The Rainbow

He seemed simply acquiescent in the fact of his own being, as

if he were beyond any change or question. He was himself. There

was a sense of fatality about him that fascinated her. He made

no effort to prove himself to other people. Let it be accepted

for what it was, his own being. In its isolation it made no

excuse or explanation for itself.

So he seemed perfectly, even fatally established, he did not

asked to be rendered before he could exist, before he could have

relationship with another person.

This attracted Ursula very much. She was so used to unsure

people who took on a new being with every new influence. Her

Uncle Tom was always more or less what the other person would

have him. In consequence, one never knew the real Uncle Tom,

only a fluid, unsatisfactory flux with a more or less consistent

appearance.

But, let Skrebensky do what he would, betray himself

entirely, he betrayed himself always upon his own

responsibility. He permitted no question about himself. He was

irrevocable in his isolation.

So Ursula thought him wonderful, he was so finely

constituted, and so distinct, self-contained, self-supporting.

This, she said to herself, was a gentleman, he had a nature like

fate, the nature of an aristocrat.

She laid hold of him at once for her dreams. Here was one

such as those Sons of God who saw the daughters of men, that

they were fair. He was no son of Adam. Adam was servile. Had not

Adam been driven cringing out of his native place, had not the

human race been a beggar ever since, seeking its own being? But

Anton Skrebensky could not beg. He was in possession of himself,

of that, and no more. Other people could not really give him

anything nor take anything from him. His soul stood alone.

She knew that her mother and father acknowledged him. The

house was changed. There had been a visit paid to the house.

Once three angels stood in Abraham's doorway, and greeted him,

and stayed and ate with him, leaving his household enriched for

ever when they went.

The next day she went down to the Marsh according to

invitation. The two men were not come home. Then, looking

through the window, she saw the dogcart drive up, and Skrebensky

leapt down. She saw him draw himself together, jump, laugh to

her uncle, who was driving, then come towards her to the house.

He was so spontaneous and revealed in his movements. He was

isolated within his own clear, fine atmosphere, and as still as

if fated.

His resting in his own fate gave him an appearance of

indolence, almost of languor: he made no exuberant movement.

When he sat down, he seemed to go loose, languid.

"We are a little late," he said.