The Rainbow-虹(英文版)-第13部分

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herself　in　Polish。　Otherwise　she　did　not　think　of　Poland；　nor　of
that　life　to　which　she　had　belonged。　It　was　a　great　blot　looming
blank　in　its　darkness。　In　the　superficial　activity　of　her　life；
she　was　all　English。　She　even　thought　in　English。　But　her　long
blanks　and　darknesses　of　abstraction　were　Polish。

So　she　lived　for　some　time。　Then；　with　slight　uneasiness；　she
used　half　to　awake　to　the　streets　of　London。　She　realized　that
there　was　something　around　her；　very　foreign；　she　realized　she
was　in　a　strange　place。　And　then；　she　was　sent　away　into　the
country。　There　came　into　her　mind　now　the　memory　of　her　home
where　she　had　been　a　child；　the　big　house　among　the　land；　the
peasants　of　the　village。

She　was　sent　to　Yorkshire；　to　nurse　an　old　rector　in　his
rectory　by　the　sea。　This　was　the　first　shake　of　the　kaleidoscope
that　brought　in　front　of　her　eyes　something　she　must　see。　It
hurt　her　brain；　the　open　country　and　the　moors。　It　hurt　her　and
hurt　her。　Yet　it　forced　itself　upon　her　as　something　living；　it
roused　some　potency　of　her　childhood　in　her；　it　had　some
relation　to　her。

There　was　green　and　silver　and　blue　in　the　air　about　her　now。
And　there　was　a　strange　insistence　of　light　from　the　sea；　to
which　she　must　attend。　Primroses　glimmered　around；　many　of　them；
and　she　stooped　to　the　disturbing　influence　near　her　feet；　she
even　picked　one　or　two　flowers；　faintly　remembering　in　the　new
colour　of　life；　what　had　been。　All　the　day　long；　as　she　sat　at
the　upper　window；　the　light　came　off　the　sea；　constantly；
constantly；　without　refusal；　till　it　seemed　to　bear　her　away；
and　the　noise　of　the　sea　created　a　drowsiness　in　her；　a
relaxation　like　sleep。　Her　automatic　consciousness　gave　way　a
little；　she　stumbled　sometimes；　she　had　a　poignant；　momentary
vision　of　her　living　child；　that　hurt　her　unspeakably。　Her　soul
roused　to　attention。

Very　strange　was　the　constant　glitter　of　the　sea　unsheathed
in　heaven；　very　warm　and　sweet　the　graveyard；　in　a　nook　of　the
hill　catching　the　sunshine　and　holding　it　as　one　holds　a　bee
between　the　palms　of　the　hands；　when　it　is　benumbed。　Grey　grass
and　lichens　and　a　little　church；　and　snowdrops　among　coarse
grass；　and　a　cupful　of　incredibly　warm　sunshine。

She　was　troubled　in　spirit。　Hearing　the　rushing　of　the　beck
away　down　under　the　trees；　she　was　startled；　and　wondered　what
it　was。　Walking　down；　she　found　the　bluebells　around　her　glowing
like　a　presence；　among　the　trees。

Summer　came；　the　moors　were　tangled　with　harebells　like　water
in　the　ruts　of　the　roads；　the　heather　came　rosy　under　the　skies；
setting　the　whole　world　awake。　And　she　was　uneasy。　She　went　past
the　gorse　bushes　shrinking　from　their　presence；　she　stepped　into
the　heather　as　into　a　quickening　bath　that　almost　hurt。　Her
fingers　moved　over　the　clasped　fingers　of　the　child；　she　heard
the　anxious　voice　of　the　baby；　as　it　tried　to　make　her　talk；
distraught。

And　she　shrank　away　again；　back　into　her　darkness；　and　for　a
long　while　remained　blotted　safely　away　from　living。　But　autumn
came　with　the　faint　red　glimmer　of　robins　singing；　winter
darkened　the　moors；　and　almost　savagely　she　turned　again　to
life；　demanding　her　life　back　again；　demanding　that　it　should　be
as　it　had　been　when　she　was　a　girl；　on　the　land　at　home；　under
the　sky。　Snow　lay　in　great　expanses；　the　telegraph　posts　strode
over　the　white　earth；　away　under　the　gloom　of　the　sky。　And
savagely　her　desire　rose　in　her　again；　demanding　that　this　was
Poland；　her　youth；　that　all　was　her　own　again。

But　there　were　no　sledges　nor　bells；　she　did　not　see　the
peasants　ing　out　like　new　people；　in　their　sheepskins　and
their　fresh；　ruddy；　bright　faces；　that　seemed　to　bee　new　and
vivid　when　the　snow　lit　up　the　ground。　It　did　not　e　to　her；
the　life　of　her　youth；　it　did　not　e　back。　There　was　a　little
agony　of　struggle；　then　a　relapse　into　the　darkness　of　the
convent；　where　Satan　and　the　devils　raged　round　the　walls；　and
Christ　was　white　on　the　cross　of　victory。

