MR. GRUFFYDD read out the notice of the marriage of Angharad and Iestyn in Chapel the next Sunday, and when our family came out it was hours before we could come from there, for the people crowded to shake hands and kiss, and wish well, to my mother and father and Angharad and Iestyn, and Bronwen and Ceridwen and all my brothers, and even me.
“Well, Huw,” Isaac Wynn said, and giving me a pat on the head that with a bit more would have been a clout, “there is a lucky boy you are, indeed. A rich uncle, and a job all your life, eh?”
“I shall be down the colliery with my father,” I said, and ready to give him a good hit on his old nose. “And not long to wait, either.”
“O, tall talk from a short one, is it?” Isaac Wynn said, and staring, with the smile off his face.
“We will see when it comes true,” I said.
“You are going to be another with those brothers of yours,” he said, and shaking his head.
“That is all I want,” I said, “so good-bye, now.”
Then came the fuss, when Angharad and Iestyn started to choose where they would live, what they would put in the house, how they would dress for the wedding, and where they would have the service.
“Leave them,” my father said, when my mother was in a temper with both of them for fighting over what each wanted and the other thought awful. “No business of ours. What business we had is finished. They have got to live in the house wherever it is, so keep from it, now. If you put a word in, and something is wrong in a couple of weeks’ time, you will have sour looks, and little respect to the end of your days. So leave them.”
“That Angharad,” my mother said, and twisting her hands, “I will box her ears. Want this, take away that. Not this, that over there.”
“I have noticed the young mistress,” my father said, and a bit of a smile. “I seem to remember her mother with some want-this-take-away-that, too.”
“Never as bad as that, I was,” my mother said.
“I could tell a tale,” said my father, up at the ceiling. “But no matter. One week of married life will cure her.”
“Hisht, Gwil,” my mother said.
“Well,” said my father, “there was a radical change in someone else I know. And before the week was out, too.”
“I am going in to Bron’s,” said my mother, and went out, nose high, and my father gave me a wink.
But indeed, it was making us silly to see them and hear them whenever they were in the house, and when Iestyn’s aunt, who looked after him, came to see my mother, she said it was the same over there. She said that some nights he was so angry, that he would smash three and four pots to have ease of his temper, so she had packed the best pieces in the cellar till he found sense.
My mother wanted them to marry with Ceridwen and Blethyn to have both lots out of the way on the same day. But Iestyn was firm against it, and in that Angharad let him have his way. That was a surprise. Iestyn wanted to be married in the Chapel in London and then go to Paris and Berlin for a honeymoon. Angharad wanted to marry in London and then come straight back. Iestyn had his way. Angharad wanted to stay at Tyn-y-Coed, where his fathers had lived for six generations, a good big house, and full of splendid farmhouse furniture, but Iestyn wanted to sell it and build a house outside the town. Kiss and scratch, my mother called them, and so it was.
One night they came back to supper after a walk. Angharad was pale thunder, Iestyn with a pout.
“Mr. Morgan,” he said, as soon as he was through the door, “a word with you in private, if you please.”
“What is it, now again?” my father said, and got up from the chair clicking his tongue and nodding, and took Iestyn in the back.
My mother went on cooking, and I went on with my schoolwork. Angharad sat on the stool, looking in the fire, still with her cloak, and her hair hanging almost to the floor.
“What is it, now then, Angharad?” my mother said, as though it was no matter.
“Iestyn wants to take me away to-morrow to marry in London,” Angharad said, low and so sad to make you stop thinking what you were doing.
My mother went on cooking as though she had heard nothing. Then she put the bakestone on to get hot, and wiped her hands, and turned to Angharad and knelt beside her to put her arms about her. And Angharad started to cry. O, broken in the heart, she cried.
“Hisht, my little one, hisht,” my mother said, and rocking her as she did with Olwen. “There now, peach blossom mine. Dry the pretty eyes, is it?”
“Mama,” Angharad wept, “I love him. Only him. But he sends me away.”
“Hisht, hisht,” my mother said, and frowning in the fire, with a hand pressing Angharad’s head into her shoulder. Then I moved and she looked up, angry.
