The Rainbow

by D. H. Lawrence

  It was Monday. She had been at school a week and was getting used to the surroundings, though she was still an entire foreigner in herself. She looked forward to having dinner with Maggie. That was the bright spot in the day. Maggie was so strong and remote, walking with slow, sure steps down a hard road, carrying the dream within her. Ursula went through the class teaching as through a meaningless daze.

  Her class tumbled out at mid-day in haphazard fashion. She did not yet realise what host she was gathering against herself by her superior tolerance, her kindness and her laisser-aller. They were gone, and she was rid of them, and that was all. She hurried away to the teachers’ room.

  Mr Brunt was crouching at the small stove, putting a little rice-pudding into the oven. He rose then, and attentively poked in a small saucepan on the hob with a fork. Then he replaced the saucepan lid.

  ‘Aren’t they done?’ asked Ursula gaily, breaking in on his tense absorption.

  She always kept a bright, blithe manner, and was pleasant to all the teachers. For she felt like the swan among the geese, of superior heritage and belonging. And her pride at being the swan in this ugly school was not yet abated.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Mr Brunt, laconic.

  ‘I wonder if my dish is hot,’ she said, bending down at the oven. She half expected him to look for her, but he took no notice. She was hungry and she poked her finger eagerly in the pot to see if her brussels sprouts and potatoes and meat were ready. They were not.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s rather jolly bringing dinner?’ she said to Mr Brunt.

  ‘I don’t know as I do,’ he said, spreading a serviette on a corner of the table, and not looking at her.

  ‘I suppose it is too far for you to go home?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. Then he rose and looked at her. He had the bluest, fiercest, most pointed eyes that she had ever met. He stared at her with growing fierceness.

  ‘If I were you, Miss Brangwen,’ he said, menacingly, ‘I should get a bit tighter hand over my class.’

  Ursula shrank.

  ‘Would you?’ she asked, sweetly, yet in terror. ‘Aren’t I strict enough?’

  ‘Because,’ he repeated, taking no notice of her, ‘they’ll get you down if you don’t tackle ’em pretty quick. They’ll pull you down, and worry you, till Harby gets you shifted—that’s how it’ll be. You won’t be here another six weeks’—and he filled his mouth with food—‘if you don’t tackle ’em and tackle ’em quick.’

  ‘Oh, but—’ Ursula said, resentfully, ruefully. The terror was deep in her.

  ‘Harby’ll not help you. This is what he’ll do—he’ll let you get on, getting worse and worse, till either you clear out or he clears you out. It doesn’t matter to me, except that you’ll leave a class behind you as I hope I shan’t have to cope with.’

  She heard the accusation in the man’s voice, and felt condemned. But still, school had not yet become a definite reality to her. She was shirking it. It was reality, but it was all outside her. And she fought against Mr Brunt’s representation. She did not want to realise.

  ‘Will it be so terrible?’ she said, quivering, rather beautiful, but with a slight touch of condescension, because she would not betray her own trepidation.

  ‘Terrible?’ said the man, turning to his potatoes again. ‘I dunno about terrible.’

  ‘I do feel frightened,’ said Ursula. ‘The children seem so—’

  ‘What?’ said Miss Harby, entering at that moment.

  ‘Why,’ said Ursula, ‘Mr Brunt says I ought to tackle my class,’ and she laughed uneasily.

  ‘Oh, you have to keep order if you want to teach,’ said Miss Harby, hard, superior, trite.

  Ursula did not answer. She felt non valid before them.

  ‘If you want to be let to live, you have,’ said Mr Brunt.

  ‘Well, if you can’t keep order, what good are you?’ said Miss Harby.

  ‘An’ you’ve got to do it by yourself,’—his voice rose like the bitter cry of the prophets. ‘You’ll get no help from anybody.’

  ‘Oh indeed!’ said Miss Harby. ‘Some people can’t be helped.’ And she departed.

  The air of hostility and disintegration, of wills working in antagonistic subordination, was hideous. Mr Brunt, subordinate, afraid, acid with shame, frightened her. Ursula wanted to run. She only wanted to clear out, not to understand.

