How Green Was My Valley

by Richard Llewellyn

  So I kissed Bronwen for the first time, and I was sorry, and not sorry, afraid and yet brave with a gladness.

  “Huw,” Mr. Gruffydd said, next afternoon, “there was a matter you wanted to know from your sister-in-law yesterday. I am hurt to think you would go to anyone other than me for knowledge. And knowledge of that sort, Huw, is not to be imparted by any woman.”

  “I thought you would be angry with me, sir,” I said, and blushing like a fool, and hot to think that Bron had told on me again.

  “I am angry with you, now,” he said, but with no anger in his voice. “If I am fit to instruct you in the Word of God, why am I unfitted to instruct you in the things of His natural goodness?”

  “No, sir,” I said, and saying it only because I could think of nothing else, and hoping for a deep hole to come under my feet.

  “Very well,” he said, and still busy with the wheel. “There are some things you know, and some things you shall wait to know. Do you know the calculus?”

  “No, sir,” I said, “but I am learning.”

  “Good,” he said, “one thing at a time. You cannot know until you have had time to learn, and impatience will gain nothing but confusion, is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, and coming to be in a good sweat with the plane.

  “Then first things first,” he said. “There are men and women. But before that, they shall be boys and girls, and before that, babies, is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “And before that?” Mr. Gruffydd asked me, “what?”

  What, indeed. What, before babies. Nothing, I could think of.

  “Nothing, sir,” I said, “like in the beginning was the Word.”

  “Fair play, Huw, my little one,” Mr. Gruffydd said. “You are having a good try. The Word was with God. And so with babies. Huw, there is an engine up in your back that Owen made. How did he make it? With hands, we know. But from the mind, before that, yes?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “And babies are born from the mind, too, Huw,” Mr. Gruffydd said. “From the mind of God. For they are little engines, but full of wonders, and a splendid mystery, for they are driven not by old oil, but by life itself, but instead to stay the same size as they were made, they grow and grow, day by day, to boy and girl, and then to men and women. There is a wonder for you, my son.”

  “But how do babies come, sir?” I asked him. “What is before babies?”

  “Impatience,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “Pity this is not the school of Pythagoras, for then you would be under a vow of silence for five years while your master taught you.”

  “I am sorry, sir,” I said, and hoping for the hole again.

  “Good,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “Now then, as to babies. Man was born in the image of God, and God took Woman from the rib of Adam, is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “So now there was Adam and Eve in the Garden,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “And what happened?”

  “She sinned against the tree of knowledge,” I said, “and gave him to eat of the apple, and they knew they were naked, and took fig leaves.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Gruffydd, and going hard with the wheel. “What then?”

  “Then came an Angel with a flaming sword,” I said, “and sent them from the Garden.”

  “To earn by the sweat of their brows,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “And what after?”

  “Then Cain and Abel,” I said, “and Abel was a good man, but Cain killed him.”

  “Wait,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “Before to kill them, have them first. Adam and Eve we have got. Where did we have Cain and Abel?”

  “From the Bible, sir,” I said.

  “But where from, to get in the Bible, boy?” Mr. Gruffydd asked me. “Adam was created, we know, and Eve from Adam. But where did Cain and Abel come from?”

  “They were sons of Adam and Eve,” I said.

  “Good,” said Mr. Gruffydd, and went to start on another leg. “They were the sons of Adam and Eve, and they were begotten, as the children of men and women have been begotten ever since. By a father and mother. Now, Huw, why is a man a father, and why is a woman a mother?”

  “Because Adam is one, and Eve the other,” I said.

  “But why, I said,” Mr. Gruffydd said, and looked up at me. “What makes a man a father? Wherein lies the difference? How do you tell a man from a woman, a father from a mother?”

  “Well, sir,” I said, “one is with moustache and trews, and the other with smoothness and skirts.”

  “Huw,” Mr. Gruffydd said, “you are different on the outside from a girl, or you would be knitting instead of fighting, is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “How, different?” Mr. Gruffydd asked me, going hard with the spindle.

  “A girl is swollen in the chest,” I said, “and we are not.”

  “And?” Mr. Gruffydd asked me.

  “We are different below the waist,” I said, “and girls are flat.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “Now then, what do you know of the womb? What is a womb, Huw?”

  “It is in the Bible, sir,” I said.

  “Thus saith the Lord that made thee, and formed thee from the womb,” said Mr. Gruffydd, from the Word, in his deep voice. “Engines from the mind of man, babies from the mind of God. But as engines must have a union between brains and hands, and then must come forth in the womb of silver-sand to have shape, so a union must come between a man and woman, and the baby comes forth with shape from the womb. Now, the iron-master made the womb of silver-sand for the engine parts to have shape, and Owen put them together. So God made the womb of warm flesh for the parts of the baby to have shape, and who put it together? The mother and father, is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “And who is with the womb, of the two?” Mr. Gruffydd asked me.

  I had a vision of Mrs. Beynon below me, with veins in her face and her hands tearing at the wall.

  “The mother, sir,” I said.