“Huw,” she said, and sharp, “go from here, boy.”
“Yes, Mama,” I said.
But my father was in the back with Iestyn, Ianto and Davy in the front with some men from the union, and nowhere else in the house to go but upstairs to bed. But I wanted my supper, so down I went to Bron’s, and found her sewing Ivor’s working flannels.
“Well,” she said, and the old smile, “what, then, with a face like green gooseberries with you?”
“Iestyn in the back with Dada,” I said, “Angharad in the kitchen with Mama. No peace in the house.”
“She will do all she can to make him break off,” Bron said. “Poor Angharad, too. Still, there it is. Have you had supper?”
“No, indeed,” I said. “And I am hungry.”
“It is pity about you,” Bron said, but joking. “Come you, and I will make you a basin of broth, is it?”
So we had supper together, for Ivor was on night shift, and lovely it was, too, only the leeks were a bit old, and the bacon was a little on the briny, and winter potatoes, of course, but still, with Bron to smile across the table, lovely.
“Bron,” I said, and in a rush, not to have time to think to change my mind, “why would it do Nan Mardy good to see a shirt tail?”
Bronwen stared and stared with her spoon spilling soup, and then she lifted her chin in shouting laughter. She had a beautiful laugh, full and deep, and generous in tone, but I was coming restless before she wiped her eyes.
“Who told you?” she asked, and off she went again, eyes closed, mouth wide, teeth shining, on a higher note, as though she had just reached the best part of it, and me watching, ready to throw something, yet wanting to laugh with her.
“Where, boy, where?” she asked me again, wiping her eyes and swallowing and finishing her laugh with big breaths.
“Hwfa Williams,” I said, and not wanting to say anything, now. “He said it would do her good. I want to know why.”
“You will understand one day, Huw, my little one,” she said. “Will you have more to eat?”
“I will have an answer to the question,” I said.
She looked at me from one eye to another, but I could find no meaning in her face.
“Have you asked your father, Huw?” she asked me, very quiet.
“Yes,” I said, “and he said to mind my business.”
“I will speak to him,” Bron said, and got up as though the matter was at an end.
“Why does everybody treat me like little Gareth?” I said, and got up, too. “Why will it do Nan Mardy good to look at a shirt tail? How do whores get money that should come to us?”
“Hisht, Huw,” Bronwen said, with fright. “Where did you hear that?”
“From Ianto,” I said, “but he told me he was sorry he said it in front of me.”
“Huw,” Bronwen said, and very kind, “go you home to bed, and have no worry about such things. As you grow older, so things will come plainer and your brain stronger to meet them.”
“I will find out from Tegwen Beynon,” I said. “She knows.”
Bron was round the table and holding me by the collar in a moment.
“Huw,” she said, stern and cold, “if you have words with that slut of a girl be careful to come nowhere near this house again. Now then, warning.”
“I will, or I will be told,” I said. “I will know or I will find out.”
Bron put her arm round me and kissed my forehead.
“If I tell your father of this,” she said, “he will strap you and you will go on your way just the same and God knows the harm. Have you asked Mr. Gruffydd?”
“I could,” I said, “but I know my answer.”
“If I knew I was doing right, I would tell you now,” she said, “but you are a boy, and I might be wrong. I will think it over for a day, is it?”
“Right,” I said. “Thank you, Bron.”
“Good night, now,” she said, and smiling her smile that was not a smile.
“Good night, Bron,” I said, and kissed her quietly upon the mouth, and ran.
There is strange, and yet not strange, is the kiss. It is strange because it mixes silliness with tragedy, and yet not strange because there is good reason for it. There is shaking by the hand. That should be enough. Yet a shaking of hands is not enough to give a vent to all kinds of feeling. The hand is too hard and too used to doing all things, with too little feeling and too far from the organs of taste and smell, and far from the brain, and the length of an arm from the heart. To rub a nose like the blacks, that we think is so silly, is better, but there is nothing good to the taste about the nose, only a piece of old bone pushing out of the face, and a nuisance in winter, but a friend before meals and in a garden, indeed. With the eyes we can do nothing, for if we come too near, they go crossed and everything comes twice to the sight without good from one or other.
