drew on； hearts beat fast with anticipation； hands were full of
ready gifts。 There were the tremulously expectant words of the
church service； the night was past and the morning was e； the
gifts were given and received； joy and peace made a flapping of
wings in each heart； there was a great burst of carols； the
Peace of the World had dawned； strife had passed away； every
hand was linked in hand； every heart was singing。
It was bitter； though； that Christmas Day； as it drew on to
evening； and night； became a sort of bank holiday； flat and
stale。 The morning was so wonderful； but in the afternoon and
evening the ecstasy perished like a nipped thing； like a bud in
a false spring。 Alas； that Christmas was only a domestic feast；
a feast of sweetmeats and toys！ Why did not the grownups also
change their everyday hearts； and give way to ecstasy？ Where was
the ecstasy？
How passionately the Brangwens craved for it； the ecstasy。
The father was troubled； darkfaced and disconsolate； on
Christmas night； because the passion was not there； because the
day was bee as every day； and hearts were not aflame。 Upon
the mother was a kind of absentness； as ever； as if she were
exiled for all her life。 Where was the fiery heart of joy； now
the ing was fulfilled； where was the star； the Magi's
transport； the thrill of new being that shook the earth？
Still it was there； even if it were faint and inadequate。 The
cycle of creation still wheeled in the Church year。 After
Christmas； the ecstasy slowly sank and changed。 Sunday followed
Sunday； trailing a fine movement； a finely developed
transformation over the heart of the family。 The heart that was
big with joy； that had seen the star and had followed to the
inner walls of the Nativity； that there had swooned in the great
light； must now feel the light slowly withdrawing； a shadow
falling； darkening。 The chill crept in； silence came over the
earth； and then all was darkness。 The veil of the temple was
rent； each heart gave up the ghost； and sank dead。
They moved quietly； a little wanness on the lips of the
children； at Good Friday； feeling the shadow upon their hearts。
Then； pale with a deathly scent； came the lilies of
resurrection； that shone coldly till the forter was
given。
But why the memory of the wounds and the death？ Surely Christ
rose with healed hands and feet； sound and strong and glad？
Surely the passage of the cross and the tomb was fotten？ But
noalways the memory of the wounds； always the smell of
graveclothes？ A small thing was Resurrection； pared with the
Cross and the death； in this cycle。
So the children lived the year of christianity； the epic of
the soul of mankind。 Year by year the inner； unknown drama went
on in them； their hearts were born and came to fulness； suffered
on the cross； gave up the ghost； and rose again to unnumbered
days； untired； having at least this rhythm of eternity in a
ragged； inconsequential life。
But it was being a mechanical action now； this drama：
birth at Christmas for death at Good Friday。 On Easter Sunday
the lifedrama was as good as finished。 For the Resurrection was
shadowy and overe by the shadow of death； the Ascension was
scarce noticed； a mere confirmation of death。
What was the hope and the fulfilment？ Nay； was it all only a
useless afterdeath； a wan； bodiless afterdeath？ Alas； and alas
for the passion of the human heart； that must die so long before
the body was dead。
For from the grave； after the passion and the trial of
anguish； the body rose torn and chill and colourless。 Did not
Christ say； 〃Mary！〃 and when she turned with outstretched hands
to him； did he not hasten to add； 〃Touch me not； for I am not
yet ascended to my father。〃
Then how could the hands rejoice； or the heart be glad；
seeing themselves repulsed。 Alas； for the resurrection of the
dead body！ Alas； for the wavering； glimmering appearance of the
risen Christ。 Alas； for the Ascension into heaven； which is a
shadow within death； a plete passing away。
Alas； that so soon the drama is over； that life is ended at
thirtythree； that the half of the year of the soul is cold and
historiless！ Alas； that a risen Christ has no place with us！
Alas； that the memory of the passion of Sorrow and Death and the
Grave holds triumph over the pale fact of Resurrection！
But why？ Why shall I not rise with my body whole and perfect；
shining with strong life？ Why； when Mary says： Rabboni； shall I
not take her in my arms and kiss her and hold her to my breast？
Why is the risen body deadly； and abhorrent with wounds？
The Resurrection is to life； not to death。 Shall I not see
those who have risen again walk here among men perfect in body
and spirit； whole and glad in the flesh； living in the flesh；
loving in the flesh； begetting children in the flesh； arrived at