  Then Miss Schofield came in, and with her another, more restful note. Ursula at once turned for confirmation to the newcomer. Maggie remained personal within all this unclean system of authority.

  ‘Is the big Anderson here?’ she asked of Mr Brunt. And they spoke of some affair about two scholars, coldly, officially.

  Miss Schofield took her brown dish, and Ursula followed with her own. The cloth was laid in the pleasant Standard Three room, there was a jar with two or three monthly roses on the table.

  ‘It is so nice in here, you have made it different,’ said Ursula gaily. But she was afraid. The atmosphere of the school was upon her.

  ‘The big room,’ said Miss Schofield, ‘ha, it’s misery to be in it!’

  She too spoke with bitterness. She too lived in the ignominious position of an upper servant hated by the master above and the class beneath. She was, she knew, liable to attack from either side at any minute, or from both at once, for the authorities would listen to the complaints of parents, and both would turn round on the mongrel authority, the teacher.

  So there was a hard, bitter withholding in Maggie Schofield even as she poured out her savoury mess of big golden beans and brown gravy.

  ‘It is vegetarian hot-pot,’ said Miss Schofield. ‘Would you like to try it?’

  ‘I should love to,’ said Ursula.

  Her own dinner seemed coarse and ugly beside this savoury, clean dish.

  ‘I’ve never eaten vegetarian things,’ she said. ‘But I should think they can be good.’

  ‘I’m not really a vegetarian,’ said Maggie, ‘I don’t like to bring meat to school.’

  ‘No,’ said Ursula, ‘I don’t think I do either.’

  And again her soul rang an answer to a new refinement, a new liberty. If all vegetarian things were as nice as this, she would be glad to escape the slight uncleanness of meat.

  ‘How good!’ she cried.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Schofield, and she proceeded to tell her the receipt. The two girls passed on to talk about themselves. Ursula told all about the High School, and about her matriculation, bragging a little. She felt so poor here, in this ugly place. Miss Schofield listened with brooding, handsome face, rather gloomy.

  ‘Couldn’t you have got to some better place than this?’ she asked at length.

  ‘I didn’t know what it was like,’ said Ursula, doubtfully.

  ‘Ah!’ said Miss Schofield, and she turned aside her head with a bitter motion.

  ‘Is it as horrid as it seems?’ asked Ursula, frowning lightly, in fear.

  ‘It is,’ said Miss Schofield, bitterly. ‘Ha!—it is hateful!’

  Ursula’s heart sank, seeing even Miss Schofield in the deadly bondage.

  ‘It is Mr Harby,’ said Maggie Schofield, breaking forth. ‘I don’t think I could live again in the big room—Mr Brunt’s voice and Mr Harby—ah—’

  She turned aside her head with a deep hurt. Some things she could not bear.

  ‘Is Mr Harby really horrid?’ asked Ursula, venturing into her own dread.

  ‘He!—why, he’s just a bully,’ said Miss Schofield, raising her shamed dark eyes, that flamed with tortured contempt. ‘He’s not bad as long as you keep in with him, and refer to him, and do everything in his way—but—it’s all so mean! It’s just a question of fighting on both sides—and those great louts—’

  She spoke with difficulty and with increased bitterness. She had evidently suffered. Her soul was raw with ignominy. Ursula suffered in response.

  ‘But why is it so horrid?’ she asked, helplessly.

  ‘You can’t do anything, said Miss S
chofield. ‘He’s against you on one side and he sets the children against you on the other. The children are simply awful. You’ve got to make them do everything. Everything, everything has got to come out of you. Whatever they learn, you’ve got to force it into them—and that’s how it is.’