There is nothing to be done with the ear, so back we come to the mouth, and we kiss with the mouth because it is part of the head and of the organs of taste and smell. It is temple of the voice, keeper of breath and its giving out, treasurer of tastes and succulences, and home of the noble tongue. And its portals are firm, yet soft, with a warmth, of a ripeness, unlike the rest of the face, rosy, and in women with a crinkling red tenderness, to the taste not in compare with the wild strawberry, yet if the taste of kisses went, and strawberries came the year round, half of joy would be gone from the world. There is no wonder to me that we kiss, for when mouth comes to mouth, in all its silliness, breath joins breath, and taste joins taste, warmth is enwarmed, and tongues commune in a soundless language, and those things are said that cannot find a shape, have a name, or know a life in the pitiful faults of speech.
So I kissed Bronwen for the first time, and I was sorry, and not sorry, afraid and yet brave with a gladness.
“Huw,” Mr. Gruffydd said, next afternoon, “there was a matter you wanted to know from your sister-in-law yesterday. I am hurt to think you would go to anyone other than me for knowledge. And knowledge of that sort, Huw, is not to be imparted by any woman.”
“I thought you would be angry with me, sir,” I said, and blushing like a fool, and hot to think that Bron had told on me again.
“I am angry with you, now,” he said, but with no anger in his voice. “If I am fit to instruct you in the Word of God, why am I unfitted to instruct you in the things of His natural goodness?”
“No, sir,” I said, and saying it only because I could think of nothing else, and hoping for a deep hole to come under my feet.
“Very well,” he said, and still busy with the wheel. “There are some things you know, and some things you shall wait to know. Do you know the calculus?”
“No, sir,” I said, “but I am learning.”
“Good,” he said, “one thing at a time. You cannot know until you have had time to learn, and impatience will gain nothing but confusion, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and coming to be in a good sweat with the plane.
“Then first things first,” he said. “There are men and women. But before that, they shall be boys and girls, and before that, babies, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“And before that?” Mr. Gruffydd asked me, “what?”
What, indeed. What, before babies. Nothing, I could think of.
“Nothing, sir,” I said, “like in the beginning was the Word.”
“Fair play, Huw, my little one,” Mr. Gruffydd said. “You are having a good try. The Word was with God. And so with babies. Huw, there is an engine up in your back that Owen made. How did he make it? With hands, we know. But from the mind, before that, yes?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“And babies are born from the mind, too, Huw,” Mr. Gruffydd said. “From the mind of God. For they are little engines, but full of wonders, and a splendid mystery, for they are driven not by old oil, but by life itself, but instead to stay the same size as they were made, they grow and grow, day by day, to boy and girl, and then to men and women. There is a wonder for you, my son.”
“But how do babies come, sir?” I asked him. “What is before babies?”
“Impatience,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “Pity this is not the school of Pythagoras, for then you would be under a vow of silence for five years while your master taught you.”
“I am sorry, sir,” I said, and hoping for the hole again.
“Good,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “Now then, as to babies. Man was born in the image of God, and God took Woman from the rib of Adam, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“So now there was Adam and Eve in the Garden,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “And what happened?”
“She sinned against the tree of knowledge,” I said, “and gave him to eat of the apple, and they knew they were naked, and took fig leaves.”
“Good,” said Mr. Gruffydd, and going hard with the wheel. “What then?”
“Then came an Angel with a flaming sword,” I said, “and sent them from the Garden.”
“To earn by the sweat of their brows,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “And what after?”
“Then Cain and Abel,” I said, “and Abel was a good man, but Cain killed him.”
“Wait,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “Before to kill them, have them first. Adam and Eve we have got. Where did we have Cain and Abel?”
“From the Bible, sir,” I said.
“But where from, to get in the Bible, boy?” Mr. Gruffydd asked me. “Adam was created, we know, and Eve from Adam. But where did Cain and Abel come from?”
