The Rainbow-虹(英文版)-第54部分

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Sunday　morning。　That　was　plain　enough；　plain　enough　for　Monday
morning　too。　As　she　went　down　the　hill　to　the　station；　going　to
school；　she　took　the　saying　with　her。

〃Sell　all　thou　hast；　and　give　to　the　poor。〃

Did　she　want　to　do　that？　Did　she　want　to　sell　her
pearl…backed　brush　and　mirror；　her　silver　candlestick；　her
pendant；　her　lovely　little　necklace；　and　go　dressed　in　drab　like
the　Wherrys：　the　unlovely　unbed　Wherrys；　who　were　the　〃poor〃
to　her？　She　did　not。

She　walked　this　Monday　morning　on　the　verge　of　misery。　For
she　did　want　to　do　what　was　right。　And　she　didn't　want　to　do
what　the　gospels　said。　She　didn't　want　to　be　poor……really
poor。　The　thought　was　a　horror　to　her：　to　live　like　the　Wherrys；
so　ugly；　to　be　at　the　mercy　of　everybody。

〃Sell　that　thou　hast；　and　give　to　the　poor。〃

One　could　not　do　it　in　real　life。　How　dreary　and　hopeless　it
made　her！

Nor　could　one　turn　the　other　cheek。　Theresa　slapped　Ursula　on
the　face。　Ursula；　in　a　mood　of　Christian　humility；　silently
presented　the　other　side　of　her　face。　Which　Theresa；　in
exasperation　at　the　challenge；　also　hit。　Whereupon　Ursula；　with
boiling　heart；　went　meekly　away。

But　anger；　and　deep；　writhing　shame　tortured　her；　so　she　was
not　easy　till　she　had　again　quarrelled　with　Theresa　and　had
almost　shaken　her　sister's　head　off。

〃That'll　teach　you；〃　she　said；　grimly。

And　she　went　away；　unchristian　but　clean。

There　was　something　unclean　and　degrading　about　this　humble
side　of　Christianity。　Ursula　suddenly　revolted　to　the　other
extreme。

〃I　hate　the　Wherrys；　and　I　wish　they　were　dead。　Why　does　my
father　leave　us　in　the　lurch　like　this；　making　us　be　poor　and
insignificant？　Why　is　he　not　more？　If　we　had　a　father　as　he
ought　to　be；　he　would　be　Earl　William　Brangwen；　and　I　should　be
the　Lady　Ursula？　What　right　have　I　to　be　poor？　crawling
along　the　lane　like　vermin？　If　I　had　my　rights　I　should　be
seated　on　horseback　in　a　green　riding…habit；　and　my　groom　would
be　behind　me。　And　I　should　stop　at　the　gates　of　the　cottages；
and　enquire　of　the　cottage　woman　who　came　out　with　a　child　in
her　arms；　how　did　her　husband；　who　had　hurt　his　foot。　And　I
would　pat　the　flaxen　head　of　the　child；　stooping　from　my　horse；
and　I　would　give　her　a　shilling　from　my　purse；　and　order
nourishing　food　to　be　sent　from　the　hall　to　the　cottage。〃

So　she　rode　in　her　pride。　And　sometimes；　she　dashed　into
flames　to　rescue　a　forgotten　child；　or　she　dived　into　the　canal
locks　and　supported　a　boy　who　was　seized　with　cramp；　or　she
swept　up　a　toddling　infant　from　the　feet　of　a　runaway　horse：
always　imaginatively；　of　course。

But　in　the　end　there　returned　the　poignant　yearning　from　the
Sunday　world。　As　she　went　down　in　the　morning　from　Cossethay　and
saw　Ilkeston　smoking　blue　and　tender　upon　its　hill；　then　her
heart　surged　with　far…off　words：

〃Oh；　Jerusalem；　Jerusalem……how　often　would　I　have
gathered　thy　children　together　as　a　hen　gathereth　her　chickens
under　her　wings；　and　ye　would　not……〃

The　passion　rose　in　her　for　Christ；　for　the　gathering　under
the　wings　of　security　and　warmth。　But　how　did　it　apply　to　the
weekday　world？　What　could　it　mean；　but　that　Christ　should　clasp
her　to　his　breast；　as　a　mother　clasps　her　child？　And　oh；　for
Christ；　for　him　who　could　hold　her　to　his　breast　and　lose　her
there。　Oh；　for　the　breast　of　man；　where　she　should　have　refuge
and　bliss　for　ever！　All　her　senses　quivered　with　passionate
yearning。

Vaguely　she　knew　that　Christ　meant　something　else：　that　in
the　vision…world　He　spoke　of　Jerusalem；　something　that　did　not
exist　in　the　everyday　world。　It　was　not　houses　and　factories　He
would　hold　in　His　bosom：　nor　householders　nor　factory…workers
nor　poor　people：　but　something　that　had　no　part　in　the　weekday
world；　nor　seen　nor　touched　with　weekday　hands　and　eyes。

