The Rainbow (The Brangwen Family Saga). D. H. Lawrence

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СКАЧАТЬ don’t believe as anybody could keep it in their head,” the woman-servant continued, tentatively.

      “What?” he asked.

      “Why, ’er name.”

      “How’s that?”

      “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 menagerie confabulation?”

      “That’s what they say-I don’t know-”

      “Who says?”

      “Mrs. Bentley says as she’s fra th’ Pole-else she is a Pole, or summat.”

      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.”

      “Black?”

      “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 past.”

      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 foreigner.

      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 come.

      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 something.

      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 path.

      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 existence.

      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 himself.

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