between the two women。 Tom Brangwen was an attentive father； a
very domestic husband。 But there was something spurious about
his domesticity； Ursula did not like him any more。 Something
ugly； blatant in his nature had e out now； making him shift
everything over to a sentimental basis。 A materialistic
unbeliever； he carried it all off by being full of human
feeling； a warm； attentive host； a generous husband； a model
citizen。 And he was clever enough to rouse admiration
everywhere； and to take in his wife sufficiently。 She did not
love him。 She was glad to live in a state of placent
selfdeception with him； she worked according to him。
Ursula was relieved to go home。 She had still two peaceful
years before her。 Her future was settled for two years。 She
returned to college to prepare for her final examination。
But during this year the glamour began to depart from
college。 The professors were not priests initiated into the deep
mysteries of life and knowledge。 After all； they were only
middlemen handling wares they had bee so accustomed to that
they were oblivious of them。 What was Latin？So much dry
goods of knowledge。 What was the Latin class altogether but a
sort of secondhand curio shop； where one bought curios and
learned the marketvalue of curios； dull curios too； on the
whole。 She was as bored by the Latin curiosities as she was by
Chinese and Japanese curiosities in the antique shops。
〃Antiques〃the very word made her soul fall flat and
dead。
The life went out of her studies； why； she did not know。 But
the whole thing seemed sham； spurious； spurious Gothic arches；
spurious peace； spurious Latinity； spurious dignity of France；
spurious naivete of Chaucer。 It was a secondhand dealer's shop；
and one bought an equipment for an examination。 This was only a
little sideshow to the factories of the town。 Gradually the
perception stole into her。 This was no religious retreat； no
perception of pure learning。 It was a little apprenticeshop
where one oney。 The college
itself was a little； slovenly laboratory for the factory。
A harsh and ugly disillusion came over her again； the same
darkness and bitter gloom from which she was never safe now； the
realization of the permanent substratum of ugliness under
everything。 As she came to the college in the afternoon； the
lawns were frothed with daisies； the lime trees hung tender and
sunlit and green； and oh； the deep； white froth of the daisies
was anguish to see。
For inside； inside the college； she knew she must enter the
sham workshop。 All the while； it was a sham store； a sham
warehouse； with a single motive of material gain； and no
productivity。 It pretended to exist by the religious virtue of
knowledge。 But the religious virtue of knowledge was bee a
flunkey to the god of material success。
A sort of inertia came over her。 Mechanically； from habit；
she went on with her studies。 But it was almost hopeless。 She
could scarcely attend to anything。 At the AngloSaxon lecture in
the afternoon； she sat looking down； out of the window； hearing
no word； of Beowulf or of anything else。 Down below； in the
street； the sunny grey pavement went beside the palisade。 A
woman in a pink frock； with a scarlet sunshade； crossed the
road； a little white dog running like a fleck of light about
her。 The woman with the scarlet sunshade came over the road； a
lilt in her walk； a little shadow attending her。 Ursula watched
spellbound。 The woman with the scarlet sunshade and the
flickering terrier was goneand whither？ Whither？
In what world of reality was the woman in the pink dress
walking？ To what warehouse of dead unreality was she herself
confined？
What good was this place； this college？ What good was
AngloSaxon； when one only learned it in order to answer
examination questions； in order that one should have a higher
mercial value later on？ She was sick with this long service
at the inner mercial shrine。 Yet what else was there？ Was
life all this； and this only？ Everywhere； everything was debased
to the same service。 Everything went to produce vulgar things；
to encumber material life。
Suddenly she threw over French。 She would take honours in
botany。 This was the one study that lived for her。 She had
entered into the lives of the plants。 She was fascinated by the
strange laws of the vegetable world。 She had here a glimpse of
something working entirely apart from the purpose of the human
world。
College was barren； cheap； a temple converted to the most
vulgar； petty merce。 Had she not gone to hear the echo of
learning pulsing back to the source of the mystery？The
source of mystery！ And barrenly； the professors in their gowns
offered mercial modity that could be turned to good
account in the examination room； readymade stuff too； and not
really worth the money it was intended to fetch； which they all
knew。
All the time in the college now； save when she was labouring
in her botany laboratory； for there the mystery still glimmered；
she felt she was degrading herself in a kind of trade of sham
jewjaws。
Angry and stiff； she went through her last term。 She would
rather be out again earning her own living。 Even Brinsley Street
and Mr。 Harby seemed real in parison。 Her violent hatred of
the Ilkeston School was nothing pared with the sterile
degradation of college。 But she was not going back to Brinsley
Street either。 She would take her B。A。； and bee a mistress in
some Grammar School for a time。
The last year of her college career was wheeling slowly
round。 She could see ahead her examination and her departure。
She had the ash of disillusion gritting under her teeth。 Would
