Davies Withered Root

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-910409-26-8
Verlag: Parthian Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 345 Seiten

The Withered Root recounts the troubled life of Reuben Daniels, reared in a south Wales industrial valley, in the bosom of the Nonconformist culture. Therein lies his downfall and that of his people, for The Withered Root is as thoroughly opposed to Welsh Nonconformity as My People (Caradoc Evans), though for different reasons. Revivalist passions constitute nothing but a perverse outlet for an all too human sexuality which chapel culture has otherwise repressed. Nonconformity has withered the root of natural sexual well-being in the Welsh, and then feeds off the twisted fruits.

Rhys Davies (1901-1978) was one of the most prolific and unusual writers to emerge from the Welsh industrial valleys in the twentieth century. Born in Clydach Vale, he spurned conventional education and left the valley, which was to be the basis of much of his work, at the age of nineteen, settling in London, which was to remain his base until he died. Early in his literary career, he travelled to the south of France where he was befriended by D. H. Lawrence. Though the bulk of his work was in the novel he achieved his greatest distinction in the field of the short story.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Davies, Rhys

Leseproben

CHAPTER III

Reuben grew into a tall good-looking boy full of a vigour that seemed to hold itself tight within him. His mouth was strong and fleshy: and under the dark brows his eyes were naked with a strange gleam of unhappiness. Some thought seemed to be forever brooding in sombre meditation behind those eyes. But he did not give utterance to that thought; indeed, after the age of twelve, he had very little to say for himself. The hitherto noisy, bawling child became so austere and silent that Martha thought there was something organically wrong with him. Ignoring him before, she now bought him cod-liver oil and various medicines. But there was nothing physically wrong with Reuben: cod-liver oil and emulsions could never interfere with his malady. He was brooding about God.

God lived behind the sky and he never showed himself to anybody. All people went down on their knees and worshipped God, every human being. God demanded that, insisted upon it, and everyone obeyed because they lived in fear of God. God could blast the eyes out of them: without appearing for one moment this side of the sky, God could destroy the earth into a handful of ashes and array everyone in awful judgment before him in Heaven. The power of God was terrible, and no one on earth had ever seen him, no one knew what he was like, though all said he was great and terrible, the owner of the whole world and everyone in it, their Master.

Reuben had learned that from the Rev. Hughes-Williams’ sermons. And he was afraid. The thought of God behind the sky, constantly watching with his dreadful eyes that never missed anything, watching the smallest action of his life and always condemning, condemning. At night he was afraid to look at the stars because he thought they let through the glance of God: when there was thunder and lightning his being crouched within him because God was angrier than usual and meditated destroying the world. But why should God be always angry?

Reuben listened attentively to the Rev. Williams’ sermons, and he found that all creatures born on the earth are evil, that each is burdened with a load of sin that can never be shaken off while living on the earth, and that God bore a grudge against us for this mysterious inescapable sin which, however, would be forgiven in the next world if one’s life in this had been stainless.

‘What are you thinking of, boy?’ Daniels demanded, one Sunday evening after chapel as they sat in the living-room, the father reading the Bible as usual.

Reuben looked at his father with sombre eyes. ‘Will I go to hell when I die?’ he muttered.

‘For why you ask that?’ Hugh replied in astonishment. ‘I don’t want to burn in the fire,’ the boy said fearfully. ‘There’s awful is the hell Mr Williams preached of tonight. What can I do not to go there?’

‘For why should you go to hell?’ asked Hugh seriously. ‘Born in sin we are,’ Reuben repeated from the sermon.

‘Unclean is our lives and the body is a sink of iniquity.’ ‘Tut, tut, boy bach, not understand these things do you.

Time enough is there later for you to use your head about them.’ And Hugh returned to the Bible.

But presently, after a further meditation, Reuben said: ‘Jesus Christ I like better than Moses.’

Hugh twisted his beard nervously. ‘Why, boy bach?’

Reuben shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly, his eyes darkened. And he leaned over to his father with a sudden beseeching gesture. ‘More I want to know about Jesus. Tell me about him.’

Hugh sighed. ‘No preacher am I, Reuben.’ He turned the pages of the Bible lovingly. ‘But read you about his life from Saint Matthew I will, if you like.’

