And then: "His mother saith unto the servants, 'Whatsoever he saith
unto you, do it.'"
Brangwen loved it, with his bones and blood he loved it, he
could not let it go. Yet she forced him to let it go. She hated
his blind attachments.
Water, natural water, could it suddenly and unnaturally turn
into wine, depart from its being and at haphazard take on
another being? Ah no, he knew it was wrong.
She became again the palpitating, hostile child, hateful,
putting things to destruction. He became mute and dead. His own
being gave him the lie. He knew it was so: wine was wine, water
was water, for ever: the water had not become wine. The miracle
was not a real fact. She seemed to be destroying him. He went
out, dark and destroyed, his soul running its blood. And he
tasted of death. Because his life was formed in these
unquestioned concepts.
She, desolate again as she had been when she was a child,
went away and sobbed. She did not care, she did not care whether
the water had turned to wine or not. Let him believe it if he
wanted to. But she knew she had won. And an ashy desolation came
over her.
They were ashenly miserable for some time. Then the life
began to come back. He was nothing if not dogged. He thought
again of the chapter of St. John. There was a great biting pang.
"But thou hast kept the good wine until now." "The best wine!"
The young man's heart responded in a craving, in a triumph,
although the knowledge that it was not true in fact bit at him
like a weasel in his heart. Which was stronger, the pain of the
denial, or the desire for affirmation? He was stubborn in
spirit, and abode by his desire. But he would not any more
affirm the miracles as true.
Very well, it was not true, the water had not turned into
wine. The water had not turned into wine. But for all that he
would live in his soul as if the water had turned into
wine. For truth of fact, it had not. But for his soul, it
had.
"Whether it turned into wine or whether it didn't," he said,
"it doesn't bother me. I take it for what it is."
"And what is it?" she asked, quickly, hopefully.
"It's the Bible," he said.
That answer enraged her, and she despised him. She did not
actively question the Bible herself. But he drove her to
contempt.
And yet he did not care about the Bible, the written letter.
Although he could not satisfy her, yet she knew of herself that
he had something real. He was not a dogmatist. He did not
believe in fact that the water turned into wine. He did
not want to make a fact out of it. Indeed, his attitude was
without criticism. It was purely individual. He took that which
was of value to him from the Written Word, he added to his
spirit. His mind he let sleep.