mild and gentle； neither Lamb nor Dove。 He was the lion and the
eagle。 Not because the lion and the eagle had power； but because
they were proud and strong； they were themselves； they were not
passive subjects of some shepherd； or pets of some loving woman；
or sacrifices of some priest。 She was weary to death of mild；
passive lambs and monotonous doves。 If the lamb might lie down
with the lion； it would be a great honour to the lamb； but the
lion's powerful heart would suffer no diminishing。 She loved the
dignity and selfpossession of lions。
She did not see how lambs could love。 Lambs could only be
loved。 They could only be afraid； and tremblingly submit to
fear； and bee sacrificial； or they could submit to love； and
bee beloveds。 In both they were passive。 Raging； destructive
lovers； seeking the moment when fear is greatest； and triumph is
greatest； the fear not greater than the triumph； the triumph not
greater than the fear； these were no lambs nor doves。 She
stretched her own limbs like a lion or a wild horse； her heart
was relentless in its desires。 It would suffer a thousand
deaths； but it would still be a lion's heart when it rose from
death； a fiercer lion she would be； a surer； knowing herself
different from and separate from the great； conflicting universe
that was not herself。
Winifred Inger was also interested in the Women's
Movement。
〃The men will do no more；they have lost the capacity
for doing；〃 said the elder girl。 〃They fuss and talk； but they
are really inane。 They make everything fit into an old； inert
idea。 Love is a dead idea to them。 They don't e to one and
love one； they e to an idea； and they say 'You are my idea；'
so they embrace themselves。 As if I were any man's idea！ As if I
exist because a man has an idea of me！ As if I will be betrayed
by him； lend him my body as an instrument for his idea； to be a
mere apparatus of his dead theory。 But they are too fussy to be
able to act； they are all impotent； they can't take a
woman。 They e to their own idea every time； and take that。
They are like serpents trying to swallow themselves because they
are hungry。〃
Ursula was introduced by her friend to various women and men；
educated； unsatisfied people； who still moved within the smug
provincial society as if they were nearly as tame as their
outward behaviour showed； but who were inwardly raging and
mad。
It was a strange world the girl was swept into； like a chaos；
like the end of the world。 She was too young to understand it
all。 Yet the inoculation passed into her； through her love for
her mistress。
The examination came； and then school was over。 It was the
long vacation。 Winifred Inger went away to London。 Ursula was
left alone in Cossethay。 A terrible； outcast； almost poisonous
despair possessed her。 It was no use doing anything； or being
anything。 She had no connection with other people。 Her lot was
isolated and deadly。 There was nothing for her anywhere； but
this black disintegration。 Yet； within all the great attack of
disintegration upon her； she remained herself。 It was the
terrible core of all her suffering； that she was always herself。
Never could she escape that： she could not put off being
herself。
She still adhered to Winifred Inger。 But a sort of nausea was
ing over her。 She loved her mistress。 But a heavy； clogged
sense of deadness began to gather upon her； from the other
woman's contact。 And sometimes she thought Winifred was ugly；
clayey。 Her female hips seemed big and earthy； her ankles and
her arms were too thick。 She wanted some fine intensity； instead
of this heavy cleaving of moist clay； that cleaves because it
has no life of its own。
Winifred still loved Ursula。 She had a passion for the fine
flame of the girl； she served her endlessly； would have done
anything for her。
〃e with me to London；〃 she pleaded to the girl。 〃I will
make it nice for you；you shall do lots of things you will
enjoy。〃
〃No；〃 said Ursula； stubbornly and dully。 〃No； I don't want to
go to London； I want to be by myself。〃
Winifred knew what this meant。 She knew that Ursula was
beginning to reject her。 The fine； unquenchable flame of the
younger girl would consent no more to mingle with the perverted
life of the elder woman。 Winifred knew it would e。 But she
too was proud。 At the bottom of her was a black pit of despair。
She knew perfectly well that Ursula would cast her off。
And that seemed like the end of her life。 But she was too
hopeless to rage。 Wisely； economizing what was left of Ursula's
love； she went away to London； leaving the beloved girl
alone。
And after a fortnight； Ursula's letters became tender again；
loving。 Her Uncle Tom had invited her to go and stay with him。
He was managing a big； new colliery in Yorkshire。 Would Winifred
e too？
For now Ursula was imagining marriage for Winifred。 She
wanted her to marry her Uncle Tom。 Winifred knew this。 She said
she would e to Wiggiston。 She would now let fate do as it
liked with her； since there was nothing remaining to be done。
Tom Brangwen also saw Ursula's intention。 He too was at the end
