第8部分(第2/7 页)

k　the

house；　and　Brangwen　saw　the　small　lips　move。　The　mother　began　to

rock；　he　heard　the　slight　crunch　of　the　rockers　of　the　chair。

Then　he　heard　the　low；　monotonous　murmur　of　a　song　in　a　foreign

language。　Then　a　great　burst　of　wind；　the　mother　seemed　to　have

drifted　away；　the　child's　eyes　were　black　and　dilated。　Brangwen

looked　up　at　the　clouds　which　packed　in　great；　alarming　haste

across　the　dark　sky。

Then　there　came　the　child's　high；　plaining；　yet　imperative

voice：

〃Don't　sing　that　stuff；　mother；　I　don't　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