many
years at Cossethay； building the an for the church； restoring
the woodwork； gradually ing to a knowledge of beauty in the
plain labours。 Now he wanted again to carve things that were
utterances of himself。
But he could not quite hitch onalways he was too busy；
too uncertain； confused。 Wavering； he began to study modelling。
To his surprise he found he could do it。 Modelling in clay； in
plaster； he produced beautiful reproductions； really beautiful。
Then he setto to make a head of Ursula； in high relief； in the
Donatello manner。 In his first passion； he got a beautiful
suggestion of his desire。 But the pitch of concentration would
not e。 With a little ash in his mouth he gave up。 He
continued to copy； or to make designs by selecting motives from
classic stuff。 He loved the Della Robbia and Donatello as he had
loved Fra Angelico when he was a young man。 His work had some of
the freshness； the naive alertness of the early Italians。 But it
was only reproduction。
Having reached his limit in modelling； he turned to painting。
But he tried watercolour painting after the manner of any other
amateur。 He got his results but was not much interested。 After
one or two drawings of his beloved church； which had the same
alertness as his modelling； he seemed to be incongruous with the
modern atmospheric way of painting； so that his church tower
stood up； really stood and asserted its standing； but was
ashamed of its own lack of meaning； he turned away again。
He took up jewellery； read Benvenuto Cellini； pored over
reproductions of ornament； and began to make pendants in silver
and pearl and matrix。 The first things he did； in his start of
discovery； were really beautiful。 Those later were more
imitative。 But； starting with his wife； he made a pendant each
for all his womenfolk。 Then he made rings and bracelets。
Then he took up beaten and chiselled metal work。 When Ursula
left school； he was making a silver bowl of lovely shape。 How he
delighted in it； almost lusted after it。
All this time his only connection with the real outer world
was through his winter evening classes； which brought him into
contact with state education。 About all the rest； he was
oblivious； and entirely indifferenteven about the war。
The nation did not exist to him。 He was in a private retreat of
his own； that had neither nationality； nor any great
adherent。
Ursula watched the newspapers； vaguely； concerning the war in
South Africa。 They made her miserable； and she tried to have as
little to do with them as possible。 But Skrebensky was out
there。 He sent her an occasional postcard。 But it was as if she
were a blank wall in his direction； without windows or outgoing。
She adhered to the Skrebensky of her memory。
Her love for Winifred Inger wrenched her life as it seemed
from the roots and native soil where Skrebensky had belonged to
it； and she was aridly transplanted。 He was really only a
memory。 She revived his memory with strange passion； after the
departure of Winifred。 He was to her almost the symbol of her
real life。 It was as if； through him； in him； she might return
to her own self； which she was before she had loved Winifred；
before this deadness had e upon her； this pitiless
transplanting。 But even her memories were the work of her
imagination。
She dreamed of him and her as they had been together。 She
could not dream of him progressively； of what he was doing now；
of what relation he would have to her now。 Only sometimes she
wept to think how cruelly she had suffered when he left
herah； how she had suffered！ She remembered what
she had written in her diary：
〃If I were the moon； I know where I would fall down。〃
Ah； it was a dull agony to her to remember what she had been
then。 For it was remembering a dead self。 All that was dead
after Winifred。 She knew the corpse of her young； loving self；
she knew its grave。 And the young living self she mourned for
had scarcely existed； it was the creature of her
imagination。
Deep within her a cold despair remained unchanging and
unchanged。 No one would ever love her nowshe would love
no one。 The body of love was killed in her after Winifred； there
was something of the corpse in her。 She would live； she would go
on； but she would have no lovers； no lover would want her any
more。 She herself would want no lover。 The vividest little flame
of desire was extinct in her for ever。 The tiny； vivid germ that
contained the bud of her real self； her real love； was killed；
she would go on growing as a plant； she would do her best to
produce her minor flowers； but her leading flower was dead
before it was born； all her growth was the conveying of a corpse
of hope。
The miserable weeks went on； in the poky house crammed with
children。 What was her lifea sordid； formless；
disintegrated nothing； Ursula Brangwen a person without worth or
importance； living in the mean village of Cossethay； within the
sordid scope of Ilkeston