of his desires。 He had done the things he had wanted to。 They
had all ended in a disintegrated lifelessness of soul； which he
hid under an utterly tolerant goodhumour。 He no longer cared
about anything on earth； neither man nor woman； nor God nor
humanity。 He had e to a stability of nullification。 He did
not care any more； neither about his body nor about his soul。
Only he would preserve intact his own life。 Only the simple；
superficial fact of living persisted。 He was still healthy。 He
lived。 Therefore he would fill each moment。 That had always been
his creed。 It was not instinctive easiness： it was the
inevitable oute of his nature。 When he was in the absolute
privacy of his own life； he did as he pleased； unscrupulous；
without any ulterior thought。 He believed neither in good nor
evil。 Each moment was like a separate little island； isolated
from time； and blank； unconditioned by time。
He lived in a large new house of red brick； standing outside
a mass of homogeneous redbrick dwellings； called Wiggiston。
Wiggiston was only seven years old。 It had been a hamlet of
eleven houses on the edge of healthy； halfagricultural country。
Then the great seam of coal had been opened。 In a year Wiggiston
appeared； a great mass of pinkish rows of thin； unreal dwellings
of five rooms each。 The streets were like visions of pure
ugliness； a greyblack macadamized road； asphalt causeways； held
in between a flat succession of wall； window； and door； a
newbrick channel that began nowhere； and ended nowhere。
Everything was amorphous； yet everything repeated itself
endlessly。 Only now and then； in one of the housewindows
vegetables or small groceries were displayed for sale。
In the middle of the town was a large； open； shapeless space；
or marketplace； of black trodden earth； surrounded by the same
flat material of dwellings； new redbrick being grimy； small
oblong windows； and oblong doors； repeated endlessly； with just；
at one corner； a great and gaudy public house； and somewhere
lost on one of the sides of the square； a large window opaque
and darkish green； which was the post office。
The place had the strange desolation of a ruin。 Colliers
hanging about in gangs and groups； or passing along the asphalt
pavements heavily to work； seemed not like living people； but
like spectres。 The rigidity of the blank streets； the
homogeneous amorphous sterility of the whole suggested death
rather than life。 There was no meeting place； no centre； no
artery； no anic formation。 There it lay； like the new
foundations of a redbrick confusion rapidly spreading； like a
skindisease。
Just outside of this； on a little hill； was Tom Brangwen's
big； redbrick house。 It looked from the front upon the edge of
the place； a meaningless squalor of ashpits and closets and
irregular rows of the backs of houses； each with its small
activity made sordid by barren cohesion with the rest of the
small activities。 Farther off was the great colliery that went
night and day。 And all around was the country； green with two
winding streams； ragged with gorse； and heath； the darker woods
in the distance。
The whole place was just unreal； just unreal。 Even now； when
he had been there for two years； Tom Brangwen did not believe in
the actuality of the place。 It was like some gruesome dream；
some ugly； dead； amorphous mood bee concrete。
Ursula and Winifred were met by the motorcar at the raw
little station； and drove through what seemed to them like the
horrible raw beginnings of something。 The place was a moment of
chaos perpetuated； persisting； chaos fixed and rigid。 Ursula was
fascinated by the many men who were theregroups of men
standing in the streets； four or five men walking in a gang
together； their dogs running behind or before。 They were all
decently dressed； and most of them rather gaunt。 The terrible
gaunt repose of their bearing fascinated her。 Like creatures
with no more hope； but which still live and have passionate
being； within some utterly unliving shell； they passed
meaninglessly along； with strange； isolated dignity。 It was as
if a hard； horny shell enclosed them all。
Shocked and startled； Ursula was carried to her Uncle Tom's
house。 He was not yet at home。 His house was simply； but well
furnished。 He had taken out a dividing wall； and made the whole
front of the house into a large library； with one end devoted to
his science。 It was a handsome room； appointed as a laboratory
and reading room； but giving the same sense of hard； mechanical
activity； activity mechanical yet inchoate； and looking out on
the hideous abstraction of the town； and at the green meadows
and rough country beyond； and at the great； mathematical
colliery on the other side。
They saw Tom Brangwen walking up the curved drive。 He was
getting stouter； but with his bowler hat worn well set down on
his brows； he looked manly； handsome； curiously like any other
man of action。 His colour was as fresh； his health as perfect as
ever； he walked like a man rather absorbed。
Winifred Inger was startled when he entered the library； his
coat fastened and correct； his he