activity of learning。 It was strenuous as a battle； her college
life； yet remote as peace。
She came to Nottingham in the morning with Gudrun。 The two
sisters were distinguished wherever they went； slim； strong
girls； eager and extremely sensitive。 Gudrun was the more
beautiful of the two； with her sleepy； half…languid girlishness
that looked so soft； and yet was balanced and inalterable
underneath。 She wore soft； easy clothing； and hats which fell by
themselves into a careless grace。
Ursula was much more carefully dressed； but she was
self…conscious； always falling into depths of admiration of
somebody else； and modelling herself upon this other； and so
producing a hopeless incongruity。 When she dressed for practical
purposes she always looked well。 In winter； wearing a tweed
coat…and…skirt and a small hat of black fur pulled over her
eager； palpitant face； she seemed to move down the street in a
drifting motion of suspense and exceeding sensitive
receptivity。
At the end of the first year Ursula got through her
Intermediate Arts examination； and there came a lull in her
eager activities。 She slackened off； she relaxed altogether。
Worn nervous and inflammable by the excitement of the
preparation for the examination； and by the sort of exaltation
which carried her through the crisis itself； she now fell into a
quivering passivity； her will all loosened。
The family went to Scarborough for a month。 Gudrun and the
father were busy at the handicraft holiday school there； Ursula
was left a good deal with the children。 But when she could； she
went off by herself。
She stood and looked out over the shining sea。 It was very
beautiful to her。 The tears rose hot in her heart。
Out of the far； far space there drifted slowly in to her a
passionate； unborn yearning。 〃There are so many dawns that have
not yet risen。〃 It seemed as if； from over the edge of the sea；
all the unrisen dawns were appealing to her； all her unborn soul
was crying for the unrisen dawns。
As she sat looking out at the tender sea； with its lovely；
swift glimmer； the sob rose in her breast； till she caught her
lip suddenly under her teeth； and the tears were forcing
themselves from her。 And in her very sob； she laughed。 Why did
she cry？ She did not want to cry。 It was so beautiful that she
laughed。 It was so beautiful that she cried。
She glanced apprehensively round； hoping no one would see her
in this state。
Then came a time when the sea was rough。 She watched the
water travelling in to the coast； she watched a big wave running
unnoticed； to burst in a shock of foam against a rock；
enveloping all in a great white beauty； to pour away again；
leaving the rock emerged black and teeming。 Oh； and if； when the
wave burst into whiteness； it were only set free！
Sometimes she loitered along the harbour； looking at the
sea…browned sailors； who； in their close blue jerseys； lounged
on the harbour…wall； and laughed at her with impudent；
municative eyes。
There was established a little relation between her and them。
She never would speak to them or know any more of them。 Yet as
she walked by and they leaned on the sea…wall； there was
something between her and them； something keen and delightful
and painful。 She liked best the young one whose fair； salty hair
tumbled over his blue eyes。 He was so new and fresh and salt and
not of this world。
From Scarborough she went to her Uncle Tom's。 Winifred had a
small baby； born at the end of the summer。 She had bee
strange and alien to Ursula。 There was an unmentionable reserve
between the two women。 Tom Brangwen was an attentive father； a
very domestic husband。 But there was something spurious about
his domesticity； Ursula did not like him any more。 Something
ugly； blatant in his nature had e out now； making him shift
everything over to a sentimental basis。 A materialistic
unbeliever； he carried it all off by being full of human
feeling； a warm； attentive host； a generous husband； a model
citizen。 And he was clever enough to rouse admiration
everywhere； and to take in his wife sufficiently。 She did not
love him。 She was glad to live in a state of placent
self…deception with him； she worked according to him。
Ursula was relieved to go home。 She had still two peaceful
years before her。 Her future was settled for two years。 She
returned to college to prepare for her final examination。
But during this year the glamour began to depart from
college。 The professors were not priests initiated into the deep
mysteries of life and knowledge。 After all； they were only
middle…men handling wares they had bee so accustomed to that
they were oblivious of them。 What was Latin？……So much dry
goods of knowledge。 What was the Latin class altogether but a
sort of second…hand curio shop； where one bought curios and
learned the market…value of curios； dull curios too； on the
whole。 She was as bored by the Latin curiosities as she was by
Chinese and Japanese curiosities in the antique shops。
〃Antiques〃……the very word made her soul fall flat and
dead。
The life went out of her studies； why； she did not know。 But
