his constitution。 He knew； with a child's deep； instinctive
foreknowledge of what is going to happen to him； that he would
cut a sorry figure at school。 But he took the infliction as
inevitable； as if he were guilty of his own nature； as if his
being were wrong； and his mother's conception right。 If he could
have been what he liked； he would have been that which his
mother fondly but deludedly hoped he was。 He would have been
clever； and capable of being a gentleman。 It was her
aspiration for him； therefore he knew it as the true aspiration
for any boy。 But you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear；
as he told his mother very early； with regard to himself； much
to her mortification and chagrin。
When he got to school； he made a violent struggle against his
physical inability to study。 He sat gripped； making himself pale
and ghastly in his effort to concentrate on the book； to take in
what he had to learn。 But it was no good。 If he beat down his
first repulsion； and got like a suicide to the stuff； he went
very little further。 He could not learn deliberately。 His mind
simply did not work。
In feeling he was developed； sensitive to the atmosphere
around him； brutal perhaps； but at the same time delicate； very
delicate。 So he had a low opinion of himself。 He knew his own
limitation。 He knew that his brain was a slow hopeless
goodfornothing。 So he was humble。
But at the same time his feelings were more discriminating
than those of most of the boys； and he was confused。 He was more
sensuously developed； more refined in instinct than they。 For
their mechanical stupidity he hated them； and suffered cruel
contempt for them。 But when it came to mental things； then he
was at a disadvantage。 He was at their mercy。 He was a fool。 He
had not the power to controvert even the most stupid argument；
so that he was forced to admit things he did not in the least
believe。 And having admitted them； he did not know whether he
believed them or not； he rather thought he did。
But he loved anyone who could convey enlightenment to him
through feeling。 He sat betrayed with emotion when the teacher
of literature read； in a moving fashion； Tennyson's 〃Ulysses〃；
or Shelley's 〃Ode to the West Wind〃。 His lips parted； his eyes
filled with a strained； almost suffering light。 And the teacher
read on； fired by his power over the boy。 Tom Brangwen was moved
by this experience beyond all calculation； he almost dreaded it；
it was so deep。 But when； almost secretly and shamefully； he
came to take the book himself； and began the words 〃Oh wild west
wind； thou breath of autumn's being；〃 the very fact of the print
caused a prickly sensation of repulsion to go over his skin； the
blood came to his face； his heart filled with a bursting passion
of rage and inpetence。 He threw the book down and walked over
it and went out to the cricket field。 And he hated books as if
they were his enemies。 He hated them worse than ever he hated
any person。
He could not voluntarily control his attention。 His mind had
no fixed habits to go by； he had nothing to get hold of； nowhere
to start from。 For him there was nothing palpable； nothing known
in himself； that he could apply to learning。 He did not know how
to begin。 Therefore he was helpless when it came to deliberate
understanding or deliberate learning。
He had an instinct for mathematics； but if this failed him；
he was helpless as an idiot。 So that he felt that the ground was
never sure under his feet； he was nowhere。 His final downfall
was his plete inability to attend to a question put without
suggestion。 If he had to write a formal position on the Army；
he did at last learn to repeat the few facts he knew： 〃You can
join the army at eighteen。 You have to be over five foot eight。〃
But he had all the time a living conviction that this was a
dodge and that his monplaces were beneath contempt。 Then he
reddened furiously； felt his bowels sink with shame； scratched
out what he had written； made an agonized effort to think of
something in the real position style； failed； became sullen
with rage and humiliation； put the pen down and would have been
torn to pieces rather than attempt to write another word。
He soon got used to the Grammar School； and the Grammar
School got used to him； setting him down as a hopeless duffer at
learning； but respecting him for a generous； honest nature。 Only
one narrow； domineering fellow； the Latin master； bullied him
and made the blue eyes mad with shame and rage。 There was a
horrid scene； when the boy laid open the master's head with a
slate； and then things went on as before。 The teacher got little
sympathy。 But Brangwen winced and could not bear to think of the
deed； not even long after； when he was a grown man。
He was glad to leave school。 It had not been unpleasant； he
had enjoyed the panionship of the other youths； or had
thought he enjoyed it； the time had passed very quickly； in
endless activity。 But he knew all the time that he was in an
ignominious position； in this place of learning。 He was aware of
failure all the while； of incapacity。 But he was too healthy and
