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said Lydia Brangwen； her heart cold； knowing her own
singleness。
〃I did not know you in life。 You are beyond me； supreme now
in death；〃 said Anna Brangwen； awe…stricken； almost glad。
It was the sons who could not bear it。 Fred Brangwen went
about with a set； blanched face and shut hands； his heart full
of hatred and rage for what had been done to his father；
bleeding also with desire to have his father again； to see him；
to hear him again。 He could not bear it。
Tom Brangwen only arrived on the day of the funeral。 He was
quiet and controlled as ever。 He kissed his mother； who was
still dark…faced； inscrutable； he shook hands with his brother
without looking at him； he saw the great coffin with its black
handles。 He even read the name…plate； 〃Tom Brangwen； of the
Marsh Farm。 Born 。 Died 。〃
The good…looking； still face of the young man crinkled up for
a moment in a terrible grimace； then resumed its stillness。 The
coffin was carried round to the church； the funeral bell tanged
at intervals； the mourners carried their wreaths of white
flowers。 The mother； the Polish woman； went with dark； abstract
face； on her son's arm。 He was good…looking as ever； his face
perfectly motionless and somehow pleasant。 Fred walked with
Anna； she strange and winsome； he with a face like wood； stiff；
unyielding。
Only afterwards Ursula； flitting between the currant bushes
down the garden； saw her Uncle Tom standing in his black
clothes； erect and fashionable； but his fists lifted； and his
face distorted； his lips curled back from his teeth in a
horrible grin； like an animal which grimaces with torment；
whilst his body panted quick； like a panting dog's。 He was
facing the open distance； panting； and holding still； then
panting rapidly again； but his face never changing from its
almost bestial look of torture； the teeth all showing； the nose
wrinkled up； the eyes； unseeing； fixed。
Terrified； Ursula slipped away。 And when her Uncle Tom was in
the house again； grave and very quiet； so that he seemed almost
to affect gravity； to pretend grief； she watched his still；
handsome face； imagining it again in its distortion。 But she saw
the nose was rather thick； rather Russian； under its transparent
skin； she remembered the teeth under the carefully cut moustache
were small and sharp and spaced。 She could see him； in all his
elegant demeanour； bestial； almost corrupt。 And she was
frightened。 She never forgot to look for the bestial；
frightening side of him； after this。
He said 〃Good…bye〃 to his mother and went away at once。
Ursula almost shrank from his kiss； now。 She wanted it；
nevertheless； and the little revulsion as well。
At the funeral； and after the funeral； Will Brangwen was
madly in love with his wife。 The death had shaken him。 But death
and all seemed to gather in him into a mad； over…whelming
passion for his wife。 She seemed so strange and winsome。 He was
almost beside himself with desire for her。
And she took him； she seemed ready for him； she wanted
him。
The grandmother stayed a while at the Yew Cottage； till the
Marsh was restored。 Then she returned to her own rooms； quiet；
and it seemed； wanting nothing。 Fred threw himself into the work
of restoring the farm。 That his father was killed there； seemed
to make it only the more intimate and the more inevitably his
own place。
There was a saying that the Brangwens always died a violent
death。 To them all； except perhaps Tom； it seemed almost
natural。 Yet Fred went about obstinate； his heart fixed。 He
could never forgive the Unknown this murder of his father。
After the death of the father； the Marsh rs。
Brangwen was unsettled。 She could not sit all the evening
peacefully； as she could before； and during the day she was
always rising to her feet and hesitating； as if she must go
somewhere； and were not quite sure whither。
She was seen loitering about the garden； in her little
woollen jacket。 She was often driven out in the gig； sitting
beside her son and watching the countryside or the streets of
the town； with a childish； candid； uncanny face； as if it all
were strange to her。
The children； Ursula and Gudrun and Theresa went by the
garden gate on their way to school。 The grandmother would have
them call in each time they passed； she would have them e to
the Marsh for dinner。 She wanted children about her。
Of her sons； she was almost afraid。 She could see the sombre
passion and desire and dissatisfaction in them； and she wanted
not to see it any more。 Even Fred； with his blue eyes and his