“They were sons of Adam and Eve,” I said.
“Good,” said Mr. Gruffydd, and went to start on another leg. “They were the sons of Adam and Eve, and they were begotten, as the children of men and women have been begotten ever since. By a father and mother. Now, Huw, why is a man a father, and why is a woman a mother?”
“Because Adam is one, and Eve the other,” I said.
“But why, I said,” Mr. Gruffydd said, and looked up at me. “What makes a man a father? Wherein lies the difference? How do you tell a man from a woman, a father from a mother?”
“Well, sir,” I said, “one is with moustache and trews, and the other with smoothness and skirts.”
“Huw,” Mr. Gruffydd said, “you are different on the outside from a girl, or you would be knitting instead of fighting, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“How, different?” Mr. Gruffydd asked me, going hard with the spindle.
“A girl is swollen in the chest,” I said, “and we are not.”
“And?” Mr. Gruffydd asked me.
“We are different below the waist,” I said, “and girls are flat.”
“Good,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “Now then, what do you know of the womb? What is a womb, Huw?”
“It is in the Bible, sir,” I said.
“Thus saith the Lord that made thee, and formed thee from the womb,” said Mr. Gruffydd, from the Word, in his deep voice. “Engines from the mind of man, babies from the mind of God. But as engines must have a union between brains and hands, and then must come forth in the womb of silver-sand to have shape, so a union must come between a man and woman, and the baby comes forth with shape from the womb. Now, the iron-master made the womb of silver-sand for the engine parts to have shape, and Owen put them together. So God made the womb of warm flesh for the parts of the baby to have shape, and who put it together? The mother and father, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“And who is with the womb, of the two?” Mr. Gruffydd asked me.
I had a vision of Mrs. Beynon below me, with veins in her face and her hands tearing at the wall.
“The mother, sir,” I said.
“Good,” said Mr. Gruffydd, “so now we know that a man is father, and a woman is mother. He is father because he is different from her. She has a womb within her, and if it is the Will, a baby shall have shape and life. How?”
“From a union,” I said.
“Now as to the union,” Mr. Gruffydd said, in another voice, and as he would point the difference between the grains of two pieces of wood. “You have heard of the seed of man, Huw?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “There is wheat, and barley and corn. All seed. And you must sow to reap, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“So to have the baby in shape, there must be sown, first of all, the seed of man,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “And it is sown in the womb. That is why men and women marry. Marriage is the union. Do you sow wheat out of season? Would you put seeds to earth in snow?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“No,” he said, “or you would be clapped in the madhouse, quick. There is a time and a season for all things. And the time of sowing the seed of man is at the time of marriage, not before. Never mind how impatient the farmer is to have a field of growing corn, he must wait for the season to sow, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, “or be known for witlessness. So with man, Huw. The time of marriage is the time of the sowing.”
The sun was on his way down the other side of the mountain, and against the orange and red of the sky on top, sheep were black, with rays of white light coming up from under them and lining their fleeces with hot gold.
“Well,” said Mr. Gruffydd, “what more is there to know?”
“How is the seed sown, sir?” I asked him.
“How long have you had your mind on these things, Huw?” he asked me.
“A long time, sir,” I said.
“Oh,” he said, “supposing your mind was on food for as long, would I be in the right to call you a glutton? So in this matter. Be careful how you waste your time, or there might come a time to call you a wastrel, and an idler. Now you want to know how is the seed sown, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “please.”
“Very well,” he said. “You said yourself that you are different on the outside from a girl. That is because you will grow to be a man, and at that time you will be guardian of the seed of man. Yes?”
“Where will I have it, sir?” I asked.
“Impatience, again,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “You will have it within you, made from your own blood, and ready against the time of the sowing in those parts of you that are different from the girl. At the time of marriage, and not before, you will unify with the woman who will be your wife. And all things will follow.”
“But how, unify, sir?” I asked, and having my voice from the top of my lungs, with trembling, for I felt heavy with knowledge, but greedy for more, and greed made heat within me.
