小说园

第65部分（第3页）

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　red…brick　dwellings；　called　Wiggiston。

Wiggiston　was　only　seven　years　old。　It　had　been　a　hamlet　of

eleven　houses　on　the　edge　of　healthy；　half…agricultural　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　grey…black　macadamized　road；　asphalt　causeways；　held

in　between　a　flat　succession　of　wall；　window；　and　door；　a

new…brick　channel　that　began　nowhere；　and　ended　nowhere。

Everything　was　amorphous；　yet　everything　repeated　itself

endlessly。　Only　now　and　then；　in　one　of　the　house…windows

vegetables　or　small　groceries　were　displayed　for　sale。

In　the　middle　of　the　town　was　a　large；　open；　shapeless　space；

or　market…place；　of　black　trodden　earth；　surrounded　by　the　same

flat　material　of　dwellings；　new　red…brick　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　organic　formation。　There　it　lay；　like　the　new

foundations　of　a　red…brick　confusion　rapidly　spreading；　like　a

skin…disease。

Just　outside　of　this；　on　a　little　hill；　was　Tom　Brangwens