heavy jaw； troubled her。 There was no peace。 He wanted
something； he wanted love； passion； and he could not find them。
But why must he trouble her？ Why must he e to her with his
seething and suffering and dissatisfactions？ She was too
old。
Tom was more restrained； reserved。 He kept his body very
still。 But he troubled her even more。 She could not but see the
black depths of disintegration in his eyes； the sudden glance
upon her； as if she could save him； as if he would reveal
himself。
And how could age save youth？ Youth must go to youth。 Always
the storm！ Could she not lie in peace； these years； in the
quiet； apart from life？ No； always the swell must heave upon her
and break against the barriers。 Always she must be embroiled in
the seethe and rage and passion； endless； endless； going on for
ever。 And she wanted to draw away。 She wanted at last her own
innocence and peace。 She did not want her sons to force upon her
any more the old brutal story of desire and offerings and deep；
deep…hidden rage of unsatisfied men against women。 She wanted to
be beyond it all； to know the peace and innocence of age。
She had never been a woman to work much。 So that now she
would stand often at the garden…gate； watching the scant world
go by。 And the sight of children pleased her； made her happy。
She had usually an apple or a few sweets in her pocket。 She
liked children to smile at her。
She never went to her husband's grave。 She spoke of him
simply； as if he were alive。 Sometimes the tears would run down
her face； in helpless sadness。 Then she recovered； and was
herself again； happy。
On wet days； she stayed in bed。 Her bedroom was her city of
refuge； where she could lie down and muse and muse。 Sometimes
Fred would read to her。 But that did not mean much。 She had so
many dreams to dream over； such an unsifted store。 She wanted
time。
Her chief friend at this period was Ursula。 The little girl
and the musing； fragile woman of sixty seemed to understand the
same language。 At Cossethay all was activity and passion；
everything moved upon poles of passion。 Then there were four
children younger than Ursula； a throng of babies； all the time
many lives beating against each other。
So that for the eldest child； the peace of the grandmother's
bedroom was exquisite。 Here Ursula came as to a hushed；
paradisal land； here her own existence became simple and
exquisite to her as if she were a flower。
Always on Saturdays she came down to the Marsh； and always
clutching a little offering； either a little mat made of strips
of coloured； woven paper； or a tiny basket made in the
kindergarten lesson； or a little crayon drawing of a bird。
When she appeared in the doorway； Tilly； ancient but still in
authority； would crane her skinny neck to see who it was。
〃Oh； it's you； is it？〃 she said。 〃I thought we should be
seein' you。 My word； that's a bobby…dazzlin' posy you've
brought！〃
It was curious how Tilly preserved the spirit of Tom
Brangwen； who was dead； in the Marsh。 Ursula always connected
her with her grandfather。
This day the child had brought a tight little nosegay of
pinks； white ones； with a rim of pink ones。 She was very proud
of it； and very shy because of her pride。
〃Your gran'mother's in her bed。 Wipe your shoes well if
you're goin' up； and don't go burstin' in on her like a
skyrocket。 My word； but that's a fine posy！ Did you do it all by
yourself； an' all？〃
Tilly stealthily ushered her into the bedroom。 The child
entered with a strange； dragging hesitation characteristic of
her when she was moved。 Her grandmother was sitting up in bed；
wearing a little grey woollen jacket。
The child hesitated in silence near the bed； clutching the
nosegay in front of her。 Her childish eyes were shining。 The
grandmother's grey eyes shone with a similar light。
〃How pretty！〃 she said。 〃How pretty you have made them！ What
a darling little bunch。〃
Ursula； glowing； thrust them into her grandmother's hand；
saying； 〃I made them you。〃
〃That is how the peasants tied them at home；〃 said the
grandmother； pushing the pinks with her fingers； and smelling
them。 〃Just such tight little bunches！ And they make wreaths for
their hair……they weave the stalks。 Then they go round with
wreaths in their hair； and wearing their best aprons。〃
Ursula immediately imagined herself in this story…land。
〃Did you used to have a wreath in your hair；
grandmother？〃
〃When I was a little girl； I had golden hair； something like
Katie's。 Then I used to have a wreath of little blue flowers；
oh； so blue； that e when the snow is gone。 Andrey； the
coachman； used to bring me the very first。〃