cry：
〃Mother！〃
Mrs。 Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive； tired； lapsed back。
Brangwen went on working out of doors。
At evening； when he came in to milk； the child would run
behind him。 Then； in the cosy cow…sheds； with the doors shut and
the air looking warm by the light of the hanging lantern； above
the branching horns of the cows； she would stand watching his
hands squeezing rhythmically the teats of the placid beast；
watch the froth and the leaping squirt of milk； watch his hand
sometimes rubbing slowly； understandingly； upon a hanging udder。
So they kept each other pany； but at a distance； rarely
speaking。
The darkest days of the year came on； the child was fretful；
sighing as if some oppression were on her； running hither and
thither without relief。 And Brangwen went about at his work；
heavy； his heart heavy as the sodden earth。
The winter nights fell early； the lamp was lighted before
tea…time； the shutters were closed； they were all shut into the
room with the tension and stress。 Mrs。 Brangwen went early to
bed； Anna playing on the floor beside her。 Brangwen sat in the
emptiness of the downstairs room； smoking； scarcely conscious
even of his own misery。 And very often he went out to escape
it。
Christmas passed； the wet； drenched； cold days of January
recurred monotonously； with now and then a brilliance of blue
flashing in； when Brangwen went out into a morning like crystal；
when every sound rang again； and the birds were many and sudden
and brusque in the hedges。 Then an elation came over him in
spite of everything； whether his wife were strange or sad； or
whether he craved for her to be with him； it did not matter； the
air rang with clear noises； the sky was like crystal； like a
bell； and the earth was hard。 Then he worked and was happy； his
eyes shining； his cheeks flushed。 And the zest of life was
strong in him。
The birds pecked busily round him； the horses were fresh and
ready； the bare branches of the trees flung themselves up like a
man yawning； taut with energy； the twigs radiated off into the
clear light。 He was alive and full of zest for it all。 And if
his wife were heavy； separated from him； extinguished； then； let
her be； let him remain himself。 Things would be as they would
be。 Meanwhile he heard the ringing crow of a cockerel in the
distance； he saw the pale shell of the moon effaced on a blue
sky。
So he shouted to the horses； and was happy。 If； driving into
Ilkeston； a fresh young woman were going in to do her shopping；
he hailed her； and reined in his horse； and picked her up。 Then
he was glad to have her near him； his eyes shone； his voice；
laughing； teasing in a warm fashion； made the poise of her head
more beautiful； her blood ran quicker。 They were both
stimulated； the morning was fine。
What did it matter that； at the bottom of his heart； was care
and pain？ It was at the bottom； let it stop at the bottom。 His
wife； her suffering； her ing pain……well； it must be so。
She suffered； but he was out of doors； full in life； and it
would be ridiculous； indecent； to pull a long face and to insist
on being miserable。 He was happy； this morning； driving to town；
with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth。 Well he was
happy； if half the world were weeping at the funeral of the
other half。 And it was a jolly girl sitting beside him。 And
Woman was immortal； whatever happened； whoever turned towards
death。 Let the misery e when it could not be resisted。
The evening arrived later very beautiful； with a rosy flush
hovering above the sunset； and passing away into violet and
lavender； with turquoise green north and south in the sky； and
in the east； a great； yellow moon hanging heavy and radiant。 It
was magnificent to walk between the sunset and the moon； on a
road where little holly trees thrust black into the rose and
lavender； and starlings flickered in droves across the light。
But what was the end of the journey？ The pain came right enough；
later on； when his heart and his feet were heavy； his brain
dead； his life stopped。
One afternoon； the pains began； Mrs。 Brangwen was put to bed；
the midwife came。 Night fell； the shutters were closed； Brangwen
came in to tea； to the loaf and the pewter teapot； the child；
silent and quivering； playing with glass beads； the house；
empty； it seemed； or exposed to the winter night； as if it had
no walls。
Sometimes there sounded； long and remote in the house；
vibrating through everything； the moaning cry of a woman in
labour。 Brangwen； sitting downstairs； was divided。 His lower；
deeper self was with her； bound to her； suffering。 But the big
shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that used to fly
round the farmstead when he was a boy。 He was back in his youth；
a boy； haunted by the sound of the owls； waking up his brother
to speak to him。 And his mind drifted away to the birds； their
solemn； dignified faces； their flight so soft and broad…winged。
And then to the birds his brother had shot； fluffy；
dust…coloured； dead heaps of softness with faces absurdly
asleep。 It was a queer thing； a dead owl。
He lifted his cup to his lips； he watched the child with the
beads。 But his mind was occupied with owls； and the atmosphere
of his boyhood； with his brothers and sisters。 Elsewhere；
fundamental； he was with his wife in labour； the child was being
brought forth out of their one flesh。 He and she； one flesh； out
of which life must be put forth。 The rent was not in his body；
but it was of his body。 On her the blows fell； but the quiver
ran through to him； to his last fibre。 She must be torn asunder
for life to e forth； yet still they were one flesh； and
still； from further back； the life came out of him to her； and
still he was the unbroken that has the broken rock in its arms；
their flesh was one rock from which the life gushed； out of her
who was smitten and rent； from him who quivered and yielded。
He went upstairs to her。 As he came to the bedside she spoke
to him in Polish。
〃Is it very bad？〃 he asked。
She looked at him； and oh； the weariness to her； of the
effort to understand another language； the weariness of hearing
him； attending to him； making out who he was； as he stood there
fair…bearded and alien； looking at her。 She knew something of
him； of his eyes。 But she could not grasp him。 She closed her
eyes。
He turned away； white to the gills。
〃It's not so very bad；〃 said the midwife。
He knew he was a strain on his wife。 He went downstairs。
The child glanced up at him； frightened。
〃I want my mother；〃 she quavered。
〃Ay； but she's badly；〃 he said mildly； unheeding。
She looked at him with lost； frightened eyes。
〃Has she got a headache？〃
〃No……she's going to have a baby。〃
The child looked round。 He was unaware of her。 She was alone
again in terror。
〃I want my mother；〃 came the cry of panic。
〃Let Tilly undress you；〃 he said。 〃You're tired。〃
There was another silence。 Again came the cry of labour。
〃I want my mother；〃 rang automatically from the wincing；
panic…stricken child； that felt cut off and lost in a horror of
desolation。
Tilly came forward； her heart wrung。
〃e an' let me undress her then；