The Rainbow (Oxford World’s Classics)

by Lawrence, D. H.

  She trembled that day as she prepared to go down to the wedding. She was to be a bridesmaid. Skrebensky would not arrive till afternoon. The wedding was at two o’clock.

  As the wedding-party returned home, Skrebensky stood in the parlour at the Marsh. Through the window he saw Tom Brangwen, who was best man, coming up the garden path most elegant in cut-away coat and white slip* and spats, with Ursula laughing on his arm. Tom Brangwen was handsome, with his womanish colouring and dark eyes and black close-cut moustache. But there was something subtly coarse and suggestive about him for all his beauty; his strange, bestial nostrils opened so hard and wide, and his well-shaped head almost disquieting in its nakedness, rather bald from the front, and all its soft fulness betrayed.

  Skrebensky saw the man rather than the woman. She was brilliant, with a curious, wordless, distracted animation which she always felt when with her Uncle Tom, always confused in herself.

  But when she met Skrebensky everything vanished. She saw only the slender, unchangeable youth waiting there inscrutable, like her fate. He was beyond her, with his loose, slightly horsey appearance, that made him seem very manly and foreign. Yet his face was smooth and soft and impressionable. She shook hands with him and her voice was like the rousing of a bird startled by the dawn.

  ‘Isn’t it nice,’ she cried, ‘to have a wedding?’

  There were bits of coloured confetti lodged in her dark hair.

  Again the confusion came over him, as if he were losing himself and becoming all vague, undefined, inchoate. Yet he wanted to be hard, manly, horsey. And he followed her.

  There was a light tea, and the guests scattered. The real feast was for the evening. Ursula walked out with Skrebensky through the stackyard to the fields, and up the embankment to the canal-side.

  The new corn-stacks were big and golden as they went by, an army of white geese marched aside in braggart protest. Ursula was light as a white ball of down. Skrebensky drifted beside her, indefinite, his old form loosened, and another self, grey, vague, drifting out as from a bud. They talked lightly, of nothing.

  The blue way of the canal wound softly between the autumn hedges, on towards the greenness of a small hill. On the left was the whole black agitation of colliery and railway and the town which rose on its hill, the church tower topping all. The round white dot of the clock on the tower was distinct in the evening light.

  That way, Ursula felt, was the way to London, through the grim, alluring seethe of the town. On the other hand was the evening, mellow over the green water-meadows and the winding alder-trees beside the river, and the pale stretches of stubble beyond. There the evening glowed softly, and even a pee-wit was flapping in solitude and peace.

  Ursula and Anton Skrebensky walked along the ridge of the canal between. The berries on the hedges were crimson and bright red, above the leaves. The glow of evening and the wheeling of the solitary pee-wit and the faint cry of the birds came to meet the shuffling noise of the pits, the dark, fuming stress of the town opposite, and they two walked the blue strip of water-way, the ribbon of sky between.

  He was looking, Ursula thought, very beautiful, because of a flush of sunburn on his hands and face. He was telling her how he had learned to shoe horses and select cattle fit for killing.

  ‘Do you like to be a soldier?’ she asked.

  ‘I am not exactly a soldier,’ he replied.

  ‘But you only do things for wars,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like to go to war?’

  ‘I? Well, it would be exciting. If there were a war I would want to go.’

  A strange, distracted feeling came over her, a sense of potent unrealities.

  ‘Why would you want to go?’

  ‘I should be doing something, it would be genuine. It’s a sort of toy-life as it is.’

  ‘But what would you be doing if you went to war?’

  ‘I would be making railways or bridges, working like a nigger.’

  ‘But you’d only make them to be pulled down again when the armies had done with them. It seems just as much a game.’

  ‘If you call war a game.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s about the most serious business there is, fighting.’

  A sense of hard separateness came over her.

  ‘Why is fighting more serious than anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘You either kill or get killed—and I suppose it is serious enough, killing.’

  ‘But when you’re dead you don’t matter any more,’ she said.

  He was silenced for a moment.

  ‘But the result matters,’ he said. ‘It matters whether we settle the Mahdi or not.’