  “Good,” said Mr. Gruffydd, “so now we know that a man is father, and a woman is mother. He is father because he is different from her. She has a womb within her, and if it is the Will, a baby shall have shape and life. How?”

  “From a union,” I said.

  “Now as to the union,” Mr. Gruffydd said, in another voice, and as he would point the difference between the grains of two pieces of wood. “You have heard of the seed of man, Huw?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “There is wheat, and barley and corn. All seed. And you must sow to reap, is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “So to have the baby in shape, there must be sown, first of all, the seed of man,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “And it is sown in the womb. That is why men and women marry. Marriage is the union. Do you sow wheat out of season? Would you put seeds to earth in snow?”

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “No,” he said, “or you would be clapped in the madhouse, quick. There is a time and a season for all things. And the time of sowing the seed of man is at the time of marriage, not before. Never mind how impatient the farmer is to have a field of growing corn, he must wait for the season to sow, is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, “or be known for witlessness. So with man, Huw. The time of marriage is the time of the sowing.”

  The sun was on his way down the other side of the mountain, and against the orange and red of the sky on top, sheep were black, with rays of white light coming up from under them and lining their fleeces with hot gold.

  “Well,” said Mr. Gruffydd, “what more is there to know?”

  “How is the seed sown, sir?” I asked him.

  “How long have you had your mind on these things, Huw?” he asked me.

  “A long time, sir,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said, “supposing your mind was on food for as long, would I be in the right to call you a glutton? So in this matter. Be careful ho
w you waste your time, or there might come a time to call you a wastrel, and an idler. Now you want to know how is the seed sown, is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, “please.”

  “Very well,” he said. “You said yourself that you are different on the outside from a girl. That is because you will grow to be a man, and at that time you will be guardian of the seed of man. Yes?”

  “Where will I have it, sir?” I asked.

  “Impatience, again,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “You will have it within you, made from your own blood, and ready against the time of the sowing in those parts of you that are different from the girl. At the time of marriage, and not before, you will unify with the woman who will be your wife. And all things will follow.”

  “But how, unify, sir?” I asked, and having my voice from the top of my lungs, with trembling, for I felt heavy with knowledge, but greedy for more, and greed made heat within me.

  “What does the word mean, Huw?” he asked, and stopped the wheel, for it was almost dark in the room, and even the shine was gone from the table-top.

  “A joining,” I said.

  “It is exactly that,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “That part of you that is outside is a link to the womb of the woman who is your wife, and through that link shall pour your seed, which is given by God, and willed to bear fruit of child by the Mind of God. So?”

  “Is that all, sir?” I asked him, and worried, with no happiness.

  “Is that all?” he said, and held up his hands. “What more, then?”

  “Well, sir,” I said, “I thought it was something more. Something terrible.”

  “It is terrible, Huw,” said Mr. Gruffydd, and in quiet, with his hand on my head. “It is indeed terrible. Think, you. To have the responsibility of a life within you. Many lives. Think of the miseries and afflictions that can come to those lives beyond the span of your own. Think to have small children in your own likeness standing at your knee, and to know them as flesh of your flesh, blood of your blood, looking to you for guidance as you look to God the Father for yours. Can that be anything but terrible, in majesty and in beauty beyond words?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “But why do grown-ups say I am not to know, if that is all it is?”

  “Well, Huw,” Mr. Gruffydd said, and laughing now. “Shall it be shouted from the house-tops, then? Are there to be no proprieties? Do you undress in front of everybody in sight?”

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “Then if you are careful of your own modesty,” Mr. Gruffydd said, “think how much more so must we be modest about the business of birth. It is a responsibility that comes with age. Would you tell little Gareth about the workings of the engine?”

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “Of course not,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “He would like to know, no doubt, but his little brain would never grasp what you were saying. But in time to come, he will know as well you. Is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Because it will be simple to him,” said Mr. Gruffydd, “for he will have reached the age of understanding. And he will say to you, then, is that all it is? And you shall say, that is all, my son, just as I say now to you. Well?”

  “But why will it do Nan Mardy good to see the tail of a shirt?” I asked, and it was out before I could stop it.

  “That is a low joke, Huw,” Mr. Gruffydd said. “It is because she is an elderly woman who has had no husband, and therefore no children. Hwfa meant she would be the better for a husband.”

  “How do you know about Hwfa, sir?” I asked him, and cold with surprise.

  “There is little to be known about you that is unknown to me, Huw, my son,” Mr. Gruffydd said. “Are you going to Dai Bando in the mornings, still?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “You will have good of it, but keep it to the mornings. Never let them have your time at night. No public houses, and no prize fights, is it?”

  “No, sir,” I said, with surprise. “There has never been talk of it, yet.”

  “Good,” he said. “Home to your supper, now.”

  “Are you coming to-night, sir?” I asked him. “The place is always ready laid for you.”

  Mr. Gruffydd was quiet for moments, putting the tools back in his box, and pushing the wheel against the other wall.

  “Give your good mother a kiss on the cheek,” said Mr. Gruffydd, “and excuse me again to-night, please. Good night, now.”

