第14部分(第2/9 頁)

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