  Ursula felt her heart faint inside her. Why must she grasp all this, why must she force learning on fifty-five reluctant children, having all the time an ugly, rude jealousy behind her, ready to throw her to the mercy of the herd of children, who would like to rend her as a weaker representative of authority. A great dread of her task possessed her. She saw Mr Brunt, Miss Harby, Miss Schofield, all the school-teachers, drudging unwillingly at the graceless task of compelling many children into one disciplined, mechanical set, reducing the whole set to an automatic state of obedience and attention, and then of commanding their acceptance of various pieces of knowledge. The first great task was to reduce sixty children to one state of mind, or being. This state must be produced automatically, through the will of the teacher, and the will of the whole school authority, imposed upon the will of the children. The point was that the headmaster and the teachers should have one will in authority, which should bring the will of the children into accord. But the headmaster was narrow and exclusive. The will of the teachers could not agree with his, their separate wills refused to be so subordinated. So there was a state of anarchy, leaving the final judgement to the children themselves, which authority should exist.

  So there existed a set of separate wills, each straining itself to the utmost to exert its own authority. Children will never naturally acquiesce to sitting in a class and submitting to knowledge. They must be compelled by a stronger, wiser will. Against which will they must always strive to revolt. So that the first great effort of every teacher of a large class must be to bring the will of the children into accordance with his own will. And this he can only do by an abnegation of his personal self, and an application of a system of laws, for the purpose of achieving a certain calculable result, the imparting of certain knowledge. Whereas Ursula thought she was going to become the first wise teacher by making the whole business personal, and using no compulsion. She believed entirely in her own personality.

  So that she was in a very deep mess. In the first place she was offering to a class a relationship which only one or two of the children were sensitive enough to appreciate, so that the mass were left outsiders, therefore against her. Secondly, she was placing herself in passive antagonism to the one fixed authority of Mr Harby, so that the scholars could more safely harry her. She did not know, but her instinct gradually warned her. She was tortured by the voice of Mr Brunt. On it went, jarring, harsh, full of hate, but so monotonous, it nearly drove her mad: always the same set, harsh monotony. The man was become a mechanism working on and on and on. But the personal man was in subdued friction all the time. It was horrible—all hate! Must she be like this? She could feel the ghastly necessity. She must become the same—put away the personal self, become an instrument, an abstraction, working upon a certain material, the class, to achieve a set purpose of making them know so much each day. And she could not submit. Yet gradually she felt the invincible iron closing upon her. The sun was being blocked out. Often when she went out at playtime and saw a luminous blue sky with changing clouds, it seemed just a fantasy, like a piece of painted scenery. Her heart was so black and tangled in the teaching, her personal self was shut in prison, abolished, she was subjugate to a bad, destructive will. How then could the sky be shining? There was no sky, there was no luminous atmosphere of out-of-doors. Only the inside of the school was real—hard, concrete, real and vicious.

  She would not yet, however, let school quite overcome her. She always said, ‘It is not a permanency, it will come to an end.’ She could always see herself beyond the place, see the time when she had left it. On Sundays and on holidays, when she was away at Cossethay or in the woods where the beech-leaves were fallen, she could think of St Philip’s Church School, and by an effort of will put it in the picture as a dirty little low-squatting building that made a very tiny mound under the sky, while the great beech-woods spread immense about her, and the afternoon was spacious and wonderful. Moreover the children, the scholars, they were insignificant little objects far away, oh, far away. And what power had they over her free soul? A fleeting thought of them, as she kicked her way through the beech-leaves, and they were gone. But her will was tense against them all the time.

  All the while, they pursued her. She had never had such a passionate love of the beautiful things about her. Sitting on top of the tram-car, at evening, sometimes school was swept away as she saw a magnificent sky settling down. And her breast, her very hands, clamoured for the lovely flare of sunset. It was poignant almost to agony, her reaching for it. She almost cried aloud seeing the sundown so lovely.

  For she was held away. It was no matter how she said to herself that school existed no more once she had left it. It existed. It was within her like a dark weight, controlling her movement. It was in vain the high-spirited, proud young girl flung off the school and its association with her. She was Miss Brangwen, she was Standard Five teacher, she had her most important being in her work now.

  Constantly haunting her, like a darkness hovering over her heart and threatening to swoop down over it at every moment, was the sense that somehow, somehow she was brought down. Bitterly she denied unto herself that she was really a schoolteacher. Leave that to the Violet Harbys. She herself would stand clear of the accusation. It was in vain she denied it.