  ‘Not to you—nor me—we don’t care about Khartoum.’*

  ‘You want to have room to live in: and somebody has to make room.’

  ‘But I don’t want to live in the desert of Sahara—do you?’ she replied, laughing with antagonism.

  ‘I don’t—but we’ve got to back up those who do.’

  ‘Why have we?’

  ‘Where is the nation if we don’t?’

  ‘But we aren’t the nation. There are heaps of other people who are the nation.’

  ‘They might say they weren’t either.’

  ‘Well, if everybody said it, there wouldn’t be a nation. But I should still be myself,’ she asserted brilliantly.

  ‘You wouldn’t be yourself if there were no nation.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’d just be a prey to everybody and anybody.’

  ‘How a prey?’

  ‘They’d come and take everything you’d got.’

  ‘Well, they couldn’t take much even then. I don’t care what they take. I’d rather have a robber who carried me off than a millionaire who gave me everything you can buy.’

  ‘That’s because you are a romanticist.’

  ‘Yes I am. I want to be romantic. I hate houses that never go away, and people just living in the houses. It’s all so stiff and stupid. I hate soldiers, they are stiff and wooden. What do you fight for, really?’

  ‘I would fight for the nation.’

  ‘For all that, you aren’t the nation. What would you do for yourself?’

  ‘I belong to the nation and must do my duty by the nation.’

  ‘But when it didn’t need your services in particular—when there is no fighting? What would you do then?’

  He was irritated.

  ‘I would do what everybody else does.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I would be in readiness for when I was needed.’

  The answer came in exasperation.

  ‘It seems to me,’ she answered, ‘as if you weren’t anybody—as if there weren’t anybody there, where you are. Are you anybody, really? You seem like nothing to me.’

  They had walked till they had reached a wharf, just above a lock. There an empty barge, painted with a red and yellow cabin hood, but with a long, coal-black hold, was lying moored. A man, lean and grimy, was sitting on a box against the cabin-side by the door, smoking, and nursing a baby that was wrapped in a drab shawl, and looking into the glow of evening. A woman bustled out, sent a pail dashing into the canal, drew her water, and bustled in again. Children’s voices were heard. A thin blue smoke ascended from the cabin chimney, there was a smell of cooking.

  Ursula, white as a moth, lingered to look. Skrebensky lingered by her. The man glanced up.

  ‘Good evening,’ he called, half impudent, half attracted. He had blue eyes which glanced impudently from his grimy face.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Ursula, delighted. ‘Isn’t it nice now?’

  ‘Ay,’ said the man, ‘very nice.’

  His mouth was red under his ragged, sandy moustache. His teeth were white as he laughed.

  ‘Oh, but—’ stammered Ursula, laughing, ‘it is. Why do you say it as if it weren’t?’

  ‘ ’Appen* for them as is childt-nursin’ it’s none so rosy.’

>   ‘May I look inside your barge?’ asked Ursula.

  ‘There’s nobody’ll stop you; you come if you like.’

  The barge lay at the opposite bank, at the wharf. It was the Annabel, belonging to J. Ruth of Loughborough. The man watched Ursula closely from his keen, twinkling eyes. His fair hair was wispy on his grimed forehead. Two dirty children appeared to see who was talking.

  Ursula glanced at the great lock gates. They were shut, and the water was sounding, spurting and trickling down in the gloom beyond. On this side the bright water was almost to the top of the gate. She went boldly across, and round to the wharf.

  Stooping from the bank, she peeped into the cabin, where was a red glow of fire and the shadowy figure of a woman. She did want to go down.

  ‘You’ll mess your frock,’ said the man, warningly.

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ she answered. ‘May I come?’

  ‘Ay, come if you like.’

  She gathered her skirts, lowered her foot to the side of the boat, and leapt down, laughing. Coal-dust flew up.

  The woman came to the door. She was plump and sandy-haired, young, with an odd, stubby nose.

  ‘Oh, you will make a mess of yourself,’ she cried, surprised and laughing with a little wonder.

  ‘I did want to see. Isn’t it lovely living on a barge?’ asked Ursula.

  ‘I don’t live on one altogether,’ said the woman cheerfully.

