In all these things there was the sound of a bugle to her
heart, exhilarating, summoning her to perfect places. She never
forgot her brown "Longman's First French Grammar", nor her "Via
Latina" with its red edges, nor her little grey Algebra book.
There was always a magic in them.
At learning she was quick, intelligent, instinctive, but she
was not "thorough". If a thing did not come to her
instinctively, she could not learn it. And then, her mad rage of
loathing for all lessons, her bitter contempt of all teachers
and schoolmistresses, her recoil to a fierce, animal arrogance
made her detestable.
She was a free, unabateable animal, she declared in her
revolts: there was no law for her, nor any rule. She existed for
herself alone. Then ensued a long struggle with everybody, in
which she broke down at last, when she had run the full length
of her resistance, and sobbed her heart out, desolate; and
afterwards, in a chastened, washed-out, bodiless state, she
received the understanding that would not come before, and went
her way sadder and wiser.
Ursula and Gudrun went to school together. Gudrun was a shy,
quiet, wild creature, a thin slip of a thing hanging back from
notice or twisting past to disappear into her own world again.
She seemed to avoid all contact, instinctively, and pursued her
own intent way, pursuing half-formed fancies that had no
relation to anyone else.
She was not clever at all. She thought Ursula clever enough
for two. Ursula understood, so why should she, Gudrun, bother
herself? The younger girl lived her religious, responsible life
in her sister, by proxy. For herself, she was indifferent and
intent as a wild animal, and as irresponsible.
When she found herself at the bottom of the class, she
laughed, lazily, and was content, saying she was safe now. She
did not mind her father's chagrin nor her mother's tinge of
mortification.
"What do I pay for you to go to Nottingham for?" her father
asked, exasperated.
"Well, Dad, you know you needn't pay for me," she replied,
nonchalant. "I'm ready to stop at home."
She was happy at home, Ursula was not. Slim and unwilling
abroad, Gudrun was easy in her own house as a wild thing in its
lair. Whereas Ursula, attentive and keen abroad, at home was
reluctant, uneasy, unwilling to be herself, or unable.
Nevertheless Sunday remained the maximum day of the week for
both. Ursula turned passionately to it, to the sense of eternal
security it gave. She suffered anguish of fears during the
week-days, for she felt strong powers that would not recognize
her. There was upon her always a fear and a dislike of
authority. She felt she could always do as she wanted if she
managed to avoid a battle with Authority and the authorised
Powers. But if she gave herself away, she would be lost,
destroyed. There was always the menace against her.