deeds。 And so there was a necessity to choose one's action and
one's deeds。 One was responsible to the world for what one
did。
Nay； one was more than responsible to the world。 One was
responsible to oneself。 There was some puzzling； tormenting
residue of the Sunday world within her； some persistent Sunday
self； which insisted upon a relationship with the now shedaway
vision world。 How could one keep up a relationship with that
which one denied？ Her task was now to learn the weekday
life。
How to act； that was the question？ Whither to go； how to
bee oneself？ One was not oneself； one was merely a
halfstated question。 How to bee oneself； how to know the
question and the answer of oneself； when one was merely an
unfixed somethingnothing； blowing about like the winds of
heaven； undefined； unstated。
She turned to the visions； which had spoken faroff words
that ran along the blood like ripples of an unseen wind； she
heard the words again； she denied the vision； for she must be a
weekday person； to whom visions were not true； and she demanded
only the weekday meaning of the words。
There were words spoken by the vision： and words must
have a weekday meaning； since words were weekday stuff。 Let them
speak now： let them bespeak themselves in weekday terms。 The
vision should translate itself into weekday terms。
〃Sell all thou hast； and give to the poor；〃 she heard on
Sunday morning。 That was plain enough； plain enough for Monday
morning too。 As she went down the hill to the station； going to
school； she took the saying with her。
〃Sell all thou hast； and give to the poor。〃
Did she want to do that？ Did she want to sell her
pearlbacked brush and mirror； her silver candlestick； her
pendant； her lovely little necklace； and go dressed in drab like
the Wherrys： the unlovely unbed Wherrys； who were the 〃poor〃
to her？ She did not。
She walked this Monday morning on the verge of misery。 For
she did want to do what was right。 And she didn't want to do
what the gospels said。 She didn't want to be poorreally
poor。 The thought was a horror to her： to live like the Wherrys；
so ugly； to be at the mercy of everybody。
〃Sell that thou hast； and give to the poor。〃
One could not do it in real life。 How dreary and hopeless it
made her！
Nor could one turn the other cheek。 Theresa slapped Ursula on
the face。 Ursula； in a mood of Christian humility； silently
presented the other side of her face。 Which Theresa； in
exasperation at the challenge； also hit。 Whereupon Ursula； with
boiling heart； went meekly away。
But anger； and deep； writhing shame tortured her； so she was
not easy till she had again quarrelled with Theresa and had
almost shaken her sister's head off。
〃That'll teach you；〃 she said； grimly。
And she went away； unchristian but clean。
There was something unclean and degrading about this humble
side of Christianity。 Ursula suddenly revolted to the other
extreme。
〃I hate the Wherrys； and I wish they were dead。 Why does my
father leave us in the lurch like this； making us be poor and
insignificant？ Why is he not more？ If we had a father as he
ought to be； he would be Earl William Brangwen； and I should be
the Lady Ursula？ What right have I to be poor？ crawling
along the lane like vermin？ If I had my rights I should be
seated on horseback in a green ridinghabit； and my groom would
be behind me。 And I should stop at the gates of the cottages；
and enquire of the cottage woman who came out with a child in
her arms； how did her husband； who had hurt his foot。 And I
would pat the flaxen head of the child； stooping from my horse；
and I would give her a shilling from my purse； and order
nourishing food to be sent from the hall to the cottage。〃
So she rode in her pride。 And sometimes； she dashed into
flames to rescue a fotten child； or she dived into the canal
locks and supported a boy who was seized with cramp； or she
swept up a toddling infant from the feet of a runaway horse：
always imaginatively； of course。
But in the end there returned the poignant yearning from the
Sunday world。 As she went down in the morning from Cossethay and
saw Ilkeston smoking blue and tender upon its hill； then her
heart surged with faroff words：
〃Oh； Jerusalem； Jerusalemhow often would I have
gathered thy children together as a hen gathereth her chickens
under her wings； and ye would not〃
The passion rose in her for Christ； for the gathering under
the wings of security and warmth。 But how did it apply to the
weekday world？ What could it mean； but that Christ should clasp
her to his breast； as a mother clasps her child？ And oh； for
Christ； for him who could hold her to his breast and lose her
there。 Oh； for the breast of man； where she should have refuge
and bliss for ever！ All her senses quivered with passionate
yearning。
Vaguely she knew that Christ meant something else： that in
the visionworld He spoke of Jerusalem； something that did not
exist in the everyday world。 It was not houses and factories He
would hold in His bosom： nor householders nor factoryworkers
nor poor people： but something that had no part in the weekday
