第77部分(第3/7 頁)

last　became　almost　mechanical。

It　was　a　strain　on　her；　an　exhausting　wearying　strain；　always

unnatural。　But　there　was　a　certain　amount　of　pleasure　in　the

sheer　oblivion　of　teaching；　so　much　work　to　do；　so　many　children

to　see　after；　so　much　to　be　done；　that　one's　self　was　forgotten。

When　the　work　had　bee　like　habit　to　her；　and　her　individual

soul　was　left　out；　had　its　growth　elsewhere；　then　she　could　be

almost　happy。

Her　real；　individual　self　drew　together　and　became　more

coherent　during　these　two　years　of　teaching；　during　the　struggle

against　the　odds　of　class　teaching。　It　was　always　a　prison　to

her；　the　school。　But　it　was　a　prison　where　her　wild；　chaotic

soul　became　hard　and　independent。　When　she　was　well　enough　and

not　tired；　then　she　did　not　hate　the　teaching。　She　enjoyed

getting　into　the　swing　of　work　of　a　morning；　putting　forth　all

her　strength；　making　the　thing　go。　It　was　for　her　a　strenuous

form　of　exercise。　And　her　soul　was　left　to　rest；　it　had　the　time

of　torpor　in　which　to　gather　itself　together　in　strength　again。

But　the　teaching　hours　were　too　long；　the　tasks　too　heavy；　and

the　disciplinary　condition　of　the　school　too　unnatural　for　her。

She　was　worn　very　thin　and　quivering。

She　came　to　school　in　the　morning　seeing　the　hawthorn　flowers

wet；　the　little；　rosy　grains　swimming　in　a　bowl　of　dew。　The

larks　quivered　their　song　up　into　the　new　sunshine；　and　the

country　was　so　glad。　It　was　a　violation　to　plunge　into　the　dust

and　greyness　of　the　town。

So　that　she　stood　before　her　class　unwilling　to　give　herself

up　to　the　activity　of　teaching；　to　turn　her　energy；　that　longed

f