last to wholeness； perfect without scar or blemish； healthy
without fear of ill health？ Is this not the period of manhood
and of joy and fulfilment； after the Resurrection？ Who shall be
shadowed by Death and the Cross； being risen； and who shall fear
the mystic； perfect flesh that belongs to heaven？
Can I not； then； walk this earth in gladness； being risen
from sorrow？ Can I not eat with my brother happily； and with joy
kiss my beloved； after my resurrection； celebrate my marriage in
the flesh with feastings； go about my business eagerly； in the
joy of my fellows？ Is heaven impatient for me； and bitter
against this earth； that I should hurry off； or that I should
linger pale and untouched？ Is the flesh which was crucified
bee as poison to the crowds in the street； or is it as a
strong gladness and hope to them； as the first flower blossoming
out of the earth's humus？
CHAPTER XII
FIRST LOVE
As Ursula passed from girlhood towards womanhood； gradually
the cloud of selfresponsibility gathered upon her。 She became
aware of herself； that she was a separate entity in the midst of
an unseparated obscurity； that she must go somewhere； she must
bee something。 And she was afraid； troubled。 Why； oh why must
one grow up； why must one inherit this heavy； numbing
responsibility of living an undiscovered life？ Out of the
nothingness and the undifferentiated mass； to make something of
herself！ But what？ In the obscurity and pathlessness to take a
direction！ But whither？ How take even one step？ And yet； how
stand still？ This was torment indeed； to inherit the
responsibility of one's own life。
The religion which had been another world for her； a glorious
sort of playworld； where she lived； climbing the tree with the
shortstatured man； walking shakily on the sea like the
disciple； breaking the bread into five thousand portions； like
the Lord； giving a great picnic to five thousand people； now
fell away from reality； and became a tale； a myth； an illusion；
which； however much one might assert it to be true an historical
fact； one knew was not trueat least； for this
presentday life of ours。 There could； within the limits
of this life we know； be no Feeding of the Five Thousand。 And
the girl had e to the point where she held that that which
one cannot experience in daily life is not true for oneself。
So； the old duality of life； wherein there had been a weekday
world of people and trains and duties and reports； and besides
that a Sunday world of absolute truth and living mystery； of
walking upon the waters and being blinded by the face of the
Lord； of following the pillar of cloud across the desert and
watching the bush that crackled yet did not burn away； this old；
unquestioned duality suddenly was found to be broken apart。 The
weekday world had triumphed over the Sunday world。 The Sunday
world was not real； or at least； not actual。 And one lived by
action。
Only the weekday world mattered。 She herself； Ursula
Brangwen； must know how to take the weekday life。 Her body must
be a weekday body； held in the world's estimate。 Her soul must
have a weekday value； known according to the world's
knowledge。
Well； then； there was a weekday life to live； of action and
deeds。 And so there was a necessity to choose one's action and
one's deeds。 One was responsible to the world for what one
did。
Nay； one was more than responsible to the world。 One was
responsible to oneself。 There was some puzzling； tormenting
residue of the Sunday world within her； some persistent Sunday
self； which insisted upon a relationship with the now shedaway
vision world。 How could one keep up a relationship with that
which one denied？ Her task was now to learn the weekday
life。
How to act； that was the question？ Whither to go； how to
bee oneself？ One was not oneself； one was merely a
halfstated question。 How to bee oneself； how to know the
question and the answer of oneself； when one was merely an
unfixed somethingnothing； blowing about like the winds of
heaven； undefined； unstated。
She turned to the visions； which had spoken faroff words
that ran along the blood like ripples of an unseen wind； she
heard the words again； she denied the vision； for she must be a
weekday person； to whom visions were not true； and she demanded
only the weekday meaning of the words。
There were words spoken by the vision： and words must
have a weekday meaning； since words were weekday stuff。 Let them
speak now： let them bespeak themselves in weekday terms。 The
vision should translate itself into weekday terms。
〃Sell all thou hast； and give to the poor；〃 she heard on
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
pearlbacked 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 poorreally
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 b