小说园

第8部分（第2页）

Then　there　came　the　childs　high；　plaining；　yet　imperative

voice：

〃Dont　sing　that　stuff；　mother；　I　dont　want　to　hear　it。〃

The　singing　died　away。

〃You　will　go　to　bed；〃　said　the　mother。

He　saw　the　clinging　protest　of　the　child；　the　unmoved

farawayness　of　the　mother；　the　clinging；　grasping　effort　of　the

child。　Then　suddenly　the　clear　childish　challenge：

〃I　want　you　to　tell　me　a　story。〃

The　wind　blew；　the　story　began；　the　child　nestled　against　the

mother；　Brangwen　waited　outside；　suspended；　looking　at　the　wild

waving　of　the　trees　in　the　wind　and　the　gathering　darkness。　He

had　his　fate　to　follow；　he　lingered　there　at　the　threshold。

The　child　crouched　distinct　and　motionless；　curled　in　against

her　mother；　the　eyes　dark　and　unblinking　among　the　keen　wisps　of

hair；　like　a　curled…up　animal　asleep　but　for　the　eyes。　The

mother　sat　as　if　in　shadow；　the　story　went　on　as　if　by　itself。

Brangwen　stood　outside　seeing　the　night　fall。　He　did　not　notice

the　passage　of　time。　The　hand　that　held　the　daffodils　was　fixed

and　cold。

The　story　came　to　an　end；　the　mother　rose　at　last；　with　the

child　clinging　round　her　neck。　She　must　be　strong；　to　carry　so

large　a　child　so　easily。　The　little　Anna　clung　round　her

mothers　neck。　The　fair；　strange　face　of　the　child　looked　over

the　shoulder　of　the　mother；　all　asleep　but　the　eyes；　and　these；

wide　and　dark；　kept　up　the　resistance　and　the　fight　with

something　unseen。

When　they　were　gone；　Brangwen　stirred　for　the　first　time　from

the　place　where　he　stood；　and　looked　round　at　the　night。　He

wished　it　were　really　as　beautiful　and　familiar　as　it　seemed　in

these　few　moments　of　release。　Along　with　the　child；　he　felt　a

curious　strain　on　him；　a　suffering；　like　a　fate。

The　mother　came　down　again；　and　began　folding　the　childs

clothes。　He　knocked。　She　opened　wondering；　a　little　bit　at　bay；

like　a　foreigner；　uneasy。