the whole thing seemed sham； spurious； spurious Gothic arches；
spurious peace； spurious Latinity； spurious dignity of France；
spurious naivete of Chaucer。 It was a second…hand dealer's shop；
and one bought an equipment for an examination。 This was only a
little side…show to the factories of the town。 Gradually the
perception stole into her。 This was no religious retreat； no
perception of pure learning。 It was a little apprentice…shop
where one oney。 The college
itself was a little； slovenly laboratory for the factory。
A harsh and ugly disillusion came over her again； the same
darkness and bitter gloom from which she was never safe now； the
realization of the permanent substratum of ugliness under
everything。 As she came to the college in the afternoon； the
lawns were frothed with daisies； the lime trees hung tender and
sunlit and green； and oh； the deep； white froth of the daisies
was anguish to see。
For inside； inside the college； she knew she must enter the
sham workshop。 All the while； it was a sham store； a sham
warehouse； with a single motive of material gain； and no
productivity。 It pretended to exist by the religious virtue of
knowledge。 But the religious virtue of knowledge was bee a
flunkey to the god of material success。
A sort of inertia came over her。 Mechanically； from habit；
she went on with her studies。 But it was almost hopeless。 She
could scarcely attend to anything。 At the Anglo…Saxon lecture in
the afternoon； she sat looking down； out of the window； hearing
no word； of Beowulf or of anything else。 Down below； in the
street； the sunny grey pavement went beside the palisade。 A
woman in a pink frock； with a scarlet sunshade； crossed the
road； a little white dog running like a fleck of light about
her。 The woman with the scarlet sunshade came over the road； a
lilt in her walk； a little shadow attending her。 Ursula watched
spell…bound。 The woman with the scarlet sunshade and the
flickering terrier was gone……and whither？ Whither？
In what world of reality was the woman in the pink dress
walking？ To what warehouse of dead unreality was she herself
confined？
What good was this place； this college？ What good was
Anglo…Saxon； when one only learned it in order to answer
examination questions； in order that one should have a higher
mercial value later on？ She was sick with this long service
at the inner mercial shrine。 Yet what else was there？ Was
life all this； and this only？ Everywhere； everything was debased
to the same service。 Everything went to produce vulgar things；
to encumber material life。
Suddenly she threw over French。 She would take honours in
botany。 This was the one study that lived for her。 She had
entered into the lives of the plants。 She was fascinated by the
strange laws of the vegetable world。 She had here a glimpse of
something working entirely apart from the purpose of the human
world。
College was barren； cheap； a temple converted to the most
vulgar； petty merce。 Had she not gone to hear the echo of
learning pulsing back to the source of the mystery？……The
source of mystery！ And barrenly； the professors in their gowns
offered mercial modity that could be turned to good
account in the examination room； ready…made stuff too； and not
really worth the money it was intended to fetch； which they all
knew。
All the time in the college now； save when she was labouring
in her botany laboratory； for there the mystery still glimmered；
she felt she was degrading herself in a kind of trade of sham
jewjaws。
Angry and stiff； she went through her last term。 She would
rather be out again earning her own living。 Even Brinsley Street
and Mr。 Harby seemed real in parison。 Her violent hatred of
the Ilkeston School was nothing pared with the sterile
degradation of college。 But she was not going back to Brinsley
Street either。 She would take her B。A。； and bee a mistress in
some Grammar School for a time。
The last year of her college career was wheeling slowly
round。 She could see ahead her examination and her departure。
She had the ash of disillusion gritting under her teeth。 Would
the next move turn out the same？ Always the shining doorway
ahead； and then； upon approach； always the shining doorway was a
gate into another ugly yard； dirty and active and dead。 Always
the crest of the hill gleaming ahead under heaven： and then；
from the top of the hill only another sordid valley full of
amorphous； squalid activity。
No matter！ Every hill…top was a little different； every
valley was somehow new。 Cossethay and her childhood with her
father； the Marsh and the little Church school near the Marsh；
and her grandmother and her uncles； the High School at
Nottingham and Anton Skrebensky； Anton Skrebensky and the dance
in the moonlight between the fires； then the time she could not
think of without being blasted； Winifred Inger； and the months
before being a school…teacher； then the horrors of Brinsley
Street； lapsing into parative peacefulness； Maggie； and
Maggie's brother； whose influence she could still feel in her
veins； when she conjured him up； then college；