the next move turn out the same？ Always the shining doorway
ahead； and then； upon approach； always the shining doorway was a
gate into another ugly yard； dirty and active and dead。 Always
the crest of the hill gleaming ahead under heaven： and then；
from the top of the hill only another sordid valley full of
amorphous； squalid activity。
No matter！ Every hilltop was a little different； every
valley was somehow new。 Cossethay and her childhood with her
father； the Marsh and the little Church school near the Marsh；
and her grandmother and her uncles； the High School at
Nottingham and Anton Skrebensky； Anton Skrebensky and the dance
in the moonlight between the fires； then the time she could not
think of without being blasted； Winifred Inger； and the months
before being a schoolteacher； then the horrors of Brinsley
Street； lapsing into parative peacefulness； Maggie； and
Maggie's brother； whose influence she could still feel in her
veins； when she conjured him up； then college； and Dorothy
Russell； who was now in France； then the next move into the
world again！
Already it was a history。 In every phase she was so
different。 Yet she was always Ursula Brangwen。 But what did it
mean； Ursula Brangwen？ She did not know what she was。 Only she
was full of rejection； of refusal。 Always； always she was
spitting out of her mouth the ash and grit of disillusion； of
falsity。 She could only stiffen in rejection； in rejection。 She
seemed always negative in her action。
That which she was； positively； was dark and unrevealed； it
could not e forth。 It was like a seed buried in dry ash。 This
world in which she lived was like a circle lighted by a lamp。
This lighted area； lit up by man's pletest consciousness； she
thought was all the world： that here all was disclosed for ever。
Yet all the time； within the darkness she had been aware of
points of light； like the eyes of wild beasts； gleaming；
perating； vanishing。 And her soul had acknowledged in a great
heave of terror only the outer darkness。 This inner circle of
light in which she lived and moved； wherein the trains rushed
and the factories ground out their machineproduce and the
plants and the animals worked by the light of science and
knowledge； suddenly it seemed like the area under an arclamp；
wherein the moths and children played in the security of
blinding light； not even knowing there was any darkness； because
they stayed in the light。
But she could see the glimmer of dark movement just out of
range； she saw the eyes of the wild beast gleaming from the
darkness； watching the vanity of the camp fire and the sleepers；
she felt the strange； foolish vanity of the camp； which said
〃Beyond our light and our order there is nothing；〃 turning their
faces always inward towards the sinking fire of illuminating
consciousness； which prised sun and stars； and the Creator；
and the System of Righteousness； ignoring always the vast
darkness that wheeled round about； with halfrevealed shapes
lurking on the edge。
Yea； and no man dared even throw a firebrand into the
darkness。 For if he did he was jeered to death by the others；
who cried 〃Fool； antisocial knave； why would you disturb us
with bogeys？ There is no darkness。 We move and live and
have our being within the light； and unto us is given the
eternal light of knowledge； we prise and prehend the
innermost core and issue of knowledge。 Fool and knave； how dare
you belittle us with the darkness？〃
Nevertheless the darkness wheeled round about； with grey
shadowshapes of wild beasts； and also with dark shadowshapes
of the angels； whom the light fenced out； as it fenced out the
more familiar beasts of darkness。 And some； having for a moment
seen the darkness； saw it bristling with the tufts of the hyena
and the wolf； and some having given up their vanity of the
light； having died in their own conceit； saw the gleam in the
eyes of the wolf and the hyena； that it was the flash of the
sword of angels； flashing at the door to e in； that the
angels in the darkness were lordly and terrible and not to be
denied； like the flash of fangs。
It was a little while before Easter； in her last year of
college； when Ursula was twentytwo years old； that she heard
again from Skrebensky。 He had written to her once or twice from
South Africa； during the first months of his service out there
in the war； and since had sent her a postcard every now and
then； at ever longer intervals。 He had bee a first
lieutenant； and had stayed out in Africa。 She had not heard of
him now for more than two years。
Often her thoughts returned to him。 He seemed like the
gleaming dawn； yellow； radiant； of a long； grey； ashy day。 The
memory of him was like the thought of the first radiant hours of
morning。 And here was the blank grey ashiness of later daytime。
Ah； if he had only remained true to her； she might have known
the sunshine； without all this toil and hurt and degradation of
a spoiled day。 He would have been her angel。 He held the keys of
the sunshine。 Still he held them。 He could open to her the gates
of succeeding freedom and delight。 Nay； if he had remained true
to her； he would have been the doorway to her； into the
boundless sky of happiness and plunging； inexhaustible freedom
which was the paradise of her soul。 Ah； the great range he would
have opened to her； the illimitable endless space for
selfrealization and delight for ever。
The one thing she believed in was in the love she had held
for him。 It remained shining and plete； a thing to hark back
to。 And she said to herself； when present things seemed a
failu