without vision。 He saw the puerility of his young conceptions；
he saw the unreal world in which they had been conceived。 He now
had a new strength in his sense of reality。 He felt as if he
were real； as if he handled real things。 He had worked for many
years at Cossethay； building the organ for the church； restoring
the woodwork； gradually ing to a knowledge of beauty in the
plain labours。 Now he wanted again to carve things that were
utterances of himself。
But he could not quite hitch on……always he was too busy；
too uncertain； confused。 Wavering； he began to study modelling。
To his surprise he found he could do it。 Modelling in clay； in
plaster； he produced beautiful reproductions； really beautiful。
Then he set…to to make a head of Ursula； in high relief； in the
Donatello manner。 In his first passion； he got a beautiful
suggestion of his desire。 But the pitch of concentration would
not e。 With a little ash in his mouth he gave up。 He
continued to copy； or to make designs by selecting motives from
classic stuff。 He loved the Della Robbia and Donatello as he had
loved Fra Angelico when he was a young man。 His work had some of
the freshness； the naive alertness of the early Italians。 But it
was only reproduction。
Having reached his limit in modelling； he turned to painting。
But he tried water…colour painting after the manner of any other
amateur。 He got his results but was not much interested。 After
one or two drawings of his beloved church； which had the same
alertness as his modelling； he seemed to be incongruous with the
modern atmospheric way of painting； so that his church tower
stood up； really stood and asserted its standing； but was
ashamed of its own lack of meaning； he turned away again。
He took up jewellery； read Benvenuto Cellini； pored over
reproductions of ornament； and began to make pendants in silver
and pearl and matrix。 The first things he did； in his start of
discovery； were really beautiful。 Those later were more
imitative。 But； starting with his wife； he made a pendant each
for all his womenfolk。 Then he made rings and bracelets。
Then he took up beaten and chiselled metal work。 When Ursula
left school； he was making a silver bowl of lovely shape。 How he
delighted in it； almost lusted after it。
All this time his only connection with the real outer world
was through his winter evening classes； which brought him into
contact with state education。 About all the rest； he was
oblivious； and entirely indifferent……even about the war。
The nation did not exist to him。 He was in a private retreat of
his own； that had neither nationality； nor any great
adherent。
Ursula watched the newspapers； vaguely； concerning the war in
South Africa。 They made her miserable； and she tried to have as
little to do with them as possible。 But Skrebensky was out
there。 He sent her an occasional post…card。 But it was as if she
were a blank wall in his direction； without windows or outgoing。
She adhered to the Skrebensky of her memory。
Her love for Winifred Inger wrenched her life as it seemed
from the roots and native soil where Skrebensky had belonged to
it； and she was aridly transplanted。 He was really only a
memory。 She revived his memory with strange passion； after the
departure of Winifred。 He was to her almost the symbol of her
real life。 It was as if； through him； in him； she might return
to her own self； which she was before she had loved Winifred；
before this deadness had e upon her； this pitiless
transplanting。 But even her memories were the work of her
imagination。
She dreamed of him and her as they had been together。 She
could not dream of him progressively； of what he was doing now；
of what relation he would have to her now。 Only sometimes she
wept to think how cruelly she had suffered when he left
her……ah； how she had suffered！ She remembered what
she had written in her diary：
〃If I were the moon； I know where I would fall down。〃
Ah； it was a dull agony to her to remember what she had been
then。 For it was remembering a dead self。 All that was dead
after Winifred。 She knew the corpse of her young； loving self；
she knew its grave。 And the young living self she mourned for
had scarcely existed； it was the creature of her
imagination。
Deep within her a cold despair remained unchanging and
unchanged。 No one would ever love her now……she would love
no one。 The body of love was killed in her after Winifred； there
was something of the corpse in her。 She would live； she would go
on； but she would have no lovers； no lover would want her any