He moved the lamp a little nearer, settled his spectacles and, his finger following the words, began:

‘ “Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise…” ’

Reuben listened to the simple words, followed that life of sorrow and wonder as his father selected the suitable verses, listened with dropped brows and far-gazing eyes to the vivid tale unfolded in the calm of St. Matthew and the love of his father’s voice. How beautiful it was, he thought. And how different to the sermons of Mr Williams!

He saw Jesus calling the little child to him, caressing its hair while he spoke to the disciples of the kingdom of heaven. A sweetness flowed within Reuben: he would like to have been that child and feel the hands of Jesus upon his head.

‘ “And Jesus came and spake unto them, saying, All Power is given unto me in heaven and in earth. Go ye, therefore, amid teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even until the end of the world.” ’

Hugh closed the book and, his hand over his eyes, remained silent for some time. Reuben gazed into the fire. His being glowed with an inner ecstasy that seemed to quiver with pain… A desire to serve and worship as no other had served and worshipped the man who had suffered and died in agony for the world gathered dimly in the boy’s breast. How beautiful it would be to serve, suffer, and die for Christ. Yes, he would gladly die for him; he too could bear the nails in his hands, in his feet…

And father and son remained silent in their meditations, both feeling the mystic harmony of the religion that is the glory of the Welsh.

Until Martha came in. She had been spending the evening with a kindred neighbour and there had not been quite enough to drink.

‘Jesus Mawr,’ she cried shrilly, ‘there’s a pair of wooden donkeys you are. Where’s the supper? Waiting for the old slave to come in, to be sure. And the fire nearly out. Daniels, a lunatic you are getting with your Bible. Out of my way.’ And she swept the Bible from the table to the floor.

Reuben darted to it with a cry.

‘Don’t you throw the Bible down like that,’ he cried angrily, gazing at his mother with fierce eyes.

‘Ho!’ she exclaimed, hands on hips, leaning towards him ominously, ‘who are you then, my lord, talking to me like that?’

Reuben clasped the Bible and stared at her with burning eyes. She suddenly grasped him and shook him violently. He began to cry – his peculiar dull scream of rage, that greatly irritated Martha. Hugh stood up and began to protest feebly. But the woman had worked herself into a fury that darted like arrows from her eyes and mouth.

‘Teach him to hold his snotty tongue I will. Looking at me like murder! An insulting little devil he is. But beat it out of him I will.’

And the emotion that lay buried in mother and son, that each was dimly conscious of and that bound them, sprang into being. Violently she began to slap his bare legs. But Reuben, a curious snarl escaping his lips, suddenly wriggled round and buried his teeth in his mother’s wrist. She screamed shrilly, let him go, and hopped about the room.

‘Bit me he has, bit me he has,’ she cried in pain.

Hugh stood still in horror, seeing the blood on his wife’s wrist. ‘The little b—,’ she screamed, weeping.

Reuben crouched on the floor against a leg of the table. His mother’s cries of pain made him shudder. He looked at her fearfully as, still howling, she collapsed into a chair. And when he too saw the blood he hung his head and began to cry softly.

Then his father took him into the kitchen and beat him soundly. He accepted his punishment without further cries, his face white and mournful as the stick descended on his body.

Later he crept up to bed, silent and ashamed. He was sorry, he was sorry. The tears burst forth again in a flood. And as he lay weeping in the darkness his father came up with a lamp and the Bible.

‘A wicked ruffian you were, to bite your mother, Reuben,’ Hugh said sorrowfully. ‘Not worthy of Jesus Christ are you.’

Reuben sobbed.

‘Shut you up crying now,’ continued his father, ‘and we will pray together, for forgiveness. Come you and kneel with me.’

And afterwards he read to his son a few psalms.

The next morning Reuben went downstairs in fear. His father, working on the day-shift, had long ago departed to the pit. He would have to face his mother alone. He entered the living-room with sullen eyes, scowling.

‘Come on, wolf,’ his mother sang. ‘Little wolf, come to your food then.’

He saw that her wrist was bandaged, and he wanted to weep. He sat down at the table without a word, his eyes still sullen. If only she said something kind and gentle! He drank his tea and ate his food, silent. And suddenly she said: ‘Tell me sorry you are for biting me last night.’

He looked at her in misery. And he seemed to see her face differently. It was older, almost pitiful, with puffy cheeks and a sad mouth. A feeling of strength and protection came into his heart. He bowed his head on the table and began to cry.

‘All right, all right,’ she murmured soothingly, stroking his head, ‘forget it we will.’

‘I...