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Section thirteen of The Rainbow. This is a LibriVox recording.
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All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
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information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Recording
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by Bryce Youngstown. The Rainbow by D. H. Lawrence, Chapter four,
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Part four. Will Brangwan came back after stupid scenes at Nottingham.
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He too was pale and blank, but unchanging. His uncle
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hated him. He hated this youth who was so inhuman
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and obstinate. Nevertheless, it was to will Brangwyn that the
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uncle one evening handed over the shares which he had
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transferred to Annolensky. They were for two thousand, five hundred pounds.
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Will Branglan looked at his uncle, who was a great
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deal of the marsh capital here given away. The youth, however,
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was only colder and more fixed. He was abstract, purely
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a fixed will. He gave the shares to Anna, after
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which she cried for a whole day, sobbing her eyes out,
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And at night, when she had heard her mother go
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to bed, she slipped down and hung in the doorway.
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Her father sat in his heavy silence, like a monument.
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He turned his head slowly daddy. She cried from the doorway,
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and she ran to him, sobbing as if her heart
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would break. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. She crouched on the hearth
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rug with her arms round him and her face against him.
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His body was so big and comfortable, but something hurt
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her head intolerably. She sobbed, almost with hysteria. He was silent,
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with his hand on her shoulder. His heart was bleak.
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He was not her father, that beloved image she had broken.
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Who was he? Then? A man put apart with those
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whose life has no more developments. He was isolated from her.
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There was a general between them. He was old, he
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had died out from hot life. A great deal of
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ash was in his fire, cold ash. He felt the
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inevitable coldness, and in bitterness, forgot the fire. He sat
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in his coldness of age and isolation. He had his
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own wife, and he blamed himself. He sneered at himself
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for this, clinging to the young, wanting the young to
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belong to him. The child who clung to him wanted
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her child husband, as was natural, and from him brang one.
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She wanted help so that her life might be properly
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fitted out. But love she did not want. Why should
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there be love between them, between the stout, middle aged
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man and this child. How could there be anything between
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them but mere human willingness to help each other. He
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was her guardian no more. His heart was like ice,
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his face cold and expressionless. She could not move him
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any more than a step. She crept to bed and cried.
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But she was going to be married to Will Brangwin,
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and then she need not bother anymore. Brangwin went to
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bed with a hard, cold heart and cursed himself. He
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looked at his wife. She was still his wife. Her
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dark hair was threaded with gray, her face was beautiful
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in its gathering age. She was just fifty. How poignantly
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he saw her, and he wanted to cut out some
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of his own heart, which was incontinent, and demanded still
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to share the rapid life of youth. How he hated himself.
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His wife was so poignant and timely. She was still
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young and naive with some girl's freshness. But she did
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not want any more the fight, the battle, the control,
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as he, in his incontinence, still did. She was so natural,
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and he was ugly unnatural in his inability to yield place.
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How hideous this greedy middle age, which might stand in
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the way of life like a large demon. What was
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missing in his life? That in his ravening soul he
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was not satisfied. He had had that friend at school,
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his mother, his wife, and Anna. What had he done?
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He had failed with his friend, he had been a
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poor son, but he had known satisfaction with his wife.
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Let it be enough. He loathes himself for the state
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he was in over Anna. Yet he was not satisfied.
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It was agony to know it was his wife. Nothing
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had he nothing to show, no work. He did not
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count his work. Anybody could have done it. What had
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he known? But the long marital embrace with his wife.
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Curious that this was what his life amounted to at
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any rate, it was something, It was eternal. He would
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say so to anybody and be proud of it. He
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lay with his wife in his arms, and she was
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still his fulfillment, just the same as ever. And that
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was the be all and the end all. Yes, and
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he was proud of it. But the bitterness underneath that
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there still remained and unsatisfied Tom Brangwin, who suffered agony
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because a girl cared nothing for him. He loved his sons.
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He had them also, but it was the further, the
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creative life with the girl he wanted as well. Oh,
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and he was ashamed. He trampled himself to extinguish himself.
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What weariness. There was no peace, however old one grew.
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One was never right, never decent, never master of oneself.
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It was as if his hope had been in the girl.
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Anna quickly lapsed again into her love for the youth.
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Will Brangwin had fixed his marriage for the Saturday before Christmas,
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and he waited for her in his bright, unquestioning fashion.