Yet　she　must　have　it　in　weekday　terms……she　must。
For　all　her　life　was　a　weekday　life；　now；　this　was　the　whole。　So
he　must　gather　her　body　to　his　breast；　that　was　strong　with　a
broad　bone；　and　which　sounded　with　the　beating　of　the　heart；　and
which　was　warm　with　the　life　of　which　she　partook；　the　life　of
the　running　blood。

So　she　craved　for　the　breast　of　the　Son　of　Man；　to　lie　there。
And　she　was　ashamed　in　her　soul；　ashamed。　For　whereas　Christ
spoke　for　the　Vision　to　answer；　she　answered　from　the　weekday
fact。　It　was　a　betrayal；　a　transference　of　meaning；　from　the
vision　world；　to　the　matter…of…fact　world。　So　she　was　ashamed　of
her　religious　ecstasy；　and　dreaded　lest　any　one　should　see
it。

Early　in　the　year；　when　the　lambs　came；　and　shelters　were
built　of　straw；　and　on　her　uncle's　farm　the　men　sat　at　night
with　a　lantern　and　a　dog；　then　again　there　swept　over　her　this
passionate　confusion　between　the　vision　world　and　the　weekday
world。　Again　she　felt　Jesus　in　the　countryside。　Ah；　he　would
lift　up　the　lambs　in　his　arms！　Ah；　and　she　was　the　lamb。　Again；
in　the　morning；　going　down　the　lane；　she　heard　the　ewe　call；　and
the　lambs　came　running；　shaking　and　twinkling　with　new…born
bliss。　And　she　saw　them　stooping；　nuzzling；　groping　to　the
udder；　to　find　the　teats；　whilst　the　mother　turned　her　head
gravely　and　sniffed　her　own。　And　they　were　sucking；　vibrating
with　bliss　on　their　little；　long　legs；　their　throats　stretched
up；　their　new　bodies　quivering　to　the　stream　of　blood…warm；
loving　milk。

Oh；　and　the　bliss；　the　bliss！　She　could　scarcely　tear　herself
away　to　go　to　school。　The　little　noses　nuzzling　at　the　udder；
the　little　bodies　so　glad　and　sure；　the　little　black　legs；
crooked；　the　mother　standing　still；　yielding　herself　to　their
quivering　attraction……then　the　mother　walked　calmly
away。

Jesus……the　vision　world……the　everyday
world……all　mixed　inextricably　in　a　confusion　of　pain　and
bliss。　It　was　almost　agony；　the　confusion；　the　inextricability。
Jesus；　the　vision；　speaking　to　her；　who　was　non…visionary！　And
she　would　take　his　words　of　the　spirit　and　make　them　to　pander
to　her　own　carnality。

This　was　a　shame　to　her。　The　confusing　of　the　spirit　world
with　the　material　world；　in　her　own　soul；　degraded　her。　She
answered　the　call　of　the　spirit　in　terms　of　immediate；　everyday
desire。

〃e　unto　me；　all　ye　that　labour　and　are　heavy…laden；　and　I
will　give　you　rest。〃

It　was　the　temporal　answer　she　gave。　She　leapt　with　sensuous
yearning　to　respond　to　Christ。　If　she　could　go　to　him　really；
and　lay　her　head　on　his　breast；　to　have　fort；　to　be　made　much
of；　caressed　like　a　child！

All　the　time　she　walked　in　a　confused　heat　of　religious
yearning。　She　wanted　Jesus　to　love　her　deliciously；　to　take　her
sensuous　offering；　to　give　her　sensuous　response。　For　weeks　she
went　in　a　muse　of　enjoyment。

And　all　the　time　she　knew　underneath　that　she　was　playing
false；　accepting　the　passion　of　Jesus　for　her　own　physical
satisfaction。　But　she　was　in　such　a　daze；　such　a　tangle。　How
could　she　get　free？

She　hated　herself；　she　wanted　to　trample　on　herself；　destroy
herself。　How　could　one　bee　free？　She　hated　religion；　because
it　lent　itself　to　her　confusion。　She　abused　everything。　She
wanted　to　bee　hard；　indifferent；　brutally　callous　to
everything　but　just　the　immediate　need；　the　immediate
satisfaction。　To　have　a　yearning　towards　Jesus；　only　that　she
might　use　him　to　pander　to　her　own　soft　sensation；　use　him　as　a
means　of　reacting　upon　herself；　maddened　her　in　the　end。　There
was　then　no　Jesus；　no　sentimentality。　With　all　the　bitter　hatred
of　helplessness　she　hated　sentimentality。

