The Rainbow | Page 5

by the trickle of dark blood that ran
across the pavement from the slaughter-house to the crew-yard, by the
sight of the man carrying across to the meat-shed a huge side of beef,
with the kidneys showing, embedded in their heavy laps of fat.
He was a handsome lad with soft brown hair and regular features
something like a later Roman youth. He was more easily excitable,
more readily carried away than the rest, weaker in character. At
eighteen he married a little factory girl, a pale, plump, quiet thing with
sly eyes and a wheedling voice, who insinuated herself into him and
bore him a child every year and made a fool of him. When he had taken
over the butchery business, already a growing callousness to it, and a
sort of contempt made him neglectful of it. He drank, and was often to
be found in his public house blathering away as if he knew everything,
when in reality he was a noisy fool.
Of the daughters, Alice, the elder, married a collier and lived for a time
stormily in Ilkeston, before moving away to Yorkshire with her
numerous young family. Effie, the younger, remained at home.
The last child, Tom, was considerably younger than his brothers, so had
belonged rather to the company of his sisters. He was his mother's
favourite. She roused herself to determination, and sent him forcibly
away to a grammar-school in Derby when he was twelve years old. He
did not want to go, and his father would have given way, but Mrs.
Brangwen had set her heart on it. Her slender, pretty, tightly-covered
body, with full skirts, was now the centre of resolution in the house,
and when she had once set upon anything, which was not often, the
family failed before her.
So Tom went to school, an unwilling failure from the first. He believed
his mother was right in decreeing school for him, but he knew she was
only right because she would not acknowledge his constitution. He
knew, with a child's deep, instinctive foreknowledge of what is going to

happen to him, that he would cut a sorry figure at school. But he took
the infliction as inevitable, as if he were guilty of his own nature, as if
his being were wrong, and his mother's conception right. If he could
have been what he liked, he would have been that which his mother
fondly but deludedly hoped he was. He would have been clever, and
capable of becoming a gentleman. It was her aspiration for him,
therefore he knew it as the true aspiration for any boy. But you can't
make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, as he told his mother very early,
with regard to himself; much to her mortification and chagrin.
When he got to school, he made a violent struggle against his physical
inability to study. He sat gripped, making himself pale and ghastly in
his effort to concentrate on the book, to take in what he had to learn.
But it was no good. If he beat down his first repulsion, and got like a
suicide to the stuff, he went very little further. He could not learn
deliberately. His mind simply did not work.
In feeling he was developed, sensitive to the atmosphere around him,
brutal perhaps, but at the same time delicate, very delicate. So he had a
low opinion of himself. He knew his own limitation. He knew that his
brain was a slow hopeless good-for-nothing. So he was humble.
But at the same time his feelings were more discriminating than those
of most of the boys, and he was confused. He was more sensuously
developed, more refined in instinct than they. For their mechanical
stupidity he hated them, and suffered cruel contempt for them. But
when it came to mental things, then he was at a disadvantage. He was
at their mercy. He was a fool. He had not the power to controvert even
the most stupid argument, so that he was forced to admit things he did
not in the least believe. And having admitted them, he did not know
whether he believed them or not; he rather thought he did.
But he loved anyone who could convey enlightenment to him through
feeling. He sat betrayed with emotion when the teacher of literature
read, in a moving fashion, Tennyson's "Ulysses", or Shelley's "Ode to
the West Wind". His lips parted, his eyes filled with a strained, almost
suffering light. And the teacher read on, fired by his power over the boy.
Tom Brangwen was moved by this experience beyond all calculation,

he almost dreaded it, it was so deep. But when, almost secretly and
shamefully, he came to take the book himself, and began the words "Oh
wild