more。 She herself would want no lover。 The vividest little flame
of desire was extinct in her for ever。 The tiny； vivid germ that
contained the bud of her real self； her real love； was killed；
she would go on growing as a plant； she would do her best to
produce her minor flowers； but her leading flower was dead
before it was born； all her growth was the conveying of a corpse
of hope。
The miserable weeks went on； in the poky house crammed with
children。 What was her life……a sordid； formless；
disintegrated nothing； Ursula Brangwen a person without worth or
importance； living in the mean village of Cossethay； within the
sordid scope of Ilkeston。 Ursula Brangwen； at seventeen；
worthless and unvalued； neither wanted nor needed by anybody；
and conscious herself of her own dead value。 It would not bear
thinking of。
But still her dogged pride held its own。 She might be
defiled； she might be a corpse that should never be loved； she
might be a core…rotten stalk living upon the food that others
provided； yet she would give in to nobody。
Gradually she became conscious that she could not go on
living at home as she was doing； without place or meaning or
worth。 The very children that went to school held her
uselessness in contempt。 She must do something。
Her father said she had plenty to do to help her mother。 From
her parents she would never get more than a hit in the face。 She
was not a practical person。 She thought of wild things； of
running away and being a domestic servant； of asking some man
to take her。
She wrote to the mistress of the High School for advice。
〃I cannot see very clearly what you should do； Ursula；〃 came
the reply； 〃unless you are willing to bee an elementary
school teacher。 You have matriculated； and that qualifies you to
take a post as uncertificated teacher in any school； at a salary
of about fifty pounds a year。
〃I cannot tell you how deeply I sympathize with you in your
desire to do something。 You will learn that mankind is a great
body of which you are one useful member； you will take your own
place at the great task which humanity is trying to fulfil。 That
will give you a satisfaction and a self…respect which nothing
else could give。〃
Ursula's heart sank。 It was a cold； dreary satisfaction to
think of。 Yet her cold will acquiesced。 This was what she
wanted。
〃You have an emotional nature；〃 the letter went on； 〃a quick
natural response。 If only you could learn patience and
self…discipline； I do not see why you should not make a good
teacher。 The least you could do is to try。 You need only serve a
year； or perhaps two years； as uncertificated teacher。 Then you
would go to one of the training colleges； where I hope you would
take your degree。 I most strongly urge and advise you to keep up
your studies always with the intention of taking a degree。 That
will give you a qualification and a position in the world； and
will give you more scope to choose your own way。
〃I shall be proud to see one of my girls win her own
economical independence； which means so much more than it seems。
I shall be glad indeed to know that one more of my girls has
provided for herself the means of freedom to choose for
herself。〃
It all sounded grim and desperate。 Ursula rather hated it。
But her mother's contempt and her father's harshness had made
her raw at the quick； she knew the ignominy of being a
hanger…on； she felt the festering thorn of her mother's animal
estimation。
At length she had to speak。 Hard and shut down and silent
within herself； she slipped out one evening to the workshed。 She
heard the tap…tap…tap of the hammer upon the metal。 Her father
lifted his head as the door opened。 His face was ruddy and
bright with instinct； as when he was a youth； his black
moustache was cut close over his wide mouth； his black hair was
fine and close as ever。 But there was about him an abstraction；
a sort of instrumental detachment from human things。 He was a
worker。 He watched his daughter's hard； expressionless face。 A
hot anger came over his breast and belly。
〃What now？〃 he said。
〃Can't I；〃 she answered； looking aside； not looking at him；
〃can't I go out to work？〃
〃Go out to work； what for？〃
His voice was so strong； and ready； and vibrant。 It irritated
her。
〃I want some other life than this。〃
A flash of strong rage arrested all his blood for a
moment。
〃Some other life？〃 he repeated。 〃Why； what other life do you
want？〃
She hesitated。
〃Something else besides housework and hanging about。 And I
want to earn something。〃
Her curious； brutal hardness of speech； and the fierce
invincibility of her youth； w