sanguine to be wretched； he was too much alive。 Yet his soul was
wretched almost to hopelessness。
He had loved one warm； clever boy who was frail in body； a
consumptive type。 The two had had an almost classic friendship；
David and Jonathan； wherein Brangwen was the Jonathan； the
server。 But he had never felt equal with his friend； because the
other's mind outpaced his； and left him ashamed； far in the
rear。 So the two boys went at once apart on leaving school。 But
Brangwen always remembered his friend that had been； kept him as
a sort of light； a fine experience to remember。
Tom Brangwen was glad to get back to the farm； where he was
in his own again。 〃I have got a turnip on my shoulders； let me
stick to th' fallow；〃 he said to his exasperated mother。 He had
too low an opinion of himself。 But he went about at his work on
the farm gladly enough； glad of the active labour and the smell
of the land again； having youth and vigour and humour； and a
ic wit； having the will and the power to fet his own
shortings； finding himself violent with occasional rages； but
usually on good terms with everybody and everything。
When he was seventeen； his father fell from a stack and broke
his neck。 Then the mother and son and daughter lived on at the
farm； interrupted by occasional loudmouthed lamenting；
jealousspirited visitations from the butcher Frank； who had a
grievance against the world； which he felt was always giving him
less than his dues。 Frank was particularly against the young
Tom； whom he called a mardy baby； and Tom returned the hatred
violently； his face growing red and his blue eyes staring。 Effie
sided with Tom against Frank。 But when Alfred came； from
Nottingham； heavy jowled and lowering； speaking very little； but
treating those at home with some contempt； Effie and the mother
sided with him and put Tom into the shade。 It irritated the
youth that his elder brother should be made something of a hero
by the women； just because he didn't live at home and was a
lacedesigner and almost a gentleman。 But Alfred was something
of a Prometheus Bound； so the women loved him。 Tom came later to
understand his brother better。
As youngest son； Tom felt some importance when the care of
the farm devolved on to him。 He was only eighteen； but he was
quite capable of doing everything his father had done。 And of
course； his mother remained as centre to the house。
The young man grew up very fresh and alert； with zest for
every moment of life。 He worked and rode and drove to market； he
went out with panions and got tipsy occasionally and played
skittles and went to the little travelling theatres。 Once； when
he was drunk at a public house； he went upstairs with a
prostitute who seduced him。 He was then nieen。
The thing was something of a shock to him。 In the close
intimacy of the farm kitchen； the woman occupied the supreme
position。 The men deferred to her in the house； on all household
points； on all points of morality and behaviour。 The woman was
the symbol for that further life which prised religion and
love and morality。 The men placed in her hands their own
conscience； they said to her 〃Be my consciencekeeper； be the
angel at the doorway guarding my outgoing and my ining。〃 And
the woman fulfilled her trust； the men rested implicitly in her；
receiving her praise or her blame with pleasure or with anger；
rebelling and storming； but never for a moment really escaping
in their own souls from her prerogative。 They depended on her
for their stability。 Without her； they would have felt like
straws in the wind； to be blown hither and thither at random。
She was the anchor and the security； she was the restraining
hand of God； at times highly to be execrated。
Now when Tom Brangwen； at nieen； a youth fresh like a
plant； rooted in his mother and his sister； found that he had
lain with a prostitute woman in a mon public house； he was
very much startled。 For him there was until that time only one
kind of womanhis mother and sister。
But now？ He did not know what to feel。 There was a slight
wonder； a pang of anger； of disappointment； a first taste of ash
and of cold fear lest this was all that would happen； lest his
relations with woman were going to be no more than this
nothingness； there was a slight sense of shame before the
prostitute； fear that she would despise him for his
inefficiency； there was a cold distaste for her； and a fear of
her； there was a moment of paralyzed horror when he felt he
might have taken a disease from her； and upon all this startled
tumult of emotion； was laid the steadying hand of mon sense；
which said it did not matter very much； so long as he had no
disease。 He soon recovered balance； and really it did not matter
so very much。
But it had shocked him； and put a mistrust into his heart；
and emphasized his fear of what was within himself。 He was；
however； in a few days going about again in his own careless；
happygolucky fashion； his blue eyes just as clear and honest
as ever； his face just as fresh； his appetite just as keen。
Or apparently so。 He had； in fa