  “Good night, sir,” I said, and went out in the coming darkness with feelings that the world was upside down and the people in it all as silly as cuckoos. But now I understood why Bron had held from telling me, and I was grateful to her, and free of anger.

  It was only a little time after that when Iestyn had his way with Angharad and took her to marry in London. Ianto and Davy went with them, but my father and mother stayed at home because they had wanted the wedding at our Chapel, and turned their faces from a marriage outside it. Ianto and Davy came back, and very quiet, with no news of London, and no talking about the journey. And from the looks on their faces, I knew better than to ask.

  We got cards of Calais and Paris from Angharad, with a word or two, and a letter from Berlin that my mother and father read together, with my mother looking over my father’s shoulder at the window one morning. Their faces were stiff and serious to start, lit white by the paper, but as my father read a page and turned his eyes to watch for my mother to finish, the stiffness passed and the seriousness failed, until, when they had finished, and were putting away their glasses, my mother patted down her apron, in thought, and looked at my father straight.

  “Well,” she said.

  “It is all right with her, girl,” my father said, and took her hand. “I told you. Settled down, she has, now.”

  “I hope,” said my mother, through the window.

  “Certain,” said my father. “No worry. Wait till she will come home, and you shall see.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  BUT IT WAS LONG AFTER that they came home, long after the weddings of Ceridwen and Blethyn and Davy and Wyn. Married together they were, in our Chapel one Saturday, the first day the snow had been off the ground for months. I remember, because if it had been snowing or slush underfoot I should have had to wear my school boots instead of my best, and they were too thick and out of keeping with my best suit of good grey tweed, and there is no sense to wear thick old boots with a good suit.

  There is proud I was to go for my first suit made by hand. Before, of course, my mother had made my suits, or bought them from the shop, but there is no feeling to be had from a shop suit because there it is, made, and ready to hang on you. And hang it does, with lumps in the seat of the trews, and lumps under the arms, enough in the front to fold round you twice, the cuffs down to the tips of your fingers, and the trews too short to be long trews, and too long past the knee to be short trews. But you will wear what you are given, and you will be proud in it for two or three Sundays because it is new, but then the creases that show its newness go from it, and it is only a best suit again, and long on you, and bought big because you shall grow in it.

  But to have a suit to your measure, with tape and chalk, eh, dear, there is a good feeling, indeed.

  For a long time I had waited to have word from my father to go for my suit, but because Angharad and Iestyn went to London to marry, nothing was done. Then I got the word just before my brother said he would marry Wyn when Ceridwen married Blethyn, so that day I ran home from school with a purpose and straight down to Hwfa Williams and Old Twm.

  “Master Morgan, a fitting,” Hwfa said to Old Twm, as soon as I was through the door.

  “Yes, yes,” Old Twm said, and stitched faster to finish a little piece, and bit the cotton off, and stuck the needle in his waistcoat.

  “Well,” said Hwfa, with sweetness, and his little shoe-buttons fast on the big brass iron, “shall we have your bottom from the board, and a piece of chalk with you, if you please?”

  “Gracious
Goodness,” said Old Twm, with the start of temper, and rolling over to come up on his hands and knees with grunts and stiffness, “am I fast on a winding wheel to come up with a bump every time some old fool is doing a bit of shouting, then?”

  “I will thank you to hold the tongue,” Hwfa said, coming to be red in the face, “and please to have your orders from me without the pleasure of your voice. Silence is golden.”

  “You are right, for once,” Old Twm said, on his feet, and hands on hips to look at Hwfa, and as sweet in the voice. “The money you have lost in your time would close up the banks, indeed.”

  The shoe-buttons came to look at me for pity.

  “All I am asking is for a bit of chalk,” Hwfa said, to rend the heart. “What I am having would put marks against the names of saints.”

  “Chalk,” said Old Twm, and very delicate in the voice, with a thin wedge of chalk on the palm of his hand. “Shall we see a master tailor using it on a good bit of cloth, now?”

  Hwfa took the chalk with slowness, and his eyes all over the face of Old Twm all the time.

  “You shall see a master man in his own shop,” he said, every word of equal weight, “going about his business in ways that have gained a name for him wherever men speak of suits for men, and costumes for women, and outfits for riding to hounds, top coats and covert coat, cloaks and rain-cloaks, and all articles of attire to be made in cloth for all, old and young.”

  “Will we start now?” Old Twm asked him, very serious, and hands held up with the fingers loose and hanging down ready to start on anything, “because much longer of this and I will be smelling in my grave and the boy will grow whiskers to the knees.”

  “Peace, for the love of God,” Hwfa said, and flying into a rage, with his shoe-buttons sliding all over the shop, on me, on Old Twm, on the ceiling and on the floor. “If old Pharaoh could be had from the world to come he would see in you the seventh plague, indeed.”

  “Good,” said Old Twm, and coming to slit the sleeve in my coat. “So exodus is only a matter of waiting, then, and you will be home safe to your tea in time for supper, Huw, my little one.”