第65部分(第4/7 頁)

　earth；　surrounded　by　the　same

flat　material　of　dwellings；　new　red…brick　being　grimy；　small

oblong　windows；　and　oblong　doors；　repeated　endlessly；　with　just；

at　one　corner；　a　great　and　gaudy　public　house；　and　somewhere

lost　on　one　of　the　sides　of　the　square；　a　large　window　opaque

and　darkish　green；　which　was　the　post　office。

The　place　had　the　strange　desolation　of　a　ruin。　Colliers

hanging　about　in　gangs　and　groups；　or　passing　along　the　asphalt

pavements　heavily　to　work；　seemed　not　like　living　people；　but

like　spectres。　The　rigidity　of　the　blank　streets；　the

homogeneous　amorphous　sterility　of　the　whole　suggested　death

rather　than　life。　There　was　no　meeting　place；　no　centre；　no

artery；　no　organic　formation。　There　it　lay；　like　the　new

foundations　of　a　red…brick　confusion　rapidly　spreading；　like　a

skin…disease。

Just　outside　of　this；　on　a　little　hill；　was　Tom　Brangwen's

big；　red…brick　house。　It　looked　from　the　front　upon　the　edge　of

the　place；　a　meaningless　squalor　of　ash…pits　and　closets　and

irregular　rows　of　the　backs　of　houses；　each　with　its　small

activity　made　sordid　by　barren　cohesion　with　the　rest　of　the

small　activities。　Farther　off　was　the　great　colliery　that　went

night　and　day。　And　all　around　was　the　country；　green　with　two

winding　streams；　ragged　with　gorse；　and　heath；　the　darker　woods

in　the　distance。

The　whole　place　was　just　unreal；　just　unreal。　Even　now；　when

he　had　been　there　for　two　years；　Tom　Brangwen　did　not　believe　in

the　actuality　of　the　place。　It　was　like　some　gruesome　dream；

some　ugly；　dead；　amorphous　mood　bee　concrete。

Ursula　and　Winifred　were　met　by　the　motor…c