world； nor seen nor touched with weekday hands and eyes。
Yet she must have it in weekday termsshe must。
For all her life was a weekday life； now； this was the whole。 So
he must gather her body to his breast； that was strong with a
broad bone； and which sounded with the beating of the heart； and
which was warm with the life of which she partook； the life of
the running blood。
So she craved for the breast of the Son of Man； to lie there。
And she was ashamed in her soul； ashamed。 For whereas Christ
spoke for the Vision to answer； she answered from the weekday
fact。 It was a betrayal； a transference of meaning； from the
vision world； to the matteroffact world。 So she was ashamed of
her religious ecstasy； and dreaded lest any one should see
it。
Early in the year； when the lambs came； and shelters were
built of straw； and on her uncle's farm the men sat at night
with a lantern and a dog； then again there swept over her this
passionate confusion between the vision world and the weekday
world。 Again she felt Jesus in the countryside。 Ah； he would
lift up the lambs in his arms！ Ah； and she was the lamb。 Again；
in the morning； going down the lane； she heard the ewe call； and
the lambs came running； shaking and twinkling with newborn
bliss。 And she saw them stooping； nuzzling； groping to the
udder； to find the teats； whilst the mother turned her head
gravely and sniffed her own。 And they were sucking； vibrating
with bliss on their little； long legs； their throats stretched
up； their new bodies quivering to the stream of bloodwarm；
loving milk。
Oh； and the bliss； the bliss！ She could scarcely tear herself
away to go to school。 The little noses nuzzling at the udder；
the little bodies so glad and sure； the little black legs；
crooked； the mother standing still； yielding herself to their
quivering attractionthen the mother walked calmly
away。
Jesusthe vision worldthe everyday
worldall mixed inextricably in a confusion of pain and
bliss。 It was almost agony； the confusion； the inextricability。
Jesus； the vision； speaking to her； who was nonvisionary！ And
she would take his words of the spirit and make them to pander
to her own carnality。
This was a shame to her。 The confusing of the spirit world
with the material world； in her own soul； degraded her。 She
answered the call of the spirit in terms of immediate； everyday
desire。
〃e unto me； all ye that labour and are heavyladen； and I
will give you rest。〃
It was the temporal answer she gave。 She leapt with sensuous
yearning to respond to Christ。 If she could go to him really；
and lay her head on his breast； to have fort； to be made much
of； caressed like a child！
All the time she walked in a confused heat of religious
yearning。 She wanted Jesus to love her deliciously； to take her
sensuous offering； to give her sensuous response。 For weeks she
went in a muse of enjoyment。
And all the time she knew underneath that she was playing
false； accepting the passion of Jesus for her own physical
satisfaction。 But she was in such a daze； such a tangle。 How
could she get free？
She hated herself； she wanted to trample on herself； destroy
herself。 How could one bee free？ She hated religion； because
it lent itself to her confusion。 She abused everything。 She
wanted to bee hard； indifferent； brutally callous to
everything but just the immediate need； the immediate
satisfaction。 To have a yearning towards Jesus； only that she
might use him to pander to her own soft sensation； use him as a
means of reacting upon herself； maddened her in the end。 There
was then no Jesus； no sentimentality。 With all the bitter hatred
of helplessness she hated sentimentality。
At this period came the young Skrebensky。 She was nearly
sixteen years old； a slim； smouldering girl； deeply reticent；
yet lapsing into unreserved expansiveness now and then； when she
seemed to give away her whole soul； but when in fact she only
made another counterfeit of her soul for outward presentation。
She was sensitive in the extreme； always tortured； always
affecting a callous indifference to screen herself。
She was at this time a nuisance on the face of the earth；
with her spasmodic passion and her slumberous torment。 She
seemed to go with all her soul in her hands； yearning； to the
other person。 Yet all the while； deep at the bottom of her was a
childish antagonism of distrust。 She thought she loved everybody
and believed in everybody。 But because she could not love
herself nor believe in herself； she mistrusted everybody with
the mistrust of a serpent or a captured bird。 Her starts of
revulsion and hatred were more inevitable than her impulses of
love。
So she wrestled through her dark days of confusion； soulless；
uncreated； unformed。
One evening； as she was studying in the parlour； her head
buried in her hands； she heard new voices in the kitchen
speaking。 At once； from its apathy； her excitable spirit started
and strained to listen。 It seemed to crouch； to lurk under
cover； tense； glaring forth unwilling to be seen。
There were two strange men's voices；