She　watched　from　the　sickroom　the　snow　whirl　past；　like
flocks　of　shadows　in　haste；　flying　on　some　final　mission　out　to
a　leaden　inalterable　sea；　beyond　the　final　whiteness　of　the
curving　shore；　and　the　snowspeckled　blackness　of　the　rocks　half
submerged。　But　near　at　hand　on　the　trees　the　snow　was　soft　in
bloom。　Only　the　voice　of　the　dying　vicar　spoke　grey　and
querulous　from　behind。

By　the　time　the　snowdrops　were　out；　however；　he　was　dead。　He
was　dead。　But　ity　the　returning　woman
watched　the　snowdrops　on　the　edge　of　the　grass　below；　blown
white　in　the　wind；　but　not　to　be　blown　away。　She　watched　them
fluttering　and　bobbing；　the　white；　shut　flowers；　anchored　by　a
thread　to　the　greygreen　grass；　yet　never　blown　away；　not
drifting　with　the　wind。

As　she　rose　in　the　morning；　the　dawn　was　beating　up　white；
gusts　of　light　blown　like　a　thin　snowstorm　from　the　east；　blown
stronger　and　fiercer；　till　the　rose　appeared；　and　the　gold；　and
the　sea　lit　up　below。　She　was　impassive　and　indifferent。　Yet　she
was　outside　the　enclosure　of　darkness。

There　passed　a　space　of　shadow　again；　the　familiarity　of
dreadworship；　during　which　she　was　moved；　oblivious；　to
Cossethay。　There；　at　first；　there　was　nothingjust　grey
nothing。　But　then　one　morning　there　was　a　light　from　the　yellow
jasmine　caught　her；　and　after　that；　morning　and　evening；　the
persistent　ringing　of　thrushes　from　the　shrubbery；　till　her
heart；　beaten　upon；　was　forced　to　lift　up　its　voice　in　rivalry
and　answer。　Little　tunes　came　into　her　mind。　She　was　full　of
trouble　almost　like　anguish。　Resistant；　she　knew　she　was　beaten；
and　from　fear　of　darkness　turned　to　fear　of　light。　She　would
have　hidden　herself　indoors；　if　she　could。　Above　all；　she　craved
for　the　peace　and　heavy　oblivion　of　her　old　state。　She　could　not
bear　to　e　to；　to　realize。　The　first　pangs　of　this　new
parturition　were　so　acute；　she　knew　she　could　not　bear　it。　She
would　rather　remain　out　of　life；　than　be　torn；　mutilated　into
this　birth；　which　she　could　not　survive。　She　had　not　the
strength　to　e　to　life　now；　in　England；　so　foreign；　skies　so
hostile。　She　knew　she　would　die　like　an　early；　colourless；
scentless　flower　that　the　end　of　the　winter　puts　forth
mercilessly。　And　she　wanted　to　harbour　her　modicum　of　twinkling
life。

But　a　sunshiny　day　came　full　of　the　scent　of　a　mezereon　tree；
when　bees　were　tumbling　into　the　yellow　crocuses；　and　she
fot；　she　felt　like　somebody　else；　not　herself；　a　new　person；
quite　glad。　But　she　knew　it　was　fragile；　and　she　dreaded　it。　The
vicar　put　peaflower　into　the　crocuses；　for　his　bees　to　roll　in；
and　she　laughed。　Then　night　came；　with　brilliant　stars　that　she
knew　of　old；　from　her　girlhood。　And　they　flashed　so　bright；　she
knew　they　were　victors。

She　could　neither　wake　nor　sleep。　As　if　crushed　between　the
past　and　the　future；　like　a　flower　that　es　aboveground　to
find　a　great　stone　lying　above　it；　she　was　helpless。

The　bewilderment　and　helplessness　continued；　she　was
surrounded　by　great　moving　masses　that　must　crush　her。　And　there
was　no　escape。　Save　in　the　old　obliviousness；　the　cold　darkness
she　strove　to　retain。　But　the　vicar　showed　her　eggs　in　the
thrush's　nest　near　the　back　door。　She　saw　herself　the
motherthrush　upon　the　nest；　and　the　way　her　wings　were　spread；
so　eager　down　upon　her　secret。　The　tense；　eager；　nesting　wings
moved　her　beyond　endurance。　She　thought　of　them　in　the　morning；
when　she　heard　the　thrush　whistling　as　he　got　up；　and　she
thought；　〃Why　didn't　I　die　out　there；　why　am　I　brought
here？〃

She　was　aware　of　people　who　passed　around　her；　not　as
persons；　but　as　looming　presences。　It　was　very　difficult　for　her
to　adjust　herself。　In　Poland；　the　peasantry；　the　people；　had
been　cattle　to　her；　they　had　been　her　cattle　that　she　owned　and
used。　What　were　these　people？　Now　she　was　ing　awake；　she　was
lost。

But　she　had　felt　Brangwen　go　by　almost　as　if　he　had　brushed
her。　She　had　tingled　in　body　as　she　had　gone　on　up　the　road。
After　she　had　been　with　him　in　the　Marsh　kitchen；　the　voice　of
her　body　had　risen　strong　and　insistent。　Soon；　she　wanted　him。
He　was　the　man　who　had　e　nearest　to　her　for　her
awakening。

Always；　however；　betweenwhiles　she　lapsed　into　the　old
u