  ‘She’s got her parlour an’ her plush suite in Loughborough,’ said her husband with just pride.

  Ursula peeped into the cabin, where saucepans were boiling and some dishes were on the table. It was very hot. Then she came out again. The man was talking to the baby. It was a blue-eyed, fresh-faced thing with floss of red-gold hair.

  ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a girl—aren’t you a girl, eh?’ he shouted at the infant, shaking his head. Its little face wrinkled up into the oddest, funniest smile.

  ‘Oh!’ cried Ursula. ‘Oh, the dear! Oh, how nice when she laughs!’

  ‘She’ll laugh hard enough,’ said the father.

  ‘What is her name?’ asked Ursula.

  ‘She hasn’t got a name, she’s not worth one,’ said the man.

  ‘Are you, you fag-end o’ nothing?’ he shouted to the baby. The baby laughed.

  ‘No, we’ve been that busy, we’ve never took her to th’ registry office,’ came the woman’s voice. ‘She was born on th’ boat here.’

  ‘But you know what you’re going to call her?’ asked Ursula.

  ‘We did think of Gladys Em’ly,’ said the mother.

  ‘We thought of nowt o’ th’ sort,’ said the father.

  ‘Hark at him! What do you want?’ cried the mother in exasperation.

  ‘She’ll be called Annabel after th’ boat she was born on.’

  ‘She’s not, so there,’ said the mother, viciously defiant.

  The father sat in humorous malice, grinning.

  ‘Well, you’ll see,’ he said.

  And Ursula could tell, by the woman’s vibrating exasperation, that he would never give way.

  ‘They’re all nice names,’ she said. ‘Call her Gladys Annabel Emily.’

  ‘Nay, that’s heavy-laden, if you like,’ he answered.

  ‘You see!’ cried the woman. ‘He’s that pig-headed!’

  ‘And she’s so nice, and she laughs, and she hasn’t even got a name,’ crooned Ursula to the child.

  ‘Let me hold her,’ she added.

  He yielded her the child, that smelt of babies. But it had such blue, wide, china eyes, and it laughed so oddly, with such a taking grimace, Ursula loved it. She cooed and talked to it. It was such an odd, exciting child.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the man suddenly asked her.

  ‘My name is Ursula—Ursula Brangwen,’ she replied.

  ‘Ursula!’ he exclaimed, dumbfounded.

  ‘There was a Saint Ursula. It’s a very old name,’ she added hastily, in justification.

  ‘Hey, mother!’ he called.

  There was no answer.

  ‘Pern!’ he called, ‘can’t y’hear?’

  ‘What?’ came the short answer.

  ‘What about “Ursula”?’ he grinned.

  ‘What about what?’ came the answer, and the woman appeared in the doorway, ready for combat.

  ‘Ursula—it’s the lass’s name there,’ he said, gently.

  The woman looked the young girl up and down. Evidently she was attracted by her slim, graceful, new beauty, her effect of white elegance, and her tender way of holding the child.

  ‘Why, how do you write it?’ the mother asked, awkward now she was touched. Ursula spelled out her name. The man looked at the woman. A bright, confused flush came over the mother’s face, a sort of luminous shyness.

  ‘It’s not a common name, is it!’ she exclaimed, excited as by an adventure.

  ‘Are you goin’ to have it then?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d rather have it than Annabel,’ she said, decisively.

  ‘An’ I’d rather have it than Gladys Em’ler,’ he replied.

  There was a silence, Ursula looked up.

  ‘Will you really call her Ursula?’ she asked.

  ‘Ursula Ruth,’ replied the man, laughing vainly, as pleased as if he had found something.

  It was now Ursula’s turn to be confused.

  ‘It does sound awfully nice,’ she said. ‘I must give her something. And I haven’t got anything at all.’

  She stood in her white dress, wondering, down there in the barge. The lean man sitting near to her watched her as if she were a strange being, as if she lit up his face. His eyes smiled on her, boldly, and yet with exceeding admiration underneath.

  ‘Could I give her my necklace?’ she said.