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Until then he wanted her. She was his. He suspended
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his being till the day should come. The wedding day,
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December the twenty third had come into being for him
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as an absolute thing. He lived in it. He did
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not count the days. But like a man who journeys
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in a ship, he was suspended till the coming to port.
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He worked at his carving, he worked in his office,
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he came to see her. All was but a form
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of waiting, without thought or question. She was much more alive.
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She wanted to enjoy courtship. He seemed to come and
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go like the wind, without asking why or whither. But
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she wanted to enjoy his presence. For her, he was
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a kernel of life, to touch him alone with bliss.
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But for him she was the essence of life. She
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existed as much when he was at his carving, in
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his lodging in Ilkeston as when she sat looking at
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him in the marsh kitchen. In himself he knew her,
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but his outward faculties seemed suspended. He did not see
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her with his eyes, nor hear her with his voice,
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And yet he trembled sometimes into a kind of swoon,
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holding her in his arms. They would stand sometimes folded
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together in the barn in silence. Then to her, as
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she felt his young, tense figure with her hands. The
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bliss was intolerable, intolerable, the sense that she possessed him
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for his body was so keen and wonderful. It was
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the only reality in her world. In her world, there
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was this one tense, vivid body of a man, and
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then many other shadowy men, all unreal. In him, she
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touched the center of reality, and they were together, he
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and she at the heart of the secret. How she
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clutched him to her, his body, the central body of
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all life, out of the rock of his form, the
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very fountain of life flowed. But to him she was
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a flame that consumed him. The flame flowed up his limbs,
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flowed through him till he was consumed, till he existed
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only as an unconscious dark transit of flame from her.
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Sometimes in the darkness a cow coughed. There was in
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the darkness a slow sound of cut chewing, and it
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all seemed to flow around them and upon them, as
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the hot blood flows through the womb, loving the unborn young.
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Sometimes when it was cold, they stood to belovers in
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the stables, where the air was warm and sharp with ammonia.
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And during these dark vigils he learned to know her,
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her body against his, they drew nearer and nearer. Together
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the kisses came more, suddenly close and fitting. So when
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in the thick darkness a horse suddenly scrambled to its
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feet with a dull thunder a sound, they listened as
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one person listening, they knew as one person they were
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conscious of the horse. Tom Brangwin had taken them a
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cottage at Cassaghay on a twenty one year's lease. Will
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Brangwan's eyes lit up as he saw it. It was
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a cottage next to the church with dark yew trees,
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r black old trees along the side of the house,
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and the grassy front garden. A red squar's cottage with
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a low slate roof and low windows. It had a
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long dairy scullery, a big flagged kitchen, and a low
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parlor that went up one step from the kitchen. There
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were whitewashed beams across the ceilings and odd corners with cupboards.
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Looking out through the windows, there was the grassy garden,
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the procession of black yew trees down one side, and
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along the other sides, a red wall with ivy separating
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the place from the high road and the churchyard. The
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old little church, with its small spire on a square tower,
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seemed to be looking back at the cottage windows. There'll
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be no need to have a clock, said will Brangwin,
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peeping out that the white clock face on the tower
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his neighbor. At the back of the house was a
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garden adjoining the paddock, a cow shed with standing for
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two cows, pig coats, and filehouses. Will Brangwen very happy.
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Anne was glad to think of being mistress of her
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own place. Tom Brangwen was now the fairy godfather. He
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was never happy unless he was buying something. Will Brangwen,
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with his interest in all woodwork, was getting the furniture.
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He was left to buy tables and round staved chairs
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and the dressers, quite ordinary stuff, but such as was
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identified with his cottage. Tom Branglin, with more particular thought,
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spied out what he called handy little things for her.
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He appeared with a set of new fangled cooking pans
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with a special sort of hanging lamp. Though the rooms
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were so low with candy little machines for grinding meat,
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or mashing potatoes or whisking eggs. Anna took a sharp
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interest in what he bought, though she was not always pleased.
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Some of the little contrivances, which he thought so canny,
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left her doubtful. Nevertheless, she was always expectant on market days.
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There was always a long thrill of anticipation. He arrived
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with the first darkness, the copper lamps of his cart glowing,
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and she ran to the gate as he a dark,
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burly figure up in the cart was bending over his
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parcels its cupboard. Love as brings you out so sharp,
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he said, his voice resounding in the cold darkness. Nevertheless,
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he was excited and she, taking one of the cart lamps,
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poked and peered among the jumble of things he had brought.