  Within herself some recording hand seemed to point mechanically to a negation. She was incapable of fulfilling her task. She could never for a moment escape from the fatal weight of the knowledge.

  And so she felt inferior to Violet Harby. Miss Harby was a splendid teacher. She could keep order and inflict knowledge on a class with remarkable efficiency. It was no good Ursula’s protesting to herself that she was infinitely, infinitely the superior of Violet Harby. She knew that Violet Harby succeeded where she failed, and this in a task which was almost a test of her. She felt something all the time wearing upon her, wearing her down. She went about in these first weeks trying to deny it, to say she was free as ever. She tried not to feel at a disadvantage before Miss Harby, tried to keep up the effect of her own superiority. But a great weight was on her, which Violet Harby could bear, and she herself could not.

  Though she did not give in, she never succeeded. Her class was getting in worse condition, she knew herself less and less secure in teaching it. Ought she to withdraw and go home again? Ought she to say she had come to the wrong place, and so retire? Her very life was at test.

  She went on doggedly, blindly, waiting for a crisis. Mr Harby had now begun to persecute her. Her dread and hatred of him grew and loomed larger and larger. She was afraid he was going to bully her and destroy her. He began to persecute her because she could not keep her class in proper condition, because her class was the weak link in the chain which made up the school.

  One of the offences was that her class was noisy and disturbed Mr Harby, as he took Standard Seven at the other end of the room. She was taking composition on a certain morning, walking in among the scholars. Some of the boys had dirty ears and necks, their clothing smelled unpleasantly, but she could ignore it. She corrected the writing as she went.

  ‘When you say “their fur is brown,” how do you write “their’?” she asked.

  There was a little pause; the boys were always jeeringly backward in answering. They had begun to jeer at her authority altogether.

  ‘Please, miss, t-h-e-i-r,’ spelled a lad, loudly, with a note of mockery.

  At that moment Mr Harby was passing.

  ‘Stand up, Hill!’ he called, in a big voice.

  Everybody started. Ursula watched the boy. He was evidently poor, and rather cunning. A stiff bit of hair stood straight off his forehead, the rest fitted close to his meagre head. He was pale and colourless.

  ‘Who to
ld you to call out?’ thundered Mr Harby.

  The boy looked up and down, with a guilty air, and a cunning, cynical reserve.

  ‘Please, sir, I was answering,’ he replied, with the same humble insolence.

  ‘Go to my desk.’

  The boy set off down the room, the big black jacket hanging in dejected folds about him, his thin legs, rather knocked at the knees, going already with the pauper’s crawl, his feet in their big boots scarcely lifted. Ursula watched him in his crawling slinking progress down the room. He was one of her boys! When he got to the desk, he looked round, half furtively, with a sort of cunning grin and a pathetic leer at the big boys of Standard VII. Then, pitiable, pale, in his dejected garments, he lounged under the menace of the headmaster’s desk, with one thin leg crooked at the knee and the foot stuck out sideways, his hands in the low-hanging pockets of his man’s jacket.

  Ursula tried to get her attention back to the class. The boy gave her a little horror, and she was at the same time hot with pity for him. She felt she wanted to scream. She was responsible for the boy’s punishment. Mr Harby was looking at her handwriting on the board. He turned to the class.

  ‘Pens down.’

  The children put down their pens and looked up.

  ‘Fold arms.’

  They pushed back their books and folded arms.

  Ursula, stuck among the back forms, could not extricate herself.

  ‘What is your composition about?’ asked the headmaster. Every hand shot up. ‘The—’ stuttered some voice in its eagerness to answer.

  ‘I wouldn’t advise you to call out,’ said Mr Harby. He would have a pleasant voice, full and musical, but for the detestable menace that always tailed in it. He stood unmoved, his eyes twinkling under his bushy black brows, watching the class. There was something fascinating in him, as he stood, and again she wanted to scream. She was all jarred, she did not know what she felt.