motherhood。 She seemed to exist in her own violent fruitfulness；
and it was as if the sun shone tropically on her。 Her colour was
bright； her eyes full of a fecund gloom； her brown hair tumbled
loosely over her ears。 She had a look of richness。 No
responsibility； no sense of duty troubled her。 The outside；
public life was less than nothing to her； really。
Whereas when； at twenty…six； he found himself father of four
children； with a wife who lived intrinsically like the ruddiest
lilies of the field； he let the weight of responsibility press
on him and drag him。 It was then that his child Ursula strove to
be with him。 She was with him； even as a baby of four； when he
was irritable and shouted and made the household unhappy。 She
suffered from his shouting； but somehow it was not really him。
She wanted it to be over； she wanted to resume her normal
connection with him。 When he was disagreeable； the child echoed
to the crying of some need in him； and she responded blindly。
Her heart followed him as if he had some tie with her； and some
love which he could not deliver。 Her heart followed him
persistently； in its love。
But there was the dim； childish sense of her own smallness
and inadequacy； a fatal sense of worthlessness。 She could not do
anything； she was not enough。 She could not be important to him。
This knowledge deadened her from the first。
Still she set towards him like a quivering needle。 All her
life was directed by her awareness of him； her wakefulness to
his being。 And she was against her mother。
Her father was the dawn wherein her consciousness woke up。
But for him； she might have gone on like the other children；
Gudrun and Theresa and Catherine； one with the flowers and
insects and playthings； having no existence apart from the
concrete object of her attention。 But her father came too near
to her。 The clasp of his hands and the power of his breast woke
her up almost in pain from the transient unconsciousness of
childhood。 Wide…eyed； unseeing； she was awake before she knew
how to see。 She was wakened too soon。 Too soon the call had e
to her； when she was a small baby； and her father held her close
to his breast； her sleep…living heart was beaten into
wakefulness by the striving of his bigger heart； by his clasping
her to his body for love and for fulfilment； asking as a magnet
must always ask。 From her the response had struggled dimly；
vaguely into being。
The children were dressed roughly for the country。 When she
was little； Ursula pattered about in little wooden clogs； a blue
overall over her thick red dress； a red shawl crossed on her
breast and tied behind again。 So she ran with her father to the
garden。
The household rose early。 He was out digging by six o'clock
in the morning； he went to his work at half…past eight。 And
Ursula was usually in the garden with him； though not near at
hand。
At Eastertime one year； she helped him to set potatoes。 It
was the first time she had ever helped him。 The occasion
remained as a picture； one of her earliest memories。 They had
gone out soon after dawn。 A cold wind was blowing。 He had his
old trousers tucked into his boots； he wore no coat nor
waistcoat； his shirt…sleeves fluttered in the wind； his face was
ruddy and intent； in a kind of sleep。 When he was at work he
neither heard nor saw。 A long； thin man； looking still a youth；
with a line of black moustache above his thick mouth； and his
fine hair blown on his forehead； he worked away at the earth in
the grey first light； alone。 His solitariness drew the child
like a spell。
The wind came chill over the dark…green fields。 Ursula ran up
and watched him push the setting…peg in at one side of his ready
earth； stride across； and push it in the other side； pulling the
line taut and clear upon the clods intervening。 Then with a
sharp cutting noise the bright spade came towards her； cutting a
grip into the new； soft earth。
He struck his spade upright and straightened himself。
〃Do you want to help me？〃 he said。
She looked up at him from out of her little woollen
bonnet。
〃Ay；〃 he said； 〃you can put some taters in for me。
Look……like that……these little sprits standing
up……so much apart； you see。〃
And stooping down he quickly； surely placed the spritted
potatoes in the soft grip； where they rested separate and
pathetic on the heavy cold earth。
He gave her a little basket of potatoes； and strode himself
to the other end of the line。 She saw him stooping； working
towards her。 She was excited； and unused。 She put in one potato；
then rearranged it； to make it sit nicely。 Some of the sprits
were broken； and she was afraid。 The responsibility excited her
like a string tying her up。 She could not help looking with
dread at the string buried under the heaped…back soil。 Her
father was working nearer； stooping； working nearer。 She was
overe by her responsibility。 She put potatoes quickly into
the cold earth。
He came near。
〃Not so close；〃 he said； stooping over her potatoes； taking
some out and rearranging the others。 She stood by with the
painful terrified helplessness of childhood。 He was so unseeing
and confident； she wanted to do the thing and yet she could not。
She stood by looking on； her little blue overall fluttering in
the wind； the red woollen ends of her shawl blowing gustily。
Then he went down the row； relentlessly； turning the potatoes in
with his sharp spade…cuts。 He took no notice of her； only worked
on。 He had another world from hers。
She stood helplessly stranded on his world。 He continued his
work。 She knew she could not help him。 A little bit forlorn； at
last she turned away； and ran down the garden； away from him； as
fast as she could go away from him； to forget him and his
work。
He missed her presence； her face in her red woollen bonnet；
her blue overall fluttering。 She ran to where a little water ran
trickling between grass and stones。 That she loved。
When he came by he said to her：
〃You didn't help me much。〃
The child looked at him dumbly。 Already her heart was heavy
because of her own disappointment。 Her mouth was dumb and
pathetic。 But he did not notice； he went his way。
And she played on； because of her disappointment persisting
even the more in her play。 She dreaded work； because she could
not do it as he did it。 She was conscious of the great breach
between them。 She knew she had no power。 The grown…up power to
work deliberately was a mystery to her。
He would smash into her sensitive child's world
destructively。 Her mother was lenient； careless The children
played about as they would all day。 Ursula was
thoughtless……why should she remember things？ If across the
garden she saw the hedge had budded； and if she wanted these
greeny…pink； tiny buds for bread…and…cheese； to play at teaparty
with； over she went for them。
Then suddenly； perhaps the next day； her soul would almost
start out of her body as her father turned on her； shouting：
〃Who's been tramplin' an' dancin' across where I've just
sowed seed？ I know it's you； nuisance！ Can you find nowhere else
to walk； but just over my seed beds？ But it's like you； that
is……no heed but to follow your own greedy nose。〃
It had shocked him in his intent world to see the zigzagging
lines of deep little foot…prints across his work。 The child was
infinitely more shocked。 Her vulnerable little soul was flayed
and trampled。 Why were the foot…prints there？ She had not
wanted to make them。 She stood dazzled with pain and shame and
unreality。
Her soul； her consciousness seemed to die away。 She became
shut off and senseless； a little fixed creature whose soul had
gone hard and unresponsive。 The sense of her own unreality
hardened her like a frost。 She cared no longer。
And the sight of her face； shut and superior with
self…asserting indifference； made a flame of rage go over him。
He wanted to break her。
〃I'll break your obstinate little face；〃 he said； through
shut teeth； lifting his hand。
The child did not alter in the least。 The look of
indifference； plete glancing indifference； as if nothing but
herself existed to her； remained fixed。
Yet far away in her； the sobs were tearing her soul。 And when