The Brangwen Family Saga: The Rainbow & Women in Love. D. H. Lawrence
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a thick-limbed, stiff, fair man with fresh complexion, and blue eyes staring very straight ahead, he was coming one day down from Cossethay with a load of seed out of Nottingham. It was a time when he was getting ready for another bout of drinking, so he stared fixedly before him, watchful yet absorbed, seeing everything and aware of nothing, coiled in himself. It was early in the year.
He walked steadily beside the horse, the load clanked behind as the hill descended steeper. The road curved down-hill before him, under banks and hedges, seen only for a few yards ahead.
Slowly turning the curve at the steepest part of the slope, his horse britching between the shafts, he saw a woman approaching. But he was thinking for the moment of the horse.
Then he turned to look at her. She was dressed in black, was apparently rather small and slight, beneath her long black cloak, and she wore a black bonnet. She walked hastily, as if unseeing, her head rather forward. It was her curious, absorbed, flitting motion, as if she were passing unseen by everybody, that first arrested him.
She had heard the cart, and looked up. Her face was pale and clear, she had thick dark eyebrows and a wide mouth, curiously held. He saw her face clearly, as if by a light in the air. He saw her face so distinctly, that he ceased to coil on himself, and was suspended.
“That’s her,” he said involuntarily. As the cart passed by, splashing through the thin mud, she stood back against the bank. Then, as he walked still beside his britching horse, his eyes met hers. He looked quickly away, pressing back his head, a pain of joy running through him. He could not bear to think of anything.
He turned round at the last moment. He saw her bonnet, her shape in the black cloak, the movement as she walked. Then she was gone round the bend.
She had passed by. He felt as if he were walking again in a far world, not Cossethay, a far world, the fragile reality. He went on, quiet, suspended, rarefied. He could not bear to think or to speak, nor make any sound or sign, nor change his fixed motion. He could scarcely bear to think of her face. He moved within the knowledge of her, in the world that was beyond reality.
The feeling that they had exchanged recognition possessed him like a madness, like a torment. How could he be sure, what confirmation had he? The doubt was like a sense of infinite space, a nothingness, annihilating. He kept within his breast the will to surety. They had exchanged recognition.
He walked about in this state for the next few days. And then again like a mist it began to break to let through the common, barren world. He was very gentle with man and beast, but he dreaded the starkness of disillusion cropping through again.
As he was standing with his back to the fire after dinner a few days later, he saw the woman passing. He wanted to know that she knew him, that she was aware. He wanted it said that there was something between them. So he stood anxiously watching, looking at her as she went down the road. He called to Tilly.
“Who might that be?” he asked.
Tilly, the cross-eyed woman of forty, who adored him, ran gladly to the window to look. She was glad when he asked her for anything. She craned her head over the short curtain, the little tight knob of her black hair sticking out pathetically as she bobbed about.
“Oh why”-she lifted her head and peered with her twisted, keen brown eyes-“why, you know who it is-it’s her from th’ vicarage-you know-”
“How do I know, you hen-bird,” he shouted.
Tilly blushed and drew her neck in and looked at him with her squinting, sharp, almost reproachful look.
“Why you do-it’s the new housekeeper.”
“Ay-an’ what by that?”
“Well, an’ what by that?” rejoined the indignant Tilly.
“She’s a woman, isn’t she, housekeeper or no housekeeper? She’s got more to her than that! Who is she-she’s got a name?”
“Well, if she has, I don’t know,” retorted Tilly, not to be badgered by this lad who had grown up into a man.
“What’s her name?” he asked, more gently.
“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you,” replied Tilly, on her dignity.
“An’ is that all as you’ve gathered, as she’s housekeeping at the vicarage?”
“I’ve ’eered mention of ’er name, but I couldn’t remember it for my life.”
“Why, yer riddle-skulled woman o’ nonsense, what have you got a head for?”
“For what other folks ’as got theirs for,” retorted Tilly, who loved nothing more than these tilts when he would call her names.
There was a lull.
“I don’t believe as anybody could keep it in their head,” the woman-servant continued, tentatively.
“What?” he asked.
“Why, ’er name.”
“How’s that?”
“She’s fra some foreign parts or other.”
“Who told you that?”
“That’s all I do know, as she is.”
“An’ wheer do you reckon she’s from, then?”
“I don’t know. They do say as she hails fra th’ Pole. I don’t know,” Tilly hastened to add, knowing he would attack her.
“Fra th’ Pole, why do you hail fra th’ Pole? Who set up that menagerie confabulation?”
“That’s what they say-I don’t know-”
“Who says?”
“Mrs. Bentley says as she’s fra th’ Pole-else she is a Pole, or summat.”
Tilly was only afraid she was landing herself deeper now.
“Who says she’s a Pole?”
“They all say so.”
“Then what’s brought her to these parts?”
“I couldn’t tell you. She’s got a little girl with her.”
“Got a little girl with her?”
“Of three or four, with a head like a fuzz-ball.”
“Black?”
“White-fair as can be, an’ all of a fuzz.”
“Is there a father, then?”
“Not to my knowledge. I don’t know.”
“What brought her here?”
“I couldn’t say, without th’ vicar axed her.”
“Is the child her child?”
“I s’d think so-they say so.”
“Who told you about her?”
“Why, Lizzie-a-Monday-we seed her goin’ past.”
“You’d have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past.”
Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the “Red Lion”, half with the intention of hearing more.
She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman’s name, Mrs. Lensky.
Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner.
A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new