The Rainbow

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.