“What does the word mean, Huw?” he asked, and stopped the wheel, for it was almost dark in the room, and even the shine was gone from the table-top.
“A joining,” I said.
“It is exactly that,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “That part of you that is outside is a link to the womb of the woman who is your wife, and through that link shall pour your seed, which is given by God, and willed to bear fruit of child by the Mind of God. So?”
“Is that all, sir?” I asked him, and worried, with no happiness.
“Is that all?” he said, and held up his hands. “What more, then?”
“Well, sir,” I said, “I thought it was something more. Something terrible.”
“It is terrible, Huw,” said Mr. Gruffydd, and in quiet, with his hand on my head. “It is indeed terrible. Think, you. To have the responsibility of a life within you. Many lives. Think of the miseries and afflictions that can come to those lives beyond the span of your own. Think to have small children in your own likeness standing at your knee, and to know them as flesh of your flesh, blood of your blood, looking to you for guidance as you look to God the Father for yours. Can that be anything but terrible, in majesty and in beauty beyond words?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “But why do grown-ups say I am not to know, if that is all it is?”
“Well, Huw,” Mr. Gruffydd said, and laughing now. “Shall it be shouted from the house-tops, then? Are there to be no proprieties? Do you undress in front of everybody in sight?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“Then if you are careful of your own modesty,” Mr. Gruffydd said, “think how much more so must we be modest about the business of birth. It is a responsibility that comes with age. Would you tell little Gareth about the workings of the engine?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“Of course not,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “He would like to know, no doubt, but his little brain would never grasp what you were saying. But in time to come, he will know as well you. Is it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Because it will be simple to him,” said Mr. Gruffydd, “for he will have reached the age of understanding. And he will say to you, then, is that all it is? And you shall say, that is all, my son, just as I say now to you. Well?”
“But why will it do Nan Mardy good to see the tail of a shirt?” I asked, and it was out before I could stop it.
“That is a low joke, Huw,” Mr. Gruffydd said. “It is because she is an elderly woman who has had no husband, and therefore no children. Hwfa meant she would be the better for a husband.”
“How do you know about Hwfa, sir?” I asked him, and cold with surprise.
“There is little to be known about you that is unknown to me, Huw, my son,” Mr. Gruffydd said. “Are you going to Dai Bando in the mornings, still?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “You will have good of it, but keep it to the mornings. Never let them have your time at night. No public houses, and no prize fights, is it?”
“No, sir,” I said, with surprise. “There has never been talk of it, yet.”
“Good,” he said. “Home to your supper, now.”
“Are you coming to-night, sir?” I asked him. “The place is always ready laid for you.”
Mr. Gruffydd was quiet for moments, putting the tools back in his box, and pushing the wheel against the other wall.
“Give your good mother a kiss on the cheek,” said Mr. Gruffydd, “and excuse me again to-night, please. Good night, now.”
“Good night, sir,” I said, and went out in the coming darkness with feelings that the world was upside down and the people in it all as silly as cuckoos. But now I understood why Bron had held from telling me, and I was grateful to her, and free of anger.
It was only a little time after that when Iestyn had his way with Angharad and took her to marry in London. Ianto and Davy went with them, but my father and mother stayed at home because they had wanted the wedding at our Chapel, and turned their faces from a marriage outside it. Ianto and Davy came back, and very quiet, with no news of London, and no talking about the journey. And from the looks on their faces, I knew better than to ask.
We got cards of Calais and Paris from Angharad, with a word or two, and a letter from Berlin that my mother and father read together, with my mother looking over my father’s shoulder at the window one morning. Their faces were stiff and serious to start, lit white by the paper, but as my father read a page and turned his eyes to watch for my mother to finish, the stiffness passed and the seriousness failed, until, when they had finished, and were putting away their glasses, my mother patted down her apron, in thought, and looked at my father straight.
“Well,” she said.
“It is all right with her, girl,” my father said, and took her hand. “I told you. Settled down, she has, now.”
“I hope,” said my mother, through the window.
“Certain,” said my father. “No worry. Wait till she will come home, and you shall see.”