At　this　period　came　the　young　Skrebensky。　She　was　nearly
sixteen　years　old；　a　slim；　smouldering　girl；　deeply　reticent；
yet　lapsing　into　unreserved　expansiveness　now　and　then；　when　she
seemed　to　give　away　her　whole　soul；　but　when　in　fact　she　only
made　another　counterfeit　of　her　soul　for　outward　presentation。
She　was　sensitive　in　the　extreme；　always　tortured；　always
affecting　a　callous　indifference　to　screen　herself。

She　was　at　this　time　a　nuisance　on　the　face　of　the　earth；
with　her　spasmodic　passion　and　her　slumberous　torment。　She
seemed　to　go　with　all　her　soul　in　her　hands；　yearning；　to　the
other　person。　Yet　all　the　while；　deep　at　the　bottom　of　her　was　a
childish　antagonism　of　distrust。　She　thought　she　loved　everybody
and　believed　in　everybody。　But　because　she　could　not　love
herself　nor　believe　in　herself；　she　mistrusted　everybody　with
the　mistrust　of　a　serpent　or　a　captured　bird。　Her　starts　of
revulsion　and　hatred　were　more　inevitable　than　her　impulses　of
love。

So　she　wrestled　through　her　dark　days　of　confusion；　soulless；
uncreated；　unformed。

One　evening；　as　she　was　studying　in　the　parlour；　her　head
buried　in　her　hands；　she　heard　new　voices　in　the　kitchen
speaking。　At　once；　from　its　apathy；　her　excitable　spirit　started
and　strained　to　listen。　It　seemed　to　crouch；　to　lurk　under
cover；　tense；　glaring　forth　unwilling　to　be　seen。

There　were　two　strange　men's　voices；　one　soft　and　candid；
veiled　with　soft　candour；　the　other　veiled　with　easy　mobility；
running　quickly。　Ursula　sat　quite　tense；　shocked　out　of　her
studies；　lost。　She　listened　all　the　time　to　the　sound　of　the
voices；　scarcely　heeding　the　words。

The　first　speaker　was　her　Uncle　Tom。　She　knew　the　naive
candour　covering　the　girding　and　savage　misery　of　his　soul。　Who
was　the　other　speaker？　Whose　voice　ran　on　so　easy；　yet　with　an
inflamed　pulse？　It　seemed　to　hasten　and　urge　her　forward；　that
other　voice。

〃I　remember　you；〃　the　young　man's　voice　was　saying。　〃I
remember　you　from　the　first　time　I　saw　you；　because　of　your　dark
eyes　and　fair　face。〃

Mrs。　Brangwen　laughed；　shy　and　pleased。

〃You　were　a　curly…headed　little　lad；〃　she　said。

〃Was　I？　Yes；　I　know。　They　were　very　proud　of　my　curls。〃

And　a　laugh　ran　to　silence。

〃You　were　a　very　well…mannered　lad；　I　remember；〃　said　her
father。

〃Oh！　did　I　ask　you　to　stay　the　night？　I　always　used　to　ask
people　to　stay　the　night。　I　believe　it　was　rather　trying　for　my
mother。〃

There　was　a　general　laugh。　Ursula　rose。　She　had　to　go。

At　the　click　of　the　latch　everybody　looked　round。　The　girl
hung　in　the　doorway；　seized　with　a　moment's　fierce　confusion。
She　was　going　to　be　good…looking。　Now　she　had　an　attractive
gawkiness；　as　she　hung　a　moment；　not　knowing　how　to　carry　her
shoulders。　Her　dark　hair　was　tied　behind；　her　yellow…brown　eyes
shone　without　direction。　Behind　her；　in　the　parlour；　was　the
soft　light　of　a　lamp　upon　open　books。

A　superficial　readiness　took　her　to　her　Uncle　Tom；　who　kissed
her；　greeting　her　with　warmth；　making　a　show　of　intimate
possession　of　her；　and　at　the　same　time　leaving　evident　his　own
plete　detachment。

But　she　wanted　to　turn　to　the　stranger。　He　was　standing　back
a　little；　waiting。　He　was　a　young　man　with　very　clear　greyish
eyes　that　waited　until　they　were　called　upon；　before　they　took
expression。

Something　in　his　self…possessed　waiting　moved　her；　and　she
broke　into　a　confused；　rather　beautiful　laugh　as　she　gave　him
her　hand；　catching　her　breath　like　an　excited　child。　His　hand
closed　over　hers　very　close；　very　near；　he　bowed；　and　his　eyes
were　watching　her　with　some　attention。　She　felt　proud……her
spirit　leapt　to　life。

〃You　don't　know　Mr。　Skrebensky；　Ursula；〃　came　her　Uncle　Tom's
intimate　voice。　She　lifted　her　face　with　an　impulsive　flash　to
the　stran