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Pushing aside the oil or implements he had got for himself,
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she dragged out a pair of small, strong bellows, registered
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them in her mind, and then pulled uncertainly at something else.
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It had a long handle and a piece of brown
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paper round the middle of it, like a waistcoat. What's this,
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she said, poking. He stopped to look at her. She
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went to the lamplight by the horse and stood there
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bent over the new thing. While her hair was like bronze,
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her apron white and cheerful. Her fingers plucked busily at
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the paper. She dragged forth a little ringer with clean
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Indian rubber rollers. She examined it critically, not knowing quite
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how it worked. She looked up at him. He stood
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a shadowy presence beyond the light. How does it go,
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she asked? Why? It's for pulpin turnips, he replied. She
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looked at him. His voice disturbed her. Don't be silly,
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it's a little mangle, she said. How do you stand it? Though?
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You screw it on the side o your washtub. He
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came and held it out to her. Oh yes, she cried,
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with one of her little skipping movements, which still came.
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When she was suddenly glad, and without another thought she
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ran off into the house, leaving him to untackle the horse.
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And when he came into the scullery he found her
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there with the little ringer fixed on the dolly tub,
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turning blissfully at the handle, until he beside her, exclaiming,
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my word, that's a natty little thing that'll save you
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luggin your inside out. That's the latest contraption that is.
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And Anna turned away at the handle with great gusto
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of possession. Then she let Tilly have a turn. If
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fair runs by itself, said Tilly, turning on and on,
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your clothes will nip out onto the line. End of
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section thirteen. Recording by Bryce Youngstown
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Section thirteen of The Rainbow. This is a LibriVox recording.
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All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
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information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Recording
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by Bryce Youngstown. The Rainbow by D. H. Lawrence, Chapter four,
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Part four. Will Brangwan came back after stupid scenes at Nottingham.
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He too was pale and blank, but unchanging. His uncle
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hated him. He hated this youth who was so inhuman
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and obstinate. Nevertheless, it was to will Brangwyn that the
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uncle one evening handed over the shares which he had
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transferred to Annolensky. They were for two thousand, five hundred pounds.
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Will Branglan looked at his uncle, who was a great
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deal of the marsh capital here given away. The youth, however,
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was only colder and more fixed. He was abstract, purely
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a fixed will. He gave the shares to Anna, after
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which she cried for a whole day, sobbing her eyes out,
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And at night, when she had heard her mother go
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to bed, she slipped down and hung in the doorway.
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Her father sat in his heavy silence, like a monument.
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He turned his head slowly daddy. She cried from the doorway,
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and she ran to him, sobbing as if her heart
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would break. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. She crouched on the hearth
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rug with her arms round him and her face against him.
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His body was so big and comfortable, but something hurt
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her head intolerably. She sobbed, almost with hysteria. He was silent,
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with his hand on her shoulder. His heart was bleak.
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He was not her father, that beloved image she had broken.
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Who was he? Then? A man put apart with those
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whose life has no more developments. He was isolated from her.
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There was a general between them. He was old, he
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had died out from hot life. A great deal of
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ash was in his fire, cold ash. He felt the
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inevitable coldness, and in bitterness, forgot the fire. He sat
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in his coldness of age and isolation. He had his
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own wife, and he blamed himself. He sneered at himself
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for this, clinging to the young, wanting the young to
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belong to him. The child who clung to him wanted
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her child husband, as was natural, and from him brang one.
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She wanted help so that her life might be properly
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fitted out. But love she did not want. Why should
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there be love between them, between the stout, middle aged
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man and this child. How could there be anything between
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them but mere human willingness to help each other. He
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was her guardian no more. His heart was like ice,
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his face cold and expressionless. She could not move him
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any more than a step. She crept to bed and cried.
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But she was going to be married to Will Brangwin,
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and then she need not bother anymore. Brangwin went to
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bed with a hard, cold heart and cursed himself. He
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looked at his wife. She was still his wife. Her
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dark hair was threaded with gray, her face was beautiful
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in its gathering age. She was just fifty. How poignantly
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he saw her, and he wanted to cut out some
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of his own heart, which was incontinent, and demanded still
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to share the rapid life of youth. How he hated himself.
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His wife was so poignant and timely. She was still
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young and naive with some girl's freshness. But she did
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not want any more the fight, the battle, the control,
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as he, in his incontinence, still did. She was so natural,
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and he was ugly unnatural in his inability to yield place.
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How hideous this greedy middle age, which might stand in
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the way of life like a large demon. What was
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missing in his life? That in his ravening soul he
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was not satisfied. He had had that friend at school,
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his mother, his wife, and Anna. What had he done?
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He had failed with his friend, he had been a
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poor son, but he had known satisfaction with his wife.
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Let it be enough. He loathes himself for the state
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he was in over Anna. Yet he was not satisfied.
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It was agony to know it was his wife. Nothing
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had he nothing to show, no work. He did not
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count his work. Anybody could have done it. What had
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he known? But the long marital embrace with his wife.
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Curious that this was what his life amounted to at
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any rate, it was something, It was eternal. He would
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say so to anybody and be proud of it. He
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lay with his wife in his arms, and she was
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still his fulfillment, just the same as ever. And that
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was the be all and the end all. Yes, and
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he was proud of it. But the bitterness underneath that
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there still remained and unsatisfied Tom Brangwin, who suffered agony
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because a girl cared nothing for him. He loved his sons.
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He had them also, but it was the further, the
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creative life with the girl he wanted as well. Oh,
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and he was ashamed. He trampled himself to extinguish himself.
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What weariness. There was no peace, however old one grew.
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One was never right, never decent, never master of oneself.
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It was as if his hope had been in the girl.
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Anna quickly lapsed again into her love for the youth.
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Will Brangwin had fixed his marriage for the Saturday before Christmas,
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and he waited for her in his bright, unquestioning fashion.
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Until then he wanted her. She was his. He suspended
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his being till the day should come. The wedding day,
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December the twenty third had come into being for him
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as an absolute thing. He lived in it. He did
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not count the days. But like a man who journeys
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in a ship, he was suspended till the coming to port.
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He worked at his carving, he worked in his office,
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he came to see her. All was but a form
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of waiting, without thought or question. She was much more alive.
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She wanted to enjoy courtship. He seemed to come and
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go like the wind, without asking why or whither. But
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she wanted to enjoy his presence. For her, he was
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a kernel of life, to touch him alone with bliss.
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But for him she was the essence of life. She
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existed as much when he was at his carving, in
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his lodging in Ilkeston as when she sat looking at
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him in the marsh kitchen. In himself he knew her,
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but his outward faculties seemed suspended. He did not see
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her with his eyes, nor hear her with his voice,
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And yet he trembled sometimes into a kind of swoon,
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holding her in his arms. They would stand sometimes folded
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together in the barn in silence. Then to her, as
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she felt his young, tense figure with her hands. The
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bliss was intolerable, intolerable, the sense that she possessed him
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for his body was so keen and wonderful. It was
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the only reality in her world. In her world, there
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was this one tense, vivid body of a man, and
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then many other shadowy men, all unreal. In him, she
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touched the center of reality, and they were together, he
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and she at the heart of the secret. How she
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clutched him to her, his body, the central body of
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all life, out of the rock of his form, the
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very fountain of life flowed. But to him she was
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a flame that consumed him. The flame flowed up his limbs,
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flowed through him till he was consumed, till he existed
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only as an unconscious dark transit of flame from her.
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Sometimes in the darkness a cow coughed. There was in
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the darkness a slow sound of cut chewing, and it
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all seemed to flow around them and upon them, as
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the hot blood flows through the womb, loving the unborn young.
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Sometimes when it was cold, they stood to belovers in
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the stables, where the air was warm and sharp with ammonia.
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And during these dark vigils he learned to know her,
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her body against his, they drew nearer and nearer. Together
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the kisses came more, suddenly close and fitting. So when
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in the thick darkness a horse suddenly scrambled to its
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feet with a dull thunder a sound, they listened as
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one person listening, they knew as one person they were
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conscious of the horse. Tom Brangwin had taken them a
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cottage at Cassaghay on a twenty one year's lease. Will
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Brangwan's eyes lit up as he saw it. It was
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a cottage next to the church with dark yew trees,
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r black old trees along the side of the house,
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and the grassy front garden. A red squar's cottage with
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a low slate roof and low windows. It had a
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long dairy scullery, a big flagged kitchen, and a low
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parlor that went up one step from the kitchen. There
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were whitewashed beams across the ceilings and odd corners with cupboards.
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Looking out through the windows, there was the grassy garden,
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the procession of black yew trees down one side, and
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along the other sides, a red wall with ivy separating
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the place from the high road and the churchyard. The
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old little church, with its small spire on a square tower,
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seemed to be looking back at the cottage windows. There'll
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be no need to have a clock, said will Brangwin,
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peeping out that the white clock face on the tower
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his neighbor. At the back of the house was a
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garden adjoining the paddock, a cow shed with standing for
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two cows, pig coats, and filehouses. Will Brangwen very happy.
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Anne was glad to think of being mistress of her
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own place. Tom Brangwen was now the fairy godfather. He
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was never happy unless he was buying something. Will Brangwen,
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with his interest in all woodwork, was getting the furniture.
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He was left to buy tables and round staved chairs
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and the dressers, quite ordinary stuff, but such as was
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identified with his cottage. Tom Branglin, with more particular thought,
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spied out what he called handy little things for her.
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He appeared with a set of new fangled cooking pans
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with a special sort of hanging lamp. Though the rooms
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were so low with candy little machines for grinding meat,
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or mashing potatoes or whisking eggs. Anna took a sharp
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interest in what he bought, though she was not always pleased.
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Some of the little contrivances, which he thought so canny,
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left her doubtful. Nevertheless, she was always expectant on market days.
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There was always a long thrill of anticipation. He arrived
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with the first darkness, the copper lamps of his cart glowing,
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and she ran to the gate as he a dark,
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burly figure up in the cart was bending over his
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parcels its cupboard. Love as brings you out so sharp,
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he said, his voice resounding in the cold darkness. Nevertheless,
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he was excited and she, taking one of the cart lamps,
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poked and peered among the jumble of things he had brought.
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Pushing aside the oil or implements he had got for himself,
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she dragged out a pair of small, strong bellows, registered
185
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them in her mind, and then pulled uncertainly at something else.
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It had a long handle and a piece of brown
187
00:11:42.080 --> 00:11:45.759
paper round the middle of it, like a waistcoat. What's this,
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00:11:45.919 --> 00:11:49.120
she said, poking. He stopped to look at her. She
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00:11:49.240 --> 00:11:51.799
went to the lamplight by the horse and stood there
190
00:11:51.840 --> 00:11:55.720
bent over the new thing. While her hair was like bronze,
191
00:11:55.919 --> 00:11:59.639
her apron white and cheerful. Her fingers plucked busily at
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00:11:59.639 --> 00:12:03.279
the paper. She dragged forth a little ringer with clean
193
00:12:03.559 --> 00:12:07.919
Indian rubber rollers. She examined it critically, not knowing quite
194
00:12:08.000 --> 00:12:11.279
how it worked. She looked up at him. He stood
195
00:12:11.279 --> 00:12:14.639
a shadowy presence beyond the light. How does it go,
196
00:12:14.879 --> 00:12:19.320
she asked? Why? It's for pulpin turnips, he replied. She
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00:12:19.440 --> 00:12:23.159
looked at him. His voice disturbed her. Don't be silly,
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00:12:23.320 --> 00:12:26.639
it's a little mangle, she said. How do you stand it? Though?
199
00:12:27.399 --> 00:12:30.120
You screw it on the side o your washtub. He
200
00:12:30.240 --> 00:12:33.679
came and held it out to her. Oh yes, she cried,
201
00:12:33.960 --> 00:12:36.960
with one of her little skipping movements, which still came.
202
00:12:37.000 --> 00:12:40.600
When she was suddenly glad, and without another thought she
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00:12:40.720 --> 00:12:44.480
ran off into the house, leaving him to untackle the horse.
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And when he came into the scullery he found her
205
00:12:47.639 --> 00:12:50.799
there with the little ringer fixed on the dolly tub,
206
00:12:51.200 --> 00:12:55.240
turning blissfully at the handle, until he beside her, exclaiming,
207
00:12:56.080 --> 00:12:59.240
my word, that's a natty little thing that'll save you
208
00:12:59.399 --> 00:13:03.399
luggin your inside out. That's the latest contraption that is.
209
00:13:03.960 --> 00:13:07.320
And Anna turned away at the handle with great gusto
210
00:13:07.399 --> 00:13:11.200
of possession. Then she let Tilly have a turn. If
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00:13:11.240 --> 00:13:14.320
fair runs by itself, said Tilly, turning on and on,
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00:13:15.000 --> 00:13:19.000
your clothes will nip out onto the line. End of
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section thirteen. Recording by Bryce Youngstown