  It was the little necklace made of pieces of amethyst and topaz and pearl and crystal, strung at intervals on a little golden chain, which her Uncle Tom had given her. She was very fond of it. She looked at it lovingly, when she had taken it from her neck.

  ‘Is it valuable?’ the man asked her, curiously.

  ‘I think so,’ she replied.

  ‘The stones and pearl are real; it is worth three or four pounds,’ said Skrebensky from the wharf above. Ursula could tell he disapproved of her.

  ‘I must give it to your baby—may I?’ she said to the bargee.

  He flushed, and looked away into the evening.

  ‘Nay,’ he said, ‘it’s not for me to say.’

  ‘What would your father and mother say?’ cried the woman curiously, from the door.

  ‘It is my own,’ said Ursula, and she dangled the little glittering string before the baby. The infant spread its little fingers. But it could not grasp. Ursula closed the tiny hand over the jewel. The baby waved the bright ends of the string. Ursula had given her necklace away. She felt sad. But she did not want it back.

  The jewel swung from the baby’s hand and fell in a little heap on the coal-dusty bottom of the barge. The man groped for it, with a kind of careful reverence. Ursula noticed the coarsened, blunted fingers groping at the little jewelled heap. The skin was red on the back of the hand, the fair hairs glistened stiffly. It was a thin, sinewy, capable hand nevertheless, and Ursula liked it. He took up the necklace, carefully, and blew the coal-dust from it, as it lay in the hollow of his hand. He seemed still and attentive. He held out his hand with the necklace shining small in its hard, black hollow.

  ‘Take it back,’ he said.

  Ursula hardened with a kind of radiance.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It belongs to little Ursula.’

  And she went to the infant and fastened the necklace round its warm, soft, weak little neck.

  There was a moment of confusion, then the father bent over his child:

  ‘What do you say?’ he said. ‘Do you say thank you? Do you say thank you, Ursula?’

  ‘Her name’s Ursula now,’ said the mother, smiling a little bit ingratiatingly from the door. And she came
out to examine the jewel on the child’s neck.

  ‘It is Ursula, isn’t it?’ said Ursula Brangwen.

  The father looked up at her, with an intimate, half-gallant, half-impudent, but wistful look. His captive soul loved her: but his soul was captive, he knew, always.

  She wanted to go. He set a little ladder for her to climb up to the wharf. She kissed the child, which was in its mother’s arms, then she turned away. The mother was effusive. The man stood silent by the ladder.

  Ursula joined Skrebensky. The two young figures crossed the lock, above the shining yellow water. The barge-man watched them go.

  ‘I loved them,’ she was saying. ‘He was so gentle—oh, so gentle! And the baby was such a dear!’

  ‘Was he gentle?’ said Skrebensky. ‘The woman had been a servant, I’m sure of that.’

  Ursula winced.

  ‘But I loved his impudence—it was so gentle underneath.’

  She went hastening on, gladdened by having met the grimy, lean man with the ragged moustache. He gave her a pleasant warm feeling. He made her feel the richness of her own life. Skrebensky, somehow, had created a deadness round her, a sterility, as if the world were ashes.

  They said very little as they hastened home to the big supper. He was envying the lean father of three children, for his impudent directness and his worship of the woman in Ursula, a worship of body and soul together, the man’s body and soul wistful and worshipping the body and spirit of the girl, with a desire that knew the inaccessibility of its object, but was only glad to know that the perfect thing existed, glad to have had a moment of communion.

  Why could not he himself desire a woman so? Why did he never really want a woman, not with the whole of him: never loved, never worshipped, only just physically wanted her.

  But he would want her with his body, let his soul do as it would. A kind of flame of physical desire was gradually beating up in the Marsh, kindled by Tom Brangwen, and by the fact of the wedding of Fred, the shy, fair, stiff-set farmer with the handsome, half-educated girl. Tom Brangwen, with all his secret power, seemed to fan the flame that was rising. The bride was strongly attracted by him, and he was exerting his influence on another beautiful, fair girl, chill and burning as the sea, who said witty things which he appreciated, making her glint with more, like phosphorescence. And her greenish eyes seemed to rock a secret, and her hands like mother-of-pearl seemed luminous, transparent